#and foolishly believe I will always be able to feed myself

[araredish]

Person who loves to cook is tired after work but still has to make dinner. 30 dead 45 injured.

[boopshoops]

The Watcher of the Great Pine Tree

TW!!! this is fucked up- warnings for child death/injury, descriptions of decomposition with bugs- and just bugs in general. srsly gross I warned you. Also unreliable narrator. I do my best to handle these topics with respect!

Let's see... what year was it? Ah, yes.

I died in the late 1830s. A few years after, locomotive trains finally made their way to the Land of Dawning. I was a considered a lucky charm prior to that, all of my parent's other children had died. Now now, settle- that wasn't uncommon back then. Even up till the 1870s, half of the amount of children birthed died prior to the age of five. At least those from families without magic.

Lucky me, I made it to six.

Quite the oddity compared to today, no? Nonetheless, as you can see, I have long since made up for it.

I loved to watch the trains. They astonished my little mind. I wasn't a very smart one by any means, but I wanted to know everything about them. How the wheels turned, and the whistle blew... how something that big was able to move at all. In a way, I wanted to BE the train, hah! Me and the other children would always play by the tracks whenever we were free from our studies. Every time the train went past, I was there.

Then, I fell.

What, were you expecting something more climactic?

No. I got a concussion while playing by the railroad tracks like the wreckless scamp I was. It took me awhile to learn the terms to understand- as well as most medicinal studies at the time, but fluid pressed on my brain more as the days went by, and I had a stroke.

That was when I first became a spirit, but I was not dead yet. My brain was practically nonfunctional. I could see it all like it was from the eyes of another, tethered closely to my body.

My father put me out of my misery with a mallet.

I watched him bury my body by the railroad, and I remained tethered there as all the life in the surrounding woods hummed a tune.

How did I feel? Oh, why of course I was absolutely beside myself. I feel anyone would be, but I was lucky- I had a comfort:

The crickets.

Their lovely song thrummed through my spirit along with the whistle of the train. They were there the entire time, soothing me. Family and friends visited, of course, but the bugs... the bugs were the only ones who truly spoke to me.

So when they began to consume my body, I felt betrayed. However- I learned that this was yet another blessing in disguise.

They all carried parts of my flesh. I was valuable to them. I was such a divine blessing for them. To feed the hoard. The masses. To continue to hear them sing. To untether me from my grave. I was free. I had done something. For the first time in my life, I was something greater than myself. There was nothing left of me there, but I was more than I ever had been. Yet, foolishly, I still grieved.

I followed those bugs out into the woods, to the tree. The old pine tree- I believe it was later called the Great Pine in the years to come. With magic buried deep in its roots. I practically raised myself out there in an abandoned old cottage, a place where I could keep an eye on my nests of friends where my body sustained them.

Despite what I had done for them, as years went by, I knew I wanted to live.

I wanted to live more than anyone else who had ever visited that pine tree.

More than anyone who was already alive.

So I watched. And I learned about that tree. For decades.

At the time, I was quite a sentimental fool- I got very wrapped up in it all. In how I felt, so much so that I forgot completely the feelings of others. Not that I ever had much experience with it in the first place, having passed on so young. I truly only ever thought of myself or my small critter friends. I used to excuse what I did with my death. Now I don't bother. In truth, I don't regret what I did either way.

Because I get to live.

I get to live a life no one else can.

A life of feeling. A life of being more than simply myself. I get to repay the generations and generations of creatures that fed from me. Now I can care for them forever.

So, no, I don't regret taking that girl's wooden frame.

Because now, that exact frame is home to so much more.

Wouldn't she be grateful? To have your very being become an ecosystem?

To be reunited with the very being that once bit into you? To become a part of their lives?

Maybe not. Either way, I am happy. I did feel guilty, mind you, I wasn't completely out of my wits yet, haha! It did eventually happen, though. Wits have been loss, I'm aware by how you are staring at me. Feel free to hate me, I've long since moved on to bigger things.

Suppose around two hundred years will do that to you. I almost miss the guilt.

I almost miss the feeling.

*(sorta) prequel to "The Dolls of the Great Pine Tree" from the pov of that mysterious pal.

tags!

@lowcallyfruity @skriblee-ksk @justm3di0cr3 @cecilebutcher @kitwasnothere

@beneathsakurashade @qsoap @prince-kallisto @kathxrat-01 @twsted-canvas

@scint1llat3 @the-trinket-witch @thehollowwriter @distant-velleity @techno-danger

@sillyslipperybananapeel @gimmeurmoneyagh @tixdixl @twstinginthewind

[erabundus]

the  agreement  nets  a  curious  glance  —  he  clearly  isn't  EXPECTING  that  answer.  the  wanderer  remains  quiet  as  she  speaks,  turning  lavender  gaze  back  upon  the  water  after  the  initial  shock  washes  over  him.  he  stares  at  the  fish  without  truly  SEEING  THEM,  abstract  colors  and  shapes  dancing  through  the  waves.  animals  have  always  been  drawn  to  his  presence  —  unnaturally  so,  as  if  able  to  sense  something  within  him.  something  ren  is  entirely  ignorant  to.  even  now,  even  as  he  makes  no  effort  to  toss  another  handful  of  food,  they  seemingly  crowd  around  by  the  shore  with  equivalent  enthusiasm.  he's  always  preferred  their  company  to  that  of  humans  or  other  more  talkative  creatures.  a  bird  may  come  and  go  as  it  pleases,  but  when  the  day  comes  that  it  never  returns,  the  wanderer  won't  find  himself  agonizing  over  its  absence.  a  fleeting  comfort,  a  poor  substitute  for  less  ephemeral  bonds,  but  it's  better  than  NOTHING.

❝  i've  met  more  weird  people  than  i  care  to  recount.  ❞   he  can  only  assume  from  a  different  perspective ...  he  must  seem  awfully  UNUSUAL  himself.  he's  been  told  as  much  before,  though  ren  usually doesn't  value  the  opinions  of  those  who  wage  such  useless  complaints  enough  be  bothered  by  them.  ❝  ...  and  they're  all  stranger  than  you.  ❞ venting is a perfectly normal practice, or so he's been told. ( by people more kind and considerate than he could ever hope to be. ) like bleeding POISON from a wound; trying to bottle up those thoughts only leaves them to FESTER.

❝  i  don't  think  either  option  is  perfect.  ❞  the  admittance  feels  nearly  sacrilegious.  for  all  that  he  clings  to  his  solitude,  one  would  assume  the  wanderer  must  surely  enjoy  it  —  but  that  isn't  necessarily  the  case.  ❝  it  all  comes  down  to  what  you  think  you  can  endure.  ❞  there  was  a  time  when  he  so  foolishly  sought  comfort  from  others.  there  was  a  time  when  he  held  tragically  limited  understanding  of  human  MORTALITY.  he  knew  that  he  was  different  —  that  he  was  a  puppet,  devoid  of  a  heart.  (  the  one  he  was  meant  to  call  his  own  torn  away  from  his  ignorant  hands.  )  yet  they  bore  such  close  physical  resemblance  that  it  tricked  him  into  believing  they  were  more  alike  than  they  actually  were  —  that  perhaps  even  he  could  become  HUMAN,  just  the  same  as  those  he  treasured  so  dearly,  if  he  only  tried  hard  enough.  in  truth,  most  of  the  differences  simply  lurked  in  places  he  couldn't  see.  to  love  something  was  to  open  oneself  to  the  pain  of  having  it  taken  away ...  and  mortal  lives  were  more  temporary,  more  fleeting  than  he  ever  realized.

❝  personally,  i  don't  have  any  desire  to  place  myself  beneath  the  SPOTLIGHT.  ❞   certainly  not  anymore.  ❝  i'd  rather  be  just  another  face  in  the  furthest row of the audience ...  and  hope  everyone  FORGETS  i'm  even  there.  ❞ he supposes that's just what he's decided he can endure.

a  flick  of  the  wrist  sees  the  rest  of  the  bag  emptied  into  the  water.  ren  curls  a  hand  beneath  his  chin  and  watches  the  fish  devolve  into  another  feeding  frenzy.  ❝  as  far  as  playing  the  role  of  a  god  is  concerned ...  ❞  words  trail  off.  gaze  goes  unfocused  as  he  stares  at  his  own  warped  reflection,  and  something  about  the  sight  seems just  a  bit  fitting.  it  feels  as  if  he's  peering  into  a  forgotten  (  quite  literally  )  past,  rife  with  the  aspirations  of  godhood  he  once  hoped  would  fill  his  empty  chest.  ❝  i  guess  you  could  say  i  went  years  feeling  like  the  understudy.  ❞  lips  curve  in  a  smile  that  holds  the  smallest  scrap  of  amusement.  it's  an  apt  metaphor,  he  thinks;  closer  to  the  truth  than  she  could  ever  know.  ❝  humans  spend  so  much  time  placing  the  divine  on  a  pedestal ...  and  as  a  direct  result,  the  gods  they  revere  are  too  high  and  mighty  for  them  to  make  out  their  flaws.  but  the  truth  is,  real  deities  are  just  as  irrational  and  cruel  as  anyone  else.  ❞  exhaling  a  soft  breath,  he  muses,  ❝  to  be  honest ...  these  days,  i  can't  find  it  in  myself  to  envy  anyone  with  that  kind  of  responsibility.  it  sounds  like  torture.  ❞

It was the quiet place she often run to - back in the days when everything is overwhelming && unbearable , the sound of the waves crashing to the sand gave her the peace && comfort she was aching for , even if only for briefly -- she could cry && let her guard down ; let furina out.

But now, well now... there's no need for her to do that ; her never-ending play had ended , her solitude had been broken ; no more furina do this , furina do that -- she was now just merely a human, no one is going to watch every move she makes, every word she says , but she was supposed to be happy right? eyes ; watches her own reflection , staring back at her -- there's no more mirror-me version of her , that used to be there , reminding her of what job she has to do . a new form of loneliness.... sprung up , in her heart -- until the gentle splashes of the fishes , and flow of the water -- rippling through her reflection caused her to break the pity party she was forming for herself

Supposed , furina should have been scared --- due to the sudden appearance of a unknown person / a trauma she had gained after the attack of the knave , but fear was far long gone -- when the iudex had given her a vision , ( which she ain't even sure if she wants to even have .. ) she can fend for herself now && beside , there was oddly familiar feeling -- the stranger posses ; a fellow kindred spirit ; that shares the same loneliness she felt ; even if it might be different -- but there are still similarities , furina might not know his story -- but she feels.... after all an actor knew how to read her viewers to know what they like or not like to see...

" you're right..." suprisingly , she agreed. " being alone ... i mean , you're be able to be yourself && there will no one to judge you , you can show your vulnerability && no one is stopping you... it is as if a comforting blanket to shield you away from those who hurt you , isn't it? " she inquired giggling a bit at that then she dipped her hand on the water, swirling her fingers around it as she rock herself back & forth as she kneeled before it.

" but.... don't you think... being alone is so scary too? , you have no one.. to comfort you -- no one to scold && criticize you from the mistakes you've made, no gratification or praise to the good you've exhibited... no meaning to what really you were doing-- cause there's no feedback to what you're doing.... " she mumbled , it's odd to show her vulnerability to a stranger. " no one to tell you... if you did perfectly to the role you are acting to.. like, ... really? how do i know if I'm doing the right thing, acting like the ' GOD ' they wanted ?? ---" she gritted her teeth on the last part, before she snapped , laughing nervously at the direction of the stranger as she just let out an emotion to him. " ah--- hah~ oh-- archons~ Never mind what i just said -- I'm sorry for letting it ... out? " she awkwardly stated before looking up to finally see his face. " Surely , you wont be weirded out... by someone suddenly.. ranting... hopefully... " Ah nice one furina... you probably scared the shit out of the wanderer.

[baepsaesbae]

Taming Temerity

Pairing— Min Yoongi x reader 

Genre— SMUT +18, incubus!Yoongi, demon au, Valentine’s Day au 

Warnings— Dom!Yoongi, brat!reader, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, hickies, shibari, tickling huehuehue, swearing, explicit unprotected sex (use protection when fucking a demon), ass slapping, creampie 

Word Count— 4.3k                                                                                    

 /təˈmerədē/: excessive confidence or boldness; audacity || You try explaining Valentine’s Day to Min Yoongi, your incubus boyfriend that feeds on your sexual energy. At first he doesn’t understand the point, but if it’ll make you horny then he’s willing to do anything.  

A/N— This fic is part of the Valentine’s Day collab Be My Bangtanvine with @kimtaehyunq @ppersonna @ughseoks @jinned @joontopia and @feliix​. Make sure to check out their stories too! 

“I never understood this holiday. You know it’s just a corporate scam for suckers like you, right?” Yoongi expressed his disdain as his gaze fell on the extravagant Valentine’s Day section in the grocery store. 

“So you’ve mentioned, Mr. Party Pooper,” you rolled your eyes, “Some people just like getting chocolates and flowers from their partners. I don’t see any problem with that.”

“Do you want chocolates and flowers? I can get them for you any time, just say the word,” Yoongi offered.

“That’s the point, it should be a little surprise. I wouldn’t have to ask you to do anything,” you tried to explain.

“At that point you’re already expecting something, doesn’t that just defeat the purpose?” your companion was genuinely confused.

“You know what? I don’t expect a demon like you to get it,” you were getting frustrated.

“No need to throw the ‘D’ word around like that. I’m an incubus sure, but we specialize in lust, not love. However, I’m always down to try new things. You of all people should know that,” he ended suggestively. 

You started to think about how your relationship started with Yoongi. Your body went on autopilot mode on the drive back home as flashbacks flooded your mind. 

It all started about six months ago when you randomly started to have sleep paralysis consistently. You’d foolishly open your eyes and see a dark figure in the corner of your room that gradually came closer before settling on top of you. The extra weight on your chest made it hard to breathe. Once it got to that point, your eyelids would close and you’d be whisked away to a sensual dream. You’d wake up refreshed and energized, completely forgetting about the terrifying events that led up to your wet dream. 

One night, you miraculously were able to break the cycle. As soon as the dark figure approached the bed, you threw a pillow at it. At that point, you weren’t sure if you were in a dream or not, but you dashed to turn on your bedroom lights. The light revealed a man standing frozen in place by your bed. You remember screaming for help and shouting things about a pervert stalker. 

“Help! Somebody help there’s an intruder! Someone please--” suddenly your mouth refused to open.

“Well this is awkward,” the man rubbed the back of his neck, “Let’s get a few things out of the way first. I’m not a pervert or a stalker. In fact, I’m not even human, I’m an incubus. A new one at that.”

Your eyes widened in horror at the mention of a demonic entity. You backed up into a wall trying to get away from him while muffled screams desperately tried to escape from your sealed lips. 

“I’m sure you have a few questions. Normally I would just put you to sleep but you’re wide awake now and honestly I don’t have the kind of mana to deal with all that. So we’ve found ourselves in quite the predicament,” the demon sighed as he sat on your bed. With a wave of his hand, your mouth was finally able to open again. 

“What the fuck do you mean you’re a demon? This must be a dream right?” you were bewildered.

“Come sit by me, I can show you that I’m real,” the demon patted the bed.

“Trusting a self proclaimed demon is probably a bad idea but this is just a weird dream anyway,” you reasoned out loud as you sat beside the intruder. 

The man raised one of his hands to cup your cheek; you shuddered at his cold touch. Something changed when you looked into his eyes. Suddenly, you felt like kissing this total stranger. In fact, you felt a lust that you’ve never felt before. Before you knew it, you were straddling the man, rubbing your crotch against his as you passionately made out.   

“Lay back and take off your pants, dear,” he commanded. You did as he said without hesitation.

The man licked his lips as he spread open your legs. He slowly dragged a finger along your covered slit. Pulling your panties aside, he dove in tongue first, causing you to shudder at the warm and wet sensation. His tongue flicked around between your folds as his thumb began to circle your clit. Pleasure coursed throughout your body as your hands entangled themselves in his hair. You felt two hard protruding bumps atop his head...horns?

“Reaching for my horns already? Naughty girl,” the man smirked as he inserted a finger into your wet pussy. You squirmed at his action. It wasn’t enough, you needed more.

“Oh? What’s wrong?” he asked with fake innocence as he slowly finger fucked you, “Is one not enough? Do you need more?” You silently nodded in response.

“Nuh uh, I need to hear you say it,” he teased.

“Please, I need more,” you begged as you helplessly tried to grind against his one finger.

“Hm one finger isn’t enough huh? How about two?” he added in his middle finger as you moaned, “Or do you want three?”

His ring finger slid in with ease. Finally, you felt full; lewd sounds escaped from your lips. Your back arched as he picked up his pace, curling his fingers into you with every pump. Something tight wound up in you, indicating that you were close to your high.

“Keep going. Faster,” you panted as your legs began to shake.

“Your wish is my command,” he obliged. You cried out as your orgasm hit you. Waves of euphoria rippled across your body as he slammed his fingers into you a final time, leaving his fingers pressed up against your g-spot to prolong the event. 

You focused on catching your breath while the alleged demon smiled down at you. It wasn’t a creepy smile, it was one of triumph. His fingers were still inside of you.

“You can pull them out now,” you said weakly.

“I tried. Your tight little pussy is clamped onto them. See?” he showed you how your lips stayed gripped onto his fingers, “If I can’t pull them out, I might as well go back in.”

He pushed his fingers back in, making you gasp. You were still extremely sensitive, any movement of his would push you over the edge yet again. 

“If you do that-- fuck-- I’ll come again,” you warned him.

“Let’s see how many you can handle,” the man challenged as he picked up his speed yet again.

You came three times that night. All just to his hand and occasionally his mouth. The demon looked satisfied with his work as you laid blissed out before him. He slunk down beside you, laying on his side with his head propped up on his arm.

“These got bigger,” you observed as you reached for his horns. The tiny black stumps had grown longer and had a more defined horn shape. They felt cool to the touch and were ridged, similar to those of a ram. 

“They’re not the only things that got bigger,” he winked, “This is where my mana is stored. Essentially I get stronger when I consume energy.”

“Consume energy? Are you going to eat me?” you questioned with intrigue. You still believed you were in a strange dream. 

“Already did. I told you, I’m an incubus. We feed off of sexual energy. I rather enjoyed the meal. It’s too bad this will be the last time I can see you though,” he pouted.

“What? Why can’t you visit me in my dreams like you normally do?” you could get used to having dreams like this.

“Because you know that I exist. After tonight, you’ll forget all about me and I’ll get reassigned to a different human,” he answered nonchalantly.  

“Does that mean I’ll get another incubus demon?” 

“Not exactly. There are many different kinds of beings that dwell in the underworld. You could get any one of them. Most of them aren’t as fun or as handsome as me though,” he tried to lighten the conversation. 

“I don’t want to forget you, nor do I want this dream to end,” you admitted.

“Silly girl, you still think this is a dream? There actually might be a way to have me stay with you. All you have to do is make a contract with me. Interested?” the demon offered.

“A contract? Am I gonna be selling my soul to you or something? I would prefer to keep that if possible,” you tried to joke.

“I’m not that kind of demon. The contract would simply bind us together. You let me consume all of your sexual energy and I give you the best orgasms you’ll ever have. Seems like a fair deal to me,” he explained.

“So I’ll basically have a demon boyfriend? I don’t mind that, sign me up,” you nodded. You were groggy at this point and your eyelids were getting heavy.

“Boyfriend? I suppose you could put it that way. Let’s seal this deal with a kiss,” he suggested. He leaned in to your already puckered up lips. He paused mere centimeters from your face, “I’m Yoongi by the way. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier.”

You pulled him in for a soft kiss, “Hey Yoongi, I’m ___. I guess I’m your girlfriend now.” 

“Whatcha thinking about?” Yoongi interrupted your thoughts.

“About the night we met,” you answered as you pulled into your driveway.

“That was a good night. You were so cute when you called yourself my girlfriend,” he smiled.

“Shut up, I thought it was all a dream,” you said defensively as you unloaded the groceries.

“I was thinking about Valentine’s Day as you were driving in silence. I wanna give it a try. I don’t get the hype, but if it will make you happy then I’m willing to go along with it,” Yoongi stated. 

“Really?” your mouth opened with excitement, “Do I need to plan the date or are you taking the reins on this one?”

“I’ll start doing my research now,” Yoongi gave you a thumbs up. 

“Rise and shine gorgeous~” Yoongi sing songed as he opened the blinds.

You retreated back under the covers to shield yourself from the light. Yoongi tugged at the edge, making you even more aggravated. Curling up into a ball in the fetal position was your last line of defense. Once Yoongi flung off the blanket, you were done for.

“To start off your very best Valentine’s Day ever, I present you a bouquet,” Yoongi shoved a bundle of red roses in your face, causing you to sneeze. A few petals violently detached and fluttered helplessly onto the bed. 

“Thanks Yoongi, the flowers are pretty,” you managed to say with a stuffy nose, “I wish I could adore them more but flowers always trigger my allergies.”

“Hm, every romance film I watched always showed the girl loving roses,” Yoongi pondered, “Not to worry, my algorithm is flawless.”

“Are you a robot now?” you joked. The sweet smell of syrup and waffles caught your attention. Yoongi noticed this and excitedly yanked you out of bed. Normally you would bicker about the manhandling but you decided to let today be an exception. 

The living room was filled with pink and white heart shaped balloons. Yoongi dragged you to the breakfast table, where the usual placemats were replaced with red hearts and small metallic heart shaped confetti were sprinkled all across the surface. To top it off, the belgian waffles were heart shaped, outlined with whipped cream and topped with strawberries. The presentation rivaled that of an actual restaurant. 

Yoongi watched expectantly as you took the first bite. Your mouth turned into a smile as you tasted the fluffy waffle. The toppings complemented the dish perfectly, and you were hungry for more. 

“I made eggs and bacon too, though it was hard to get the eggs into a heart shape,” Yoongi sighed as he showed you his attempt to get heart sunny side eggs. The shape was wonky but it was impressive that the yolks were still well intact. 

“I don’t care what they look like, I’m sure they’ll taste great. Thank you, Yoongi, this is incredible,” you showered him with compliments as you continued to eat. Yoongi smiled with satisfaction as he took a sip of coffee, his favorite choice of sustenance from the human realm. 

“Enjoying your Valentine’s Day so far?” he asked from across the table.

“I’ve only been awake for about 5 minutes but it’s been pretty good so far,” you nodded.

“Well whenever you’re ready, go get ready for a day out,” Yoongi winked, “Dress however you want, it’ll be casual.”

You couldn’t help but wonder about what Yoongi had planned for the day. It was still a little chilly, so you put on a cute sweater paired with jeans. You accessorized with a beret and your favorite jewelry pieces. Yoongi waited for you in the living room, and his eyes lit up when he saw you. It wasn’t the usual dark lustful look he normally gave you, but rather one of fondness and genuine adoration. 

“Where are we off to now?” you asked in the passenger seat, which was a rare sight. Yoongi didn’t like to drive, he always complained about how it would be easier to just teleport. You always had to remind him that humans do not simply ‘teleport’ places and you’d surely turn a lot of heads if you did. Regardless, you enjoyed watching Yoongi drive. You admired his delicate features as he concentrated on the road.

“Can’t tell you, that you ruin the surprise,” Yoongi chided. 

Your eyes widened as he pulled into the parking lot of the local aquarium. It had been years since you last visited, and you were thrilled that Yoongi picked this place as a date spot.

“The aquarium! Ah, I’m so excited! But they aren’t inherently romantic, what made you think of coming here?” you questioned.

“I remember you mentioned wanting to come back here someday. I figured today would be a good time,” he shrugged. Yoongi’s thoughtfulness made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

Once inside, you took the liberty of pointing out every fish you thought looked pretty to Yoongi. He was amused by how much you enjoyed something as simple as looking at fish. Colorful fish chased each other around their tanks, darting between corals and other underwater plants. You loved watching them go about their lives as they vibed within the aquarium. 

“It would be nice to be a fish,” you said to Yoongi as you stared in awe at jellyfish that were nearly transparent as they carelessly floated around.

“A fish? Why?” Yoongi scoffed.

“They seem happy, and free in a way. All they do is swim around and eat, that sounds like a good time to me,” you explained.

“And worry about getting eaten by a bigger fish. I’d rather be a cat if I had to be any animal,” Yoongi countered. 

  “Okay, that’s probably a better choice,” you laughed as you imagined Yoongi as a cat. It fit him surprisingly well. 

After leaving the aquarium, Yoongi suggested walking to a nearby gelato shop. You were never one to turn down dessert, so you agreed. The air was crisp and the cold made your cheeks go slightly numb, but you didn’t mind. You happily swung Yoongi’s hand back and forth in yours, you couldn’t remember the last time you’ve been on a date that went this well.   

“___?” a voice called out to you. You looked around to see who called you. Out of nowhere, someone ran up and hugged you from behind. You let go of Yoongi’s hand in the commotion as you were spun around.

“What the--” you said in shock. Finally you were put down, and saw a familiar face grinning back at you.

“Oh my god, Jungkook!” you exclaimed as you hugged him back. He greeted you with a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s been forever! I didn’t know you still lived here,” you said.

“I know right?! God, like 13 years or something? I’m here visiting some old pals. We’re all single so we’re celebrating this stupid holiday together,” Jungkook laughed. 

“Aww that's cute. I guess this holiday is pretty dumb, but I’m actually celebrating it with someone this year! This is Yoongi,” you introduced Jungkook to your boyfriend. 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Jungkook,” the young boy extended a hand.

“Min Yoongi,” Yoongi replied curtly as he firmly shook Jungkook’s hand.

“Damn, where are you hiding all that muscle?” Jungkook joked as he clutched his hand.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Yoongi deadpanned.

“How long are you in town for? I’d love to catch up with you on another day,” you interrupted. 

“I’ll be here for a few more days. Is your number still the same? I can text you tomorrow?” Jungkook offered.

“That’s perfect, I’ll see you around!” you waved goodbye and returned your attention to Yoongi. 

You took a hold of his hand and continued walking to the gelato shop. Yoongi was noticeably quiet now, and his demeanor had completely changed. There was an awkward silence between you two as you ordered your favorite flavors. You both sat outside to eat the gelato.

“So who was he?” Yoongi finally spoke. 

“Jungkook used to be my neighbor when we were kids. We practically grew up together. He moved away sometime in middle school and I haven’t seen him since. He looks great, I almost didn’t recognize him. What? Are you jealous?” you teased.

“I almost killed him when he kissed you,” Yoongi said in a tone that let you know that he was not kidding.

“Yoongi! People greet each other that way sometimes. Sure, it was a little forward, but we used to be best friends as kids,” you scolded him. 

“Ready to go home?” Yoongi asked, completely disregarding your explanation. 

“Okay let’s go back you big baby,” you sighed as you threw away your trash.

You hummed along with the radio all the way home. Yoongi didn’t say anything the whole ride. You were surprised by his behavior, you figured an incubus wouldn’t mind seeing affection in public. He had never given you the silent treatment before, so this was uncharted waters.

“Today was really nice, I think you did a good job planning out our Valentine’s day together,” you praised Yoongi as you returned home.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Yoongi said coldly.

“Why are you being so pouty? C��mere, let me give the big baby a hug,” you reached for him with outstretched arms. 

“You think I’d let you get away with that kind of behavior?” an annoyed Yoongi glared back at you.

“C’mon, it’s not like it really matters,” you teased, trying to push your luck.

“It matters to me. You’re mine,” Yoongi snarled, baring his fangs.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” you tilted your neck, revealing marks from his previous feedings, “I can’t leave the house without a crap ton of concealer to cover up your monstrous hickeys.”  

“You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to be my permanent lover,” Yoongi shrugged, his anger dissipating. 

“Who knew dating an incubus would be so tiresome,” you playfully roll your eyes.

“So that random guy kissing your cheeks doesn’t deserve to die?” he asked quietly.

“No! I told you, we’re childhood friends. I haven’t seen him in years. It’s okay to greet close friends with a friendly peck on the cheeks” you crossed your arms, “You’re being annoying. No dinner for you tonight,” you said confidently as you both entered the bedroom.

“Oh? Since when do you call the shots around here?” his voice lowered.

“Since now,” you replied defiantly. 

“Keep being cheeky, see where that gets you,” Yoongi challenged.

You smiled slyly as you pushed him onto the bed. Standing before him, you pulled off your sweater to reveal your bare chest. Yoongi instinctively reached out to grab them but you slapped his hand away.

“No touching,” you tsked as you slowly stripped off your bottoms. 

You turned to shake your ass at him. The gesture was meant to be playful, but Yoongi took it as a wage of war. He instantly pulled you onto his lap; your panties rubbed up against his hardened crotch.

“I’m hungry,” he growled in your ear as he firmly gripped your ass.

“Not my problem,” you snapped, doing your best to maintain your composure. 

“You’ll let me starve?”

“Don’t act as if you didn’t eat me out until I begged for you to stop last night,” you admonished. 

“Enough,” Yoongi silenced you.

He roughly latched his soft lips onto your neck. His harsh suckling caused you to moan and tangle your fingers in his minty green hair. You cupped his chin in an attempt to kiss him, but he pulled away. 

“You think you get to touch me now? Foolish,” he threw you further onto the bed.

With a snap of his fingers, your panties vanished. They were replaced with strict constraints as your hands and feet were bound by an intricate silk rope pattern. You’ve never been tied up like this before. You’ve dabbled in using handcuffs or fastening a belt around your wrists, but this was something else entirely. 

“You wanted to play. So let’s play,” Yoongi cooed in your ear as his fingers traced your sides.

“Oh fuck, Yoongi no,” your eyes widened.

“You’ve been a bad girl,” he smiled deviously.

His fingers dug into your sides. You burst out into a fit of laughter. You wriggled around uncontrollably in a futile attempt to get away from him. Yoongi accidentally found out that you were extremely ticklish, and ever since that day he uses it as leverage against you. It wasn’t fair at all considering that demons aren’t ticklish. 

Tears welled in your eyes when he finally ceased his attack. Yoongi also knew that tickling was a turn on for you. Something about having another person’s hands all over you made you wet. 

“You look so helpless,” Yoongi chuckled.

“Maybe these ropes have something to do with that,” you retorted as you panted.

“Still talking back? You obviously haven’t learned your lesson,” Yoongi ran his fingers along your sides.

“No, please. I can’t take anymore,” you pleaded.

“I think you can,” he smirked before tickling you again.

This time he didn’t stop until you were on the verge of passing out. The bondage made it even harder to catch your breath. Yoongi gingerly kissed your neck as you howled with laughter.

“Will you be a good girl now?” Yoongi asked as he flicked your nipples.

“Mhm,” you managed to whimper.

“I haven’t whipped out any shibari in ages, but I’m glad I did. I forgot how appetizing it makes humans look,” Yoongi licked his lips. 

“I can’t move,” you complained.

“That’s the point, my dear ___,” Yoongi kissed your forehead. 

His hand trailed down your stomach to your exposed pussy. He was pleased to find that you were already dripping wet. He rubbed circles around your clit as he licked your neck. He ferociously kissed over his previous marks as he started rubbing you faster. Your energy tasted exponentially better the more aroused you became. 

Being in such a vulnerable and powerless position turned you on so much. You found yourself at Yoongi’s mercy. Yoongi easily slipped two fingers inside of you. He curled his fingers to perfectly graze your g-spot, causing you to moan loudly. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Yoongi whispered in your ear.

“Please. I need you, Yoongi,” you begged. 

“I know you do,” he kissed your lips gently.

With another snap of his fingers, the ropes moved their position. Now your wrists were bound to your chest, and your legs were already spread open. 

Yoongi dragged his dick along your wet pussy. He loved watching you squirm beneath him as you impatiently waited for him to dick you down. He relished the erotic scene that lay before him. Witnessing you at the pinnacle of your horniess was a blessing. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

He thrusted his hips into you with inhuman force. He didn’t give you time to adjust to his thick cock; you didn’t deserve that tonight. Your cries of pleasure were music to his ears. He grabbed your chin as he ran his thumb along your bottom lip. You automatically stuck your tongue out for him.

“Good fucking girl,” Yoongi growled as you began to suck on his thumb, your tongue swirling around it.

Yoongi tugged at the ropes, making them vanish instantly. Your freedom was short lived since he immediately flipped you onto your chest. He propped up your ass, giving each cheek a firm slap. 

This position was his favorite, and admittedly yours as well. He loved the backside view, and you loved how deep he got. You were sure to lose your mind every time he got behind you. This instance was no exception. 

You reached down between your thighs to maximize your pleasure as your fingers easily toyed with your clit. Usually Yoongi wouldn’t allow you to touch yourself, but you couldn’t help it. You were too riled up from being all tied up. 

You came undone all over Yoongi’s cock. The warmth of your juices heightened Yoongi’s lust, causing him to thrust faster. He released his hot load into you, groaning as he climaxed. 

Your chest heaved as you struggled to stay awake. One of the side effects of being fucked by an incubus is that they literally can fuck you to sleep. After Yoongi cleaned you up, it was cuddle time. He ran his fingers through your hair, making it even harder not to succumb to slumber. 

“Full?” you asked with your eyes half shut.

“I’m never satiated, but I can’t complain for now,” he answered.

“Great. Happy Valentine’s Day, Yoongi,” you yawned.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, ___. I hope I lived up to your expectations,” he patted your head.

“You surpassed them,” you nodded in approval.

“Go to bed,” Yoongi stifled a laugh, “I guess it’s not a pointless holiday after all.”

Published February 9, 2021. No editing, copying, translating, or reposting allowed. All Rights Reserved © 2020 Baepsaesbae.

[tseneipgam]

'It was a futile task, but I was driven by the determination of a new grower who foolishly believe she could be more tenacious that this pernicious wanderer. Tenacity and idealism marked my first few seasons of growing food. Career-changers, like me, can be like that. Evangelical-and occasionally unrealistic- about their new direction, because they've committed themselves to a path that rescued them from a work life that made them miserable.'

'I began to weave together an understanding that nothing exists in isolation of other things. We are all -humans, animals, plants, elements- deeply and profoundly connected. Even the bindweed, which I will likely do battle with until my last gardening day, is part of this divine and infinite web and is as entitled to its place in the ecosystem as I am to mine. Although I'll untwist its stems before it chokes my redcurrants and keep it far away from my compost heap, I do so with the belief that its determined root system is part of what figuratively and literally knits the earth together. And that is as miraculous as it is ordinary. The act of growing food is decidedly ordinary. It is one of a handful of things that we have in common with one another - and with our forebears. We all rely on it and we all come from a lineage of land workers. And yet it was extraordinary to see it in action for the first time, to participate in it for myself, to learn its intricacies and to choose to make it my life's work. The fact that is set so remarkable to (re)discover it in my late twenties shows how distanced from this vital process so many of us have become. When our parents and teachers encourage us towards academic accomplishment, and governments and the societies they shape urge us toward work that forgoes meaning in favour of productivity and financial gain, its no great wonder that the humble work of feeding each other is not presented as a respectable and worthy path.'

'My childhood was not one without joy though... We celebrated birthdays at Pizza Hut, and always ended our evening by stealing a tomato each from the salad bar and rolling it under the wheels of passing cars outside. Whoever's tomato went splat first won the game'

'I'd never before thought about the purpose of soil. I thought it was made up of the fallen detritus of life. A substance to be walked on, paved over or built upon. Sophie taught me that soil is an alive thing, constituted of many living things that coexist within it, and through it, while co-creating it. She taught me soil is precious and our work is to nourish and protect it. As organic, agroecological, nature-centric sustainable or non-chemical growers- whichever term applies to your practise-our job is to grow the soil such that the plants, to a great extent are able to grow themselves. This means little more than offering it sustenance and leaving it be, letting the creatures and fungi and bacteria take care of the rest. The soil welcomes nourishment and has a sacred and messy system for assimilating it and so, unless the circumstances are extraordinary bad, we'd ideally find no need to dig it over'

'After the Norman conquest in 1066, William the Conquerer declared that all land in England belonged to the Crown. Over the centuries that followed, the laws that determined land ownership evolved such that the land that was used by peasants to grow food and graze livestock was steadily taken out of common use and parcelled out to the wealthy and powerful. King William placed twenty-one areas of England under Forest Law, which was designed to protect the animals - and their habitat- so that the aristocracy could hunt. The peasants who relied on the land were prevented from cutting timber, fencing their crops and hunting for themselves, on punishment of anything from fines, to mutilation and death. Over the centuries that followed, more and more land that was grazed and worked by commoners was enclosed by aristocrats and gentry. The steady disenfranchisement of those who once worked the land, but did not own it, underscores the land inequality that persists to this day, such that 30 per cent of England remains in the hands of the landed gentry. In fact, the main source of prosperity for Britain's wealthiest aristocrats, the Duke of Westminster and the Grosvenor family, is land and property and their portfolio can be traced back to the Norman Conquest. As for the rest of England, 17 per cent is unaccounted for, 5 per cent belongs to all ordinary home-owners combined and the remaining 48 per cent belongs to companies, those with new money, conservation charities, the public sector, the Church and the Crown. And yet I bristle at how I participate in this system of seeking ownership, of reaching toward the land and grasping at the deeds. I participate in the legacy of wanting land of my own because I don't know how else to secure a relationship with a piece of earth. It saddens me that ownership is the only way in which I feel secure enough to truly dedicate myself to a piece of land. It feels wrong that it was only by virtue of my financial privilege (created for me by my parents' labour and sacrifice) that I am able to lay claim to a place, and that there are many others who aren't able to do the same, no matter how passionately they want to steward the earth. Ownership is an insufficient relationship to the land. It requires nothing of the owner but to have access to money. It doesn't ask whether you will care for the soil or feed the birds, whether you'll learn the inclinations of what grows there. It doesn't insist that you leave it more vibrant and robust and resilient than you found it, or see it as both your home and home to the other beings who live there, too. When all that is asked of you is to have enough money to transfer on moving day, and to sign the paperwork and pay the lawyers, what relationship to land can be expected of a landowner?'

'Without doubt, the act of labelling has utility. That an ostensibly universal system exists that enables us to identify a creature a fungus or a plant is as remarkable as it is practical. As horticulturalists, we use this information to insert our effort into the lives of plants in order to persuade the to grow in the manner we prefer. But the power to create and assign labels, and to erase what existed before, is one of the many ways that systems of domination are established. It enables those with power to construct and impose knowledge systems that further uphold their belief in their own supremacy, and to assert that domination by writing it into science or culture or history or philosophy. It is how power is hoarded, codified and protected, so that all that falls outside it is regarded with scepticism and deemed unscientific, even when it is that very knowledge that has been co-opted. Instinct and tradition, memory and inherited wisdom, are all left to crumble and disappear. The power to create stratification and hierarchies has been deployed to justify discrimination and oppression, turning human against human, time and time again. The 'one-drop rule' in the US, for instance, is a social principle that origination during the period of enslavement (and went on to be represented in a number of laws in the early twentieth century), which determines that to have one ancestor of African origin was enough to designate an individual as Black. This conceptualisation of race and 'race purity' (as ell as the belief in 'racial impurity' codifies race as a hierarchy, and results in a system of colourism that confers privilege on those who appear proximate to whiteness. I see the legacy of this hierarchical mindset reasserting itself as I thumb through gardening books and write the labels for my seed tray every spring. The same people and their beliefs birthed the systems of classification that sought to categorise plants by their observable physical attributes, and humans using their reductive and inhumane perceptions of race. And I find myself wondering what else they missed. What is lost when a living thing is named and assumed known, and judged, on whether it presents as what it is 'supposed' to be or not? What is lost when it is assessed o the basis of its 'known' characteristics and whether those are considered preferable or not, deemed valuable or worthless, found to be exploitable or dispensable? What is lost when we make these assessments and, from our narrow view, then decide what is to be welcomes and what isn't?'

'it is true that the population of many Western nations are not growing as quickly as in other parts of the world. But the lifestyle of one person in America or Australia emits the same amount of carbon dioxide in fewer than three days as someone who likes in Mali or Niger does in a year. The world's richest 10 per cent of people generate more than 50 per cent of the world's fossil-fuel emissions (driven by individual consumption), while the poorest 50 per cent generate only 10 percent. And the majority of the half of the global population live in the places most vulnerable to the effects of the climate crisis. It is a fact that over-consumption is more responsible for environmental degradation than overpopulation, demonstrated by industrialised nations, like Japan and Germany, who are amongst the top emitters of carbon per capita despite their low birth rates'

'Focusing on overpopulation and personal responsibility for emissions is a convenient deflection, peddled by those who are responsible for it. In 2004 BP began pushing the idea of the carbon footprint, to transfer the responsibility of lowering carbon emissions onto individual consumers, while a number of fossil-fuel corporations worked with conservative think tanks to fund a communications campaign that was designed to shed doubt on the science that connected their actions to climate change. The focus on curbing global emissions is a mainstream position, and while it would be wrong to dispute its necessity, I feel compelled to question the disproportionally loud and ahistorical demand coming from wealthy nations, mostly in the West, telling emerging economies such as India to lower their emissions. Currently India is the country with the third-highest emissions in the world (behind China and the United States) and yet, while this is something that I wish weren't so, when viewed through the prism of equity, is it just and reasonable to suggest that a country that was bled dry by Britain's colonisation ought to curtail its own economic development? If we were to calculate the emissions of each country in a way that encompasses their historical carbon debt, wouldn't we have a more accurate and principled spreadsheet of climate-change culpability?'

'Those months were a stark lesson in the reality of farming, I was familiar with how laborious the physical work could be, but I was unprepared for the cumulative erosion of doing it every day. I knew that whether people were willing to pay for organic produce, and at what price, was the fine line between a viable business and a failure, and it was on that fine line that the mental and physical health of those who work the land hangs. I knew there was a tipping point somewhere between how much land needed to be cultivated and how many plants would need to be grown, between the amount of work it took to do that and the cost of labour to do so. It must have been heartbreaking to do so much and for it to always be so hard. To be forever on the back foot, no matter how good you are at the job you once loved.'

'I quickly came to appreciate how little we value the work of growing food. It is rarely spoken of as an aspiration by people who dream of a future of meaning, worth or wealth. It is demeaned and denigrated, and has disappeared from our view despite being the foundation of all we do. We don't value, as should, those who grow food. I sowed a seed for the first time as an adult. Watching the seed that I've sown germinate and grow, struggle in some instances though my lack of knowledge, and then thrive in spaces better suited to their needs, I realised how little I understood: I realised how I'd steered my life towards endeavours that caused me to drift further and further away from the understanding that nature is not an externality or a backdrop, and far from an irrelevance. I realised that powerful systems, far larger than I, benefit from encouraging us all to believe that this work is degrading. But they are wrong. Growing food is everything'

'participants who spent at least two hours in green spaces were significantly more likely to report good health and mental well-being. Prompted by a project that treated cancer patients with Mycobacterium vaccae- a type of bacteria commonly found in soil-which saw them reporting an improved quality of life, researchers from Bristol University and University College London conducted a study giving the same bacteria to mice. The researchers found that M. vaccine stimulated their neurone to produce serotonin, the hormone associated with well-being and happiness'

'The beauty of botanical gardens, the diversity of plant life and even the scholarship that developed from those places do little to convey the environmental pillage and destruction that are integral to their story. And all the way through to their positioning a places of rational science and into their reimagining as spaces of leisure, they did little to depict the blood and toil that nurtured and stained the soil in order for them to exist. These grand places filled with exquisite flowers and lush foliage, framed by ancient trees and housing rare plants from all over the world, were the tools of empire and, despite the historical obfuscation of this truth, they stand now as living monuments to both the environmental and human exploitation that was foundational to colonialism. There is no part of history (and, thus, of the present) of botanical gardens that arose independent of their role in enabling the rampage of colonial endeavour. Even now, looking out at my garden, I see colonialism's heirlooms growing in every corner. These plants from all over the world were once incubated and acclimatised in the nursery beds and greenhouses of the empire's gardens. Those considered beautiful and capable of thriving in the less welcoming British weather were ushered into horticulture and, depending on the prevailing fashions, have persisted to populate British gardens to this day: the gangly cotoneaster and abundant, sweet thorny olive from China. Fragrant jasmine from the Himalayas, Seducer of bees, the hebe, from South America or New Zealand or Australia. The narratives of these plants exist. Specimens of their predecessors are pressed between paper and annotated in stretchy ink scrawls to tell us the wheres and whens of their first encounters with European eyes. We have some understanding of who they were when they grew in their homeland, and where that homeland happened to be. The names that their indigenous stewards called them before they were uprooted and displaced may have been erased, but enough information was documented to trace some of the lines between what grows now in English soil and who they were before their identities were rewritten. We can find out way to some of their origin stories and, if we choose to, stop believing that roses and geraniums and periwinkles were 'discovered' by plant hunters and botanists from Europe. Enslaved people were treated with less grace than the plants in our gardens. For so many of them, no records of names and homelands were kept. While I can ask the internet to show me digitised copies of plant specimens collected in the eighteenth century, there is no database I have found that enables me to follow the connections from who I am today back through bloodlines or family trees to tell me where my ancestors came from.'

'I pause for a few moments to listen to the rumble of buzzing and humming and chirping. It is raucous and divine. I grow, in the hope that these creatures will join me here. The garden is their home as much as it is mine. Even those that I wish away (and occasionally relocate or feed to the chickens) have as much right to be here as I do. They are necessary and tell me there is a balance. And when there are losses, as there inevitably will be, I try to remember that losses for me often means gains for the ecosystem. Less of an individual failure and more a contribution to the universal good. It means that my vegetable patch and my garden are far from pristine but it's my kind of perfect'

'I think it is worth bearing in mind that when you're cursing Himalayan balsam's exploding seedpods, for example, you should probably be swearing at Dr John Forbes Royle, who brought the first specimen to the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew in the late 1830s. I know that there is a virtue in making attempts to remediate the effect that certain species have had on the landscape, but I can't help but find that mindset troubling, too. It's impossible to know what unexpected repercussions our actions may have in our bid to undo the changes that have taken place. Or what possibilities are laying to waste in our bids to turn back time. It seems that humans cannot help but believe that the remedy for historical human interfering is even more interfering. And to what point in the past are we trying to return, in these efforts to restore and 'rewind'? Surely we don't believe that there was a moment when 'nature' was pure and perfect and entirely untouched by humankind? And who gets to determine what type of landscape we should be trying to recreate and what gets to stay or who has to go? How long do plants have to be growing on this land to be considered native enough that they can remain? I have many questions about this endeavour that fetishes the native and seeks to reclaim the soil for their roots alone. Because I can't help but hear the arguments of the ecofascists who believe that 'foreigners' are a danger to their land.'

'If you don't think there's an issue with connecting 'non-native' and 'invasive', then you haven't lived a day as an 'other'. If you think that the terms are for the use of horticulture, agriculture and conservation alone, then you haven't been paying attention. The dehumanising language of invasion, of pests, of vermin, has been used for centuries to demonise those arriving from elsewhere. Whether they are immigrants, refugees or asylum-seekers, that language has been used to strip people of their humanity for many years. If you believe that this language will behave because you use it in the right way, then I'd hazard a guess that you've never had your belonging questioned or your nationality challenged.'

'Although there's space and quiet in this place where I live now, there's no wilderness to be found. With city eyes and ears, it seemed as though the countryside was more 'natural'. It was what I thought I wanted- to be somewhere the mark of man was less apparent, where living things had more space to thrive. Yet now I'm here, I see it is quite different from the wilderness I imagined. This, too, is a man-made place. These rolling fields of gold and green are private, denuded land and have been wilfully carved up by hedgerows of holly and bramble and barbed-wire fences. There's no true freedom to explore. The paths and desire lines, stiles and yellow arrows tell you where to go and remind you that trespassing is forbidden. There is woodland, yes, filled with hawthorn and oak, woodpeckers and bullfinches, deer and badgers, but these spaces are not as 'natural' as they seem, and it might be that there's nowhere in this part of the countryside that is the kind of 'wild' I imagined.' I've come to realise that what I really crave is the intensity and vibrancy and aliveness of market gardens and farms, where humans have encouraged thriving ecosystems to arise. Not somewhere absent of people, but filled with gardeners and growers who nurture plants and soil with wildness and beauty in their hearts. I crave spaces where people are deeply intertwined with the natural world, not just skirting around the edge of someone else's private land. I want to dwell in places where there is a relinquishment of the urge to partition and control, where the sides of the beds spill over onto the path. I want to seek out places where plants are grown by human hands as an invitation to other creatures to arrive, so that we all might dane through the seasons together. I want to be in places where the soil is revered as a divine entity and where the beautiful and the delicious grow side-by side, filled with intentional earthlings, not devoid of them.'

'This reluctance to acknowledge how the dominant accounts of history are incomplete feels as illogical as it does dispiriting. Excoriating 'settled' history is more than a search for what has been erased. Deepening the excavations of these ugly and complex periods of our collective history can offer us a lens through which to view the many ways in which the exploitative dynamics of imperialism and colonialism are still alive and well today. While I reflect on the colonialism in my past and the way it arrises in my present, international investment companies and global agribusiness have bought up millions of hectares of farmland throughout the continent of Africa; private companies hold patents on products developed using the plant knowledge they gleaned from indigenous communities, and the destruction of ecologies and the displacement of people from their lands, to make way for the interests of those who seek to profit from it, carry on.'

'We are descended from people for whom this labour was once a ritual of sustenance and providing- a labour that was honourable and revered, before it was used as a tool of their oppression.'

'Growing food is as sacred as it is elemental. It is one of the few actions we can point towards as the reason we humans continue to exist. With every bite, we consume the offering an unfathomable number of beings, both human and more-than-human. We consume sunshine and water, the miracle of photosynthesis and the generosity of decomposition. All these entities and elements and processes make our being alive possible. Our aliveness is a community endeavour'

'The trees breathe for you, the bees buzz for you, the mycelium burrows deep into the soil for you. Our ancestors knew how to live in abundance with the truth our interdependence and we must learn to do the same. We must sink down into the structures of our cells to find what was embedded by generations of those who stood in the dignity or their rightful place as stewards of the earth. When the hush of a woodland's silence raises the hairs on our necks, or we shudder exquisitely when our hot skin hits agonisingly cool water, or we feel an expansiveness arise in our heart-space when standing on the precipice of a cliff or canyon or mountainside and breathe deep, we can touch that remembering. The salt that gathers on our skin, the tears that we shed, the breath that flower across our lips are all manifestations of how profoundly we are connected. The earth dwells in the water that steadies our cells and in the marrow that runs through our bones. Our interconnection was known to our ancestors, and it is our duty to remember this now. We must seek to become intimate with what is indiscrete and divine, for the sake of this planet, our only home'

[secretsofthedarkestkind-arch]

For @storieswrittcn​

My Heart, While I now understand why you have not replied to my last two letters, I am not happy. Harper promised me nothing was wrong as did Pearl, simply telling me that you were caught up in things there. I am learning to trust their word as you do, however, when it comes to your well being only your words will do. As selfish as it appears, I wish you had warned me. For the last time you did not reply, you were trying to let me go. Something you promised to never let happen again.

I know that you love me, that I am yours as you are mine. When we don’t talk though old insecurities rise within me. I have spent the last week and a half reading over your letters to sooth my soul and banish the fear you are leaving me. Much has happened since you last wrote me, which I will get into later on in this letter. 

I hope Emily can provide you with what you are looking for, give you the knowledge you need. Get from Chicago what you have gone there for, as I agreed before do what you must.

You know my dreams of seeing the world, if I had it my way we would see everything. I will go wherever you wish to go, see the parts of the world you love. All I ask is that you explore new places with me, ones you have not yet seen as well. I want to live, Katerina. For when or if our eternity ever ends, I want to say I have seen it all. I want all those memories of our adventures in my head as my last thoughts. The world is to be our blank pages, our travels it’s story, and our love it’s binding. To die will be an awfully big adventure, at least if I have any say in it.

Danger is fun, I agree. But when it dares to cross the line of taking you from me or me from you--the fun is lost. Remember that, my heart. I would never deny you fun nor would I try to stop you, I love you for who you are and how you are. You may be hard to kill but it can be done. 

The world is a dark and morbid place, I know this even living in a town such as Mystic Falls. People are corrupt, heartless, ruthless in their acts when they want to be or some are born that way it seems. So the idea of people not missing someone who has chosen a life that falls outside of what society sees as right, it does not surprise me you can feed from them and not be caught. Nor it cause an investigation. 

I know you will return to me, even if old insecurities rose this last week and a half, I do believe that and I know you’d never do anything to alert him to where you might be. It warms me though that it is now partly because you plan to come home to me. I will be your home, Katerina. Just as you will be mine. I trust you, my heart. So much.

Animal attacks are something I am learning aren’t as they seem to be. The one’s here are going up. Pearl swears it is not her or Annabell, I know their words true. It makes me wonder who is doing so. If they are not careful the council will take action I fear. John Gilbert is taking seeming nonsense of creating items to help detect and kill your kind. Am I supposed to know that? No. But I will not sit by when I know conversations are happening in my own home that could cause issues to you and our plans. 

I cannot imagine you drunk. I am not a fan of it. Father is a drunk, has been since I can remember, though he hides it well. Until tucked away in our home or his temper flares. Damon is not far off from it. I still remember mother’s funeral...he was supposed to be there, promised Stefan he would be, but instead he went out drinking only to stumble home later. I, myself, have never been drunk. Never had more than a few sips. Maybe with you I would enjoy it. But I am not certain. Only time will tell. 

Thinking of you drinking from me has my heart beating faster in the most pleasant of ways and stirs other feelings within me. So the torture is not only yours to bare, love. I miss the way you hold me when you drink, the feel of your fangs piercing my skin, how your lips on me send sparks through my veins, and the things it does to my mind--as if I am floating and all that exists is us. I believe the feeling is one a person on drugs may feel. If it is, I understand why people chase that feeling. Being able to give you what you need to live, sating your darkest desires? I know I am becoming greedy, but that is something only I should be able to give you. That experience only ours to have. 

When I see you, you can drink as much from me as you wish. You know this my heart. My blood, as is my heart and soul, is yours. All you need is to ask or take, I won’t deny the thrill of not knowing when you’ll bite. But just this time, we need to be careful. To make sure I do not unknowingly have Vervain in my system before you truly drink.

Emily is coming here with you? A new twist but one I will welcome. It is hard for me to picture someone more powerful than you. But if that is true, I am glad she is on your side. Niklaus will not expect many things when the day comes, he will be the one unprepared and I will enjoy the look on his face when he realizes Katerina Petrova--Katherine Pierce--has bested him. I wish I could make that day come sooner, stop him now and rid you of him. But I will wait and help as much as possible--human or other.

I am glad you think my words wise and correct. It means I understand, which is something I need for the life to come. Only certain actions in my mind can truly be deemed as dark, even then they do not deal with magic and are only actions that cannot be excused or said to be done in need of survival. My father is a prime example of that. There is no excuse for how he treated my mother or Damon--now I agree with him when it comes to my brother--or how he treats me. His actions come from a place of darkness the church says actually should be in me. Maybe I do have it within me. But as I said, whose to have the right to say what is within me as dark? Cannot it not come from a place of dire need or love?

I know of your acts, I know what you have done or could do. But I cannot see you as dark. I cannot see your actions as dark either. As you’ve said, they were done to protect yourself, survive. How can I see them as something evil when it kept you alive to find me? Everything you have done led you to that train, led you to me. And every act you have done since? Well, it keeps you alive so you can come back to me. Anything you will do once we are together, as you said, will be for our survival--for our life to go on together. I cannot see wrong in that. That might possibly confirm what the church believes, what my family and community do as well. But so be it. I cannot deny I will not do the same to make sure you are safe. 

Have you not already taken my innocence, love? Have you not already enjoyed that? So many wonderful memories in my mind have a smirk on my lips as I write that. And if I did not tease you, it would be a shame. Though on a serious note, my innocence is something that time will take regardless if I am at your side or not. My father took and continues to take some each time he raises his fists to me or uses objects within our home that weren’t designed for that. Damon takes part of it each time he spews words of damnation on me or is caustic like mother. Stefan takes some with each narrow look or assumption he makes. My innocence has been fading since this town learned to call me Lee instead of Liam. 

If you take more of it, at least it would be lost to someone I love and fully trust---it would be done so in living my life with you and in a way I wish it to be taken. I can accept that. The innocence in my wonder of the world or all there is to learn may just be the only part that remains and if it is, well at least it will be there in the passions I have. So how can that be seen as a negative outcome? 

You may take my innocence but I just might be able to give you some of yours back. As silly as it sounds--maybe you will see the places we wish to go through my eyes, maybe you will find my joy in my studies and art just as interesting and see them as I do in a way that brings that innocent Katerina back….maybe, just maybe my love for you will always awake a piece of you long since buried. We will balance each other out. Not changing each other, but helping each other grow---even if your growth is only toward me as it has been thus far.

I am careful with the guns, I know their power and the harm they can cause. I only wanted to learn for our future. Harper was hesitant and over careful as he did so. But if it puts your mind to rest, I will stop. Damon caught us anyway. His pride and ego showed its ulgy head when he realized I am better at shooting than he is. But how can one truly shoot when they hate the reason they are shooting or are cowardly? People say he is a coward and at times I do agree. He is irresponsible and has no sense of duty or commitment, and a complete sexist. 

I seem to be rambling, my heart, I am sorry. But he truly gets under my skin. The way he chases women, uses them and then leaves them. It disgusts me. He has no idea what loyalty or true love are. I know when you appear, he will chase and I will want to murder him. You are not a prize to be won, but a heart to be given and cherished. I am sorry. I shouldn’t be thinking of him as we write, he is not a topic I want to discuss. 

There is not a doubt in my mind that you can protect yourself, but my love for you makes me want to help. I know I am merely human, fragile and so easy to kill. But that’s why I am learning ways to defend myself and fire a weapon. It is a desire that will forever continue. To be able if the need comes to protect you. There are so many different weapons on this earth--I would love to learn how to fight with a sword or daggers. If not for protection than to learn more discipline. Surely, you wouldn’t deny me that? Deny my passion to learn? 

But just as I have listened to your words to wait for you to be by my side for learning more about guns, as I decided not to take the risks at the falls---I will promise you not to act foolishly when it comes to my desire to protect you. If I am to die in protecting you, then it would not be worth it, correct? I will use my mind before I act, always thinking of what could happen if I interfere while still human.

If a party is something you wish to do, I will go. As promised you will make it worth it. When the day comes and I can walk in as myself, it will still be me showing you off. Or have you forgotten everywhere you go, eyes always land on you? Women envious or secretly wanting you while every man wants you to be on his arm. You beauty and pose something everyone wants in their own ways. You are the star, I will simply be there as the lucky bastard to have you on her arm.

This town will be a memory as you said soon enough. While I love you for the fact you would compel this whole place for me if you could, it is not worth it. Though since you last replied, I have met someone who could be a friend. Her name is Madeline, she had just moved here while I was away to see you and my aunt last summer. She was friends with a young woman Stefan met--from his words and fell in love with. However, she broke his heart at the end. Apparently I missed that whole torrid romance while having my own. I don’t know the details of it, he wouldn’t share them. But he did warn me to be careful with Madeline. While she seems a genuine person, Stefan has some notion that she will not be a good friend.

He also questioned, as suspected, if I was going to cause the family more drama than I already have by having an affair with her. Stefan, the saint and treasured child. While Damon and I are seen as the stains on our family name. One a coward, irresponsible, womanizer, and heavy drinker while the other is an abomination so ill in the head she is afflicted with the desire for women. The Scumlike Salvatore and the Sick Salvatore, what a pair we make while Saint Stefan hordes fathers love and the town's admiration. Of course, I told him no. That I had no interest in the girl past friendship. I am not sure if he believed me. But Annabelle doesn’t seem to trust her either. Something to do with the way she smells. I have no clue what she’s talking about. But Madeline doesn’t judge me, she’s open minded and has tales of seeing other parts of the states. It is nice to have met someone not from here that has an interest in being my friend regardless of what others have told her. Maybe that is where Annabelle’s paranoia comes from, having to share my time. I do not know if you’d like her or not. I guess we will have to see. 

Even my father is questioning me these days about spending time with her and Annabelle. Though his way is not only with words. He found me, Madeline, and Annabelle coming back from the falls--not in a dress but Stefan’s old clothes, all three of us wet from the water, you can imagine his reaction.  I made both girls leave before he could show his temper in front of them, though I knew Annabelle did not wish to.

Pearl says the scars along my back will not ever fully leave as long as I am human or do not drink from you, though the balm she has given me takes the pain away and is helping the healing. To be whipped as a slave is an interesting experience I never wish to go through again. I did not cry or scream out though, which seemed to anger him more, I only thought of you. Forced myself to think of us elsewhere, Paris or New York as you mentioned in your last letter. A life far from here.

I know you will not appear until it is right. I can dream a little about you coming. It is all I do dream about these days as I sleep, seeing you again and being where I belong in your arms. Let me dream my love, please. For without those dreams...I do not know if our plans and letters would be enough to keep me alive. Not after the last week and half with this family. As horrible as it sounds, as much as I love you and would never want to leave you or hurt you. Those thoughts were there, mixed with my insecurities from you not replying--no one giving me a true answer of why you weren’t. So please, do not take the idea that if I needed you here you would come away from me.

I stated before that I know you love me, and I do with every breath I take. But I cannot ever promise my insecurities will not appear. With time they have lessened and with more they may completely vanish. I, however, have never doubted you loved me. Only if I am worthy of you or if I am what you need. Your love is my one constant, the one I will never question. To know you are as in much pain as I am away from you, it helps oddly. To know this torture is not one sided. I will do my best to survive, my best to make you proud. My best is all I can promise you.

The vervain is not man made, but one of nature. As you know the plant itself can harm you, liquid is just worse. From what I have discovered is that it is nature’s way of keeping balance. The vampires were created or born, vervain appeared at the base of the white oak trees. It would seem it nature wanted it there as it does wolfsbane---both so beautiful in their purple color but deadly to the supernatural. I wonder if there is something for a witch as well. Though I cannot find a record of the vervain being elsewhere that is only because my resources here are small. Emily might have better luck.

My love and heart having anxiety? Hm, I would not have believed that our first summer together, nor at the start of our second. But now I do believe that possible. Maybe I can find a way to help yours? Sooth you as you do me and help as you have with the lavender. I will not lie, I have slept with you last letter under my pillow once I feared it would be your last. I know when I turn my anxieties will have to be something I work on. But I feel with you guiding me, watching me, loving me I will be able to do this. I will gain control over them as never before. Not to mention, by then I will be older, wiser before I change so it will help as well. 

You may be a demon to the rest of the world but to me you are not, my heart. You rid me of mine, though some would argue you pull mine out as well. But you calm me in ways that no other has been ever able to do. You put me at peace, my heart. 

Maybe once you are here we can jump together. It is truly thrilling and I miss it. The way it gets my heart pounding. Not just from the view or the jump, but how it feels to hit the water and race against the air in my lungs to get to the top once more. It is freeing and a moment to truly feel alive. For those few moments, nothing matters. It’s moments like those I want to share with you, adventures like that. Sharing it all with you and knowing you are at my side. I will truly cherish those for all eternity. I can picture your smile and laugh as we jump, as we surface. Your smile is one that always brings joy to me and your laugh? I miss your laugh so much. To know I caused it, it is even better. 

I am not a perfect person, Katerina. I make mistakes, I do foolish things at times. Just as I mentioned my thoughts of ending things earlier. Foolish and no doubt caused you pain or worry. I never will intentionally hurt you, but I cannot promise that I won’t. Just know that when it happens or if I repeat something that does, it is not my intention to do so. My mind and heart are constantly at war, at times the ruinous thoughts win. That is one thing I do agree with the town on---I have those dark thoughts. I love you so much, I want you so much, and I want our life together. In my heart that is my top priority, you are my top priority. Understand that and believe that. Never doubt that or question it. Your faith in me, the trust you give me will help me fight my mind. It will push me to never harm you in any way. I will not dishonor that trust, nor will I ever abuse it.

I understand, Katerina. I truly do and I do not wish to ever have you in a situation where that happens. I cannot see myself ever doing that. My affection and attention will only ever belong to you. I almost told Stefan when he asked about my intentions with Madeline. Almost told him that I was already promised, that my heart and soul belonged to another. But I knew it would not help my own situation or what you have planned. But as far as someone trying to gain my attention? There is no one in this town that ever tries. Well, Abigail but that is only in moments when we are alone and never returned. Annabelle has helped with deterring her. It is quite amusing to watch. Though Annabelle also seems to think Madeline’s friendship is aimed toward something else as well I do not see it nor believe it. Again, I believe it is the fact she has to share me with someone else that is not you. I will let you be the true judge of it when you arrive.

Offering to slaughter my family in the name of love and protection toward me? That is a declaration of true devotion, love. One that I may have to watch one day. Does it make me as ill as everyone claims if I say that? If I admit it would give me pleasure to watch as you did so? To possibly feel things I shouldn’t in that moment and that it would deepen my love for you? 

You do wear innocence well, love. A perfect act and manipulation. It’s amusing to watch honestly. To know your mind and heart as I do and see how others fall for it. Fools the lot of them, but a gain for you by far. You may be worse than the devil, but you are my devil. My fallen angel perhaps or is that too sappy? They say the devil's horns were from him breaking the halo he wore after he fell from grace. So perhaps it is fitting for you. I see the good in you Katerina, I see your heart along with all the darkness and sin. I see you. 

Good. I would not do well to have you close but kept from my arms and lips. I may have to quarrel with my brothers and beat them away from you, but to spend time with you I will. I know we will have time together, even if it is just the moments when we are supposed to be asleep. It has been too long since I have slept at your side. You must know your first night here, I will be in your bed. Either to sleep or more, I will be beside you. 

I will not stop you from killing my father. I would welcome it honestly. Do as you please, all I ask is that I can watch the light leave his eyes and see the moment he realizes that his greatest mistake was not having me but daring to touch and scar what is yours. 

Twice you have referred to yourself as my protector. It makes my heart lighter and I know for a fact it is true. You make me smile more than you can imagine, make me feel safer and more loved than I ever have. One day, when I have turned, I hope I do the same for you.

As in most things with you, I enjoy you being possessive. As I wrote before jealousy and possessiveness go hand in hand. They only show how much you love me. To be claimed by you, to belong to you, it pleases me deeply. If there were a way for you to mark me as yours, I would ask you to. But the only way I can think of would raise too many questions and raise too many suspicions. So I will just have to go with your words and actions for now. Perhaps one day we will find a way. 

I would never betray you, my heart. I would die before I ever did that. Anyone who would ever try to cause me to do so will learn first from me that it will not happen. By actions or words they will know I am promises, taken, and never to be persuaded. If they don’t listen? Well, my love I think you have promised me you would take care of them. So neither of us need worry about that.

I will wear something if you wish, but it has to be something you have chosen. You know what I like, what I would wear. Maybe that is a way to mark me, visually claim me as yours as well? Hm, something to think about my love.

Only a fool would try to compel me--if these are ever discovered then they would have to know who would come after them if they tried that. Let another try to compel me, it will be their last act upon this earth.

I will send more with Harper next time. Though if your reply takes longer than a week? Well, you may not get any more nor a reply until you are here. You might be able to do as you please with others Katerina---but it truly hurt. Warn me next time my heart. Talk to me and communicate. I have needs just as you do.

I love you, Lee

[penninstitute]

Case #0200915

Statement of Chance V. Césaire, regarding his identity. Original statement given September 15th, 2020.

I don’t know who I am.

Well, that is a partial lie- my name is Chance. Chance V. Césaire, that is the one I go by now. It sounds nice, it rolls off the tongue smoothly and nicely. But I used to go by others- William Mercier was the first one I took up, and he was nice. Charming, even. Then he had to go away, I had to change to evade a chase, and then I became Édouard Lioncourt. He was kinder than William, even if the deeds he did were just as bad. Then there was… Francois Boucher. He was far angrier. 

Francois did something that I, Chance, still cannot shake. And it’s been… mm, maybe a year at this point in time. I did not intend for him to become the focus of this statement, but, I suppose I cannot do much about it now. I’m sure you’re curious, yes? Far more interesting than my current identity crisis, hah.

I would like to make it clear that I steal things for a living. I hate to just confess to it, right here, right now, but it makes sense when it comes to my story. I would hope you don’t turn me in- then I’d have to shed yet another life, and I really do not wish to do so. I don’t consider myself evil, even though the authorities may find disagreement in that statement.

When I first became what I am- a thief, I mean, I swore never to steal a life. Those are not mine to take, I only take things from those who do not deserve their material possessions, but not something abstract like a soul. I- Chance is not a murderer. William was not a murderer, Édouard was not a murderer and Ars-

… Francois was different. 

Francois came about when I nearly died. And Édouard actually did, shot in the shoulder. Bled quite a bit. The scar still aches, to this day, especially when it gets cold outside. But ah, I was mad when Édouard died and Francois came around. I think anyone would be mad if they got shot, don’t you think so? I suppose that fury became an influence on the persona, the act I put on for these- characters, I guess? I do not know what else to call them, because I was never them but they were always me. They were always me but those names never sat too right.

Whenever I take up a new name, though, no one recognizes me, despite the fact this handsome face never changes. Maybe I get a new suit or haircut, just to be sure, but each new name is a new person, every single time. It doesn’t help when you have to rebuild connections in a business such as mine, every time. 

My excuse is that whoever the new one is, is a successor to the previous one- in a, well, have you seen the show, “Doctor Who”? Similar to that, how each new Doctor is, uh, a new person but generally the same person at the same time, just successors. I think Interpol believes that there’s some interconnected “thief ring” or something, when it is all just me. But that is, besides the point. I’m getting distracted, aren’t I? Je suis désolé… I should just get on with it.

Someone recognized Francois.

When I was at that party- one for the rich, at a mansion owned by some billionaire- and I heard a voice from behind call out, “...William? William Mercier?” my blood ran colder than it ever had before. I think I stopped breathing for a second.

I turned around and there was a man- a man I knew, one that I... but I wasn’t expecting the look of recognition in his own eyes. I hoped he would say that he thought I was someone else and move on, like everyone else, but he didn’t. Those ocean blue eyes widened as they met my own gaze and I felt like Édouard again- dying.

He ran to me, catching the attention of a few other partygoers as he did, nearly knocking me over from the embrace he pulled me into. He whispered that he missed me. That I scared him, and that I should never, ever disappear again. Of course, many eyes were on us by now, and I laughed. I said that was a preposterous idea.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere else?” I added in a forceful whisper, waving at the other patrons that there’s nothing to see here. He nodded, brushing a strand of brown hair out of his face. His… perfect face. I forgot how handsome he was, until then. 

Dread crept its way into my stomach and up my spine and throughout my body as we walked, my hand clasped around his wrist. He continued to bombard me with questions, and I couldn’t answer. Not at the moment, anyway. I found an empty bedroom in the mansion, and closed the door behind us. 

 “William-” his voice cracked. “W- where have you been? It- it’s been three years, you- you disappeared, I don’t- I couldn’t find you- you promised me you’d never leave.”

“I know- I know, I’m- I’m sorry, Eagan-” is what I managed before being pulled into another hug. It felt… wrong, this time around. It felt weird in front of all those people, sure, but even stranger in private. Something within me- within, Francois began to bubble.

“I forgive you,” Eagan had sobbed into my shoulder, ruining a perfectly good suit, but I didn’t care about that. Not at that minute anyway, I cared about the fact that this had never happened before. I was terrified.

He pulled away and I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine- and I suppose he didn’t see excitement as he’d hoped. Eagan brought a hand to the side of my face, cupping my cheek, but I leaned away from his touch. Confusion crossed his features. 

“Wh… what’s wrong?” He asked.

“You shouldn’t recognize me.”

“William, what do you mean- of course I recognize you! I lo-”

“My name isn’t William,” I snapped back, my tone much harder than intended.  “And you shouldn’t recognize me. I’m not who you once knew, Eagan, that man is dead. You sh- shouldn’t know me, not anymore.” I found my hands gripping his shoulders with a tightness I don’t think I’d ever have the strength for. 

“Is… Is something going on? Y-you’re scaring me,” a shaky statement escapes his lips. “You vanished, William, I was so scared, I thought you died o-or worse, where have you been?”

A moment of silence passed between the two of us as panic continued to rise in me, making the air feel so much heavier. It felt like a pressure, and it was telling me- telling Francois to do something about this. My whole career revolves around my ability of hiding in plain sight, and if someone was able to spot me, then- then my life is on the line, fear clawed at my chest and then-

Then, I-  

Then, Francois-

...

Hah, did not think this part would be as difficult as it is to, talk about.

My- his- my hands clasped around the soft flesh of Eagan’s throat, and I squeezed, thumbs pressing into his windpipe. He struggled, for a minute, before going limp in my grip. I did not know there was that much strength inside my flimsy arms, but out of the sheer terror I felt, I just- I don’t know, I don’t know. I felt the life drain from him beneath my hands, the heat drained from his form, and I saw the light leave his eyes. 

I sat there for what seemed like… ages. Just, calming down from the rage that filled me, waiting, desperately for Eagan to wake up. I couldn’t have killed him, could I? Why? Because I got upset that someone knew who I am? I’ve gone so long without people remembering me, thinking whoever I was just died or vanished, never to be seen again, and it scared me. That someone I cared for just as equally did the impossible and then.

I just killed them.

Francois ceased that night, when I left that room, when I abandoned that corpse I so foolishly stole the spark from to feed my own fire. 

I, er…

I don’t know who I am anymore. I claimed to be a good man, once. I did everything I do in the name of my own definition of good, I stole from the rich and gave to the poor. I used to be Ar- I. Used to be Ars..

I don’t even remember his name, hah. I’m sure it’ll come back, fleeting as always. All I know is I used to be four other people and then they all died and got replaced by this current persona. Chance. Chance V. Césaire, that’s who I am, for now. Chance is me but I’m not Chance. I don’t think I have a name anymore. I don’t think I deserve one. 

I don’t think I’m human either, not anymore. After… everything. I don’t know what I am, just this thing that wears names like clothes, this thing that tricks and deceives and ruins the lives of anyone that dares to get close to it. It owns this face but it doesn’t belong to it, not really. It’s like a mask, a mask I never put on and it burns. 

I want to take it off.

FOLLOW-UP NOTES

This isn’t the first we’ve seen of individuals or creatures changing identities to a supernatural degree, and I’m sure it won’t be the last time we see it, either. This one is... interesting, I guess? It’s not like Natasha, where the creature literally... changes its appearance and identity.

From what I can see here, the appearance never actually changed. It was just the name--I had Felix do a bit more research, and all of the names listed were, in fact, real people, but finding any real trace of them is difficult.

If Mr. Césaire is still around, I imagine it’ll be very difficult to find him for a follow-up interview.

[buffyversefanfiction]

Slayer of Slayers

Warnings:I do not own, nor do I claim to own any of the copyright or characters within the Buffyverse which includes but not limited to the television shows Buffy and Angel, as well as the Darkhorse comics series’ continuation.

15+ Strong to moderate violence, Graphic to mild descriptions of gore, and torture, sexually charged scenes, sexual innuendos, mild to strong language, and practices of witchcraft.

M/M, F/F, M/F, GEN, OTHER +

PART FIVE LINK HERE

Part Six - What You Left Behind

Theo Frey had confronted his parents Buffy and Angel, fought with them, and even almost killed one of them, but in the end, he could not find himself capable of the kill despite managing many kills before that. If anything, he had thought he would only become more ruthless after becoming a vampire but clearly things were not that straightforward, but could it really be that dying made him more human? No, surely not he thought as he ran out of the backdoor of his former family home only to find himself hit by a shovel to the head, not seeing where it came from, or who was holding the shovel, as everything suddenly went to black…

Ruby Moon, the former best friend of Theo Frey, joined Theo when he first left Riverborn to become a lackey for the deranged vampire Drusilla in a bid to protect her best friend but instead, she too found herself briefly seduced by the darkness, of the magical kind, but as she spiraled further and further into the dark acts she began to see changes within herself she did not like and soon she started to see Theo experience the same changes at the hands of Drusilla and her right-hand guy Tobias. She had tried multiple times to convince Theo to run away with her, but he was in too deep and so the young witch was forced to save herself, leaving her best friend behind, as she returned home to Riverborn to live a relatively normal life which led to her graduating from Riverborn High, going on to college, and marrying her best friend’s former crush Lucien Knight but through all the changes, and developments in her life, she could never shake the guilt of not being able to save Theo from the crutches of Drusilla and Tobias. Her now-husband Lucien Knight’s life was as far from normal as possible going on to join a top-secret government organization run by ex-initiative operative Riley Finn, an organization which unlike the initiative itself worked alongside slayers, witches, and even werewolves to achieve their mission, protect the innocent. Ruby and Lucien’s relationship started out as a friendship formed in the wake of losing Theo but grew over time into something more solid, eventually leading to the two falling in love and getting married, a marriage that nobody saw coming but somehow worked very well for the two of them. “Well, if it is not the witch who loves to ditch…” Theo said as he awoke to find himself chained to Ruby and Lucien’s bed within their bedroom, as the husband and wife stood above him, hovering over him, clearly revealing themselves to be Theo’s kidnappers. “I heard you two got hitched but has the marriage already gone that stale you’ve started chaining folk up to the bed?” “I never ditched you, Theo, I pleaded you to come with me, but you made your choice, you were never going to leave that life because you believed you had nothing left in your old life, but you always had me,” Ruby replied to him, making it clear to her friend that she never left him out of choice. “I never should have left you and for that, I am truly sorry, but I cannot allow you to just keep hurting people especially now you’re a vampire.” “You may have left but you did not leave with clean hands dearest friend, or have you forgotten your own kill count?” Theo responded, taunting the witch who at one stage in his life was his best friend. “And as for the whole vampire thing, am I wearing a sign or something?” “Once you have been around enough vampires you start being able to spot them,” Lucien said, finally breaking his silence and adding something to the hostile conversation. “Drusilla manipulated us both got me so hooked on magic I could not think straight but your drug of choice was vengeance, towards people she wanted you to hate, and you did everything she said,” Ruby argued with Theo, before going on to say. “I also know you still have a soul somehow which means despite all the odds, all she did to you, to us, that you are still able to be saved.” “Listen love if your conscience stopped you from getting dirty with the big players that are on you and nobody else but do not go blaming one vamp for your miserable life which includes marrying my sloppy seconds.” Theo cruelly mocked his former friend, as well as her marriage to his former lover. “You are not the guy I grew up with, you stopped being him the day your parents died but that does not mean you cannot ever be him again,” Ruby responded, refusing to react to his attempts to infuriate her. “I know you better than everyone, including those vampires who you claim as family…and I know somewhere deep down you are still a good person.” “And if you prove us wrong…if you really are too gone to be saved…then before the day is over, I’ll slam open those curtains and watch you burn

until there is nothing left on that bed except for your ashes.” Lucien warned the vampire, making it clear that he was ready to save or kill him.

Buffy sat on the doorstep of her son Theo’s adoptive family home, the place he grew up, as she remained shaken by her first meeting with her son, the hatred he had for her, the fact he was now undead just like his father, and the opportunity he had to take her out and was not unable but unwilling which meant despite all the darkness residing within her son there was still some light in there somewhere. “There’s no sign of him anywhere my guess is he’s hiding out while the sun is out who knows maybe he will come back tonight,” Willow said to Buffy as she sat down on the doorstep next to her friend. “I do not think he’s coming back, not again, the only reason we found him this time is that he wanted to be found and something tells me he may never want to be found by us again,” Buffy replied with a saddened sigh, speaking for the first time since her confrontation with her son. “I will find him, Buffy!” Willow promised the slayer, making it clear she was not giving up on Buffy’s son anytime soon. “I do not know when or where but I promise you I will not stop until I find and help him, the proper way this time with no slayer prisons.” “I hope your right Will, I hope we can get through to him, but what if we can’t?” Buffy cried, feeling defeated not only by her son’s hatred towards her but the guilt she felt for the tragic life he lived without her being there to protect him. “I wonder if he came back here for any other reasons, I mean he grew up in this town, right? I know his parents are dead but what about other family members? Or friends he may have grown up with? We should go to the High School, wait till night-time, of course, break-in, and hack into the school system to find out what year he was in, who he was in with, and possibly look for some old files, photos, or perhaps a yearbook to see who his people were.” Willow suggested, hoping to give Buffy hope. “At the very least you’ll get to learn more about your son before his world got torn apart and maybe there’s something in that information which could help us help him in the long run.” Buffy’s face lit up for a moment as she wiped the tears off her face, realizing that Willow’s idea was a stroke of genius, that maybe just maybe learning more about Theo’s life before everything went to hell, that maybe it would help her understand her son more perhaps even get through to him, or who knows to find somebody within this smalltown who could get through to her son.

“I guess a lot has changed since our days in High School judging by the fact you have a vampire shackled to a dead and it seems normal to you,” Theo said to Lucien, as the vampire remained chained to Lucien and Ruby’s bed within their bedroom, as he began plotting his escape as he noticed the sun starting to set. “After you left town with Ruby everyone just assumed you went crazy and killed your parents, then this team of specialists took over the case, and before I knew it, I found myself embroiled in the mystery of it all leading to the supernatural being my day-to-day job I guess,” Lucien replied to the vampire he once loved. “I joined a private organization specialized in working with, helping, and hunting the supernatural from time to time, by the time the whole world had realized what the hell was going on around us I was already working to help solve the problem…problems.” “One could say you chased after me and settled for the rest of the supernatural…and that is clearly not all you settled for…” Theo teased the first man he ever loved, before going on to ask. “Do you remember the last time we were together?” “You mean when you asked me to skip town with you? It’s not something someone easily forgets.” Lucien admitted reluctantly, piquing Theo’s curiosity. “Do you ever wish you came with me?” Theo asked, intrigued to know the answer. “No!” Lucien answered honestly. “But I do wish I found a way of making you stay…” “Probably a good thing you did not join the party you probably would have just wound up addicted to the magics like Ruby or a soulless vampire like the rest of the gang,” Theo told Lucien, before going on to say. “I know you did not take a vamp hostage without getting in some blood…and I’ve not eaten in a while…do not worry I won’t bite, as long as it’s not pig blood you’re serving.” And just like that Lucien went downstairs towards the kitchen to get fresh blood in a pouch bag from the local hospital that Ruby and he acquired before abducting Theo, and began pouring the blood into a glass, knowing Ruby said not to feed him until she got back, but foolishly believing he was getting through to his ex, which is of course exactly what Theo wanted him to believe. Lucien returned to the bedroom, a glass of blood in hand, ready to feed Theo, unwittingly becoming prey to the predator, as he reached out to hand Theo the glass, Theo grabbed a hold of him and pulled him into his grasp with all his force, Lucien unable to break free from the vampire’s hold. “You smell as good as you did back then!” Theo stated as his face turned into full vampire mode and he sunk his teeth into his ex-lover’s neck, draining him of his blood but cautious not to take too much, after all, Lucien was his leverage for his latest prison break.

Elsewhere in Riverborn, Buffy, Angel, and Willow had waited for the sun to go down before breaking into Riverborn High School, specifically the principal’s office, as the slayer and vampire worked their way through endless files within filing cabinets while leaving the computer hacking to the tech-savvy witch who was more than willing to hack or spell her way into gathering as much information about Theo Frey as possible. “Well, I’m in the records regarding his grades before dropping out and they’re quite impressive, not like Willow Rosenberg impressive but not far off either, perhaps he would’ve got there if he finished school,” Willow informed Buffy and Angel as they continued searching through the school files. “I’m going to load up reports, detentions, warnings, etc.… to see if there is anything about who his circle was, and if not, thankfully the yearbooks are now all online these days so that should show us actual pictures of his friends…if he had any that is.” “Can you print out any pictures you find of him?” Angel asked the red-headed witch nervously. “I know it may sound weird, but I have hardly any pictures of Connor before everything…it’d be nice to have some of Theo, even one picture.” “Of course, the minute I get to viewing I’ll get to printing!” Willow replied awkwardly, knowing she was partially to blame for Angel not seeing his son Theo grow up over the years. “Print me out some copies too!” Buffy said with a sense of sadness, knowing pictures were all she could ever have of her son’s past even if it would never make up for all the time, she had lost with him.

Meanwhile, back at Ruby Moon and Lucien Knight’s marital home, Ruby had just walked into the horrifying scene of a shackled Theo in full vampire face, strangling an unconscious Lucien, with bite marks on the victim’s neck, as Theo held his neck tightly with both hands, ready to snap his ex’s neck if Ruby so much as made one single move wrong. “Girl, he was all fine and funky for our teenage selves but we’re playing in the big games now and humans are just so fragile and expendable.” Theo taunted his former friend, as he applied more pressure on an unconscious Lucien’s neck. “But that does make awfully good cannon fodder…” “Please do not hurt him, Theo!” Ruby pleaded with the slayer of slayers turned vampire. “You do not want to hurt him!” “Maybe I do or maybe you want me to, after all, what kind of wife does not take the husband’s name and I know we’re all modern now, but he did not take your name either,” Theo responded knowing he had the brown-haired witch exactly where he wanted her. “But what would I know about marriage? All I know is you’re about to be a widow if you do not get these chains off me right now.” “If I do let you go what’s going to stop you from killing him anyway and then me?” Ruby asked him, knowing the chance of either her or her husband surviving this ordeal was rather slim. “You can either choose to believe there is still enough humanity in me to not kill my former best friend, enough to stop me killing a man I once love, or believe me to be the monster I truly am,” Theo stated before chuckling sinisterly. “Not like you really have a choice…” A choice Ruby did not have, she’d either not free Theo and watch him kill her husband, or free him and hope he does not kill them both, and so she released Theo from his chains and to her surprise, the vampire just left, without attacking, or threatening her, he just walked down the stairs, out the house, and out of sight, without any intention of bringing her any harm, and whether he meant to or not at that moment he had convinced the witch that now more than ever her best friend was still in there somewhere, and perhaps just perhaps, she had grown a little closer to bringing him back.

Following breaking into Riverborn High, Buffy, Angel, and Willow had discovered some more information about Buffy and Angel’s son Theo, learning he was quite the academic achiever, never missed class until he dropped out that is and was always with his friend Ruby Moon, who just so happened to go missing the same time as Theo, the difference being that Ruby returned to Riverborn less than a year later. With their new information, Buffy and Willow waited until the next morning to track Ruby down, hoping she had more information about Theo, or even hoping he had reached out to her after returning to his hometown, not realizing they had missed Theo himself by a matter of a few hours. “I’m not saying this friend is going to be the answers to all our problems but at least she is going to provide answers in general about your killer kid.” Willow tried to reassure Buffy as she knocked on the door of Ruby and Lucien’s front door. “If she’s willing to speak to us that is,” Buffy replied as Lucien opened his front door to the vampire slayer, and witch. “Willow Rosenberg, my wife is a huge fan of yours.” Lucien greeted them, instantly making it clear he knew who Willow was, before going on to say. “And I’m guessing by your blonde-haired companion that your Buffy Summers.” “I guess the government constantly trying to hunt us down makes us kind of famous everywhere now,” Willow said, surprised by the stranger’s sudden knowledge of her and Buffy, remembering how much things had changed for them both in recent years. “I work for Riley Finn; he talks highly of you both,” Lucien admitted to them both. “I do not think I’m supposed to say who I work for but oh well you are friends of his, so I hope that saves me from being fired.” “Talking of your wife being such a fan, is she in we kind of need to talk to her about a certain situation.” Willow wondered, eager to get to Ruby and get some answers for Buffy and Angel. “My wife is going to be super pissed she missed you, but she’s gone out of town…” Lucien began to explain as Buffy noticed the bite marks on her neck, assuming correctly that Theo had left his mark. “He’s been here, hasn’t he? Theo Frey, the slayer of slayers, and now newly turned vampire.” Buffy questioned him knowing she was getting somewhere. “We are looking for him and if you have any leads…” “I was worried that one day he pissed off the wrong slayer…I’m sorry Buffy I really because trust me after him taking a chunk out of my neck and getting my wife into all sorts of trouble I would happily hand him over to you but my wife’s convinced she can get through to him so I can’t be the one to get him killed, she would never forgive me.” Lucien apologized, assuming that Buffy and Willow were there to kill the slayer-turned vampire. “I do not want to kill him I want to stop him from killing others,” Buffy replied urgently. “Please, he’s my son I just want to help save him from himself before it’s too late.” “Hold up…Theo Frey is Buffy the vampire slayer’s son? I mean we all knew he was adopted but his birth mother being the legend herself.” Lucien responded looking gobsmacked by Buffy’s revelation. “Yeah, she’s his mum and Angel’s his dad but right now all we need from you is to tell us where he’s heading so we can safe your wife from being his latest target and hopefully save him too.” Willow snapped at Lucien, making it clear he had to tell them all he knew. “Where is he going?” “Back to where he considers home or that’s at least what Ruby reckons, back to the city of angels so to speak,” Lucien revealed to them both, as the slayer, and witch realized Theo had gone back to the last place he considered himself happy, the demonic dive bar he had with his recently dead lover Tobias.

Several days later, a determined Ruby walked into the infamous demonic dive bar located within a shady alleyway somewhere in the city of Los Angeles, stunned to see the place almost in ruins, having been wrecked during Theo’s showdown with Faith and not being fixed since. She looked around at the place she knew Theo would have loved running especially with Tobias and for a moment she felt saddened by Tobias’ death, not because she felt sorry for the vampire himself but because she knew how much Theo loved him, and how rare it was for Theo to care about anyone especially after the death of his parents. “I personally never got the appeal of Tobias; I mean he was painfully beautiful of course but other than that I really did not get it,” Ruby claimed as she found Theo staring into thin air, sitting at a corner table of the bar looking somewhat defeated. “But I get he meant something to you and for that, I am truly sorry.” “Listen, witch, I gave you a free pass for old times sake but if you are going to keep pestering me, I’m going to have to kill you,” Theo replied to his friend as he turned to look at her, his eyes clearly red raw from crying. “Have you ever wondered how Drusilla randomly just showed randomly show up into our lives the same night your parents were mysteriously murdered by a vampire? Does not take a genius to figure out she’s your parents’ killer and something tells me deep down you already know that.” Ruby replied to the vampire, revealing to him what she already believed he knew and just did not want to admit. “Do you not think that thought crossed my mind a hundred times?” Theo snapped at the witch, as he rose from his chair furiously. “Dru said she saw it coming and did not stop it which was a hard pill to swallow but I did…but Tobias promised me that she never took their lives and I believe in him more than I’ve ever believed in anyone.” “Well, your undead lover not only lied to you about Dru killing your mother but according to strong evidence from a corporation who specializes in the supernatural he may have killed your father or at least knows the vamp who teamed up with Drusilla to take out your parents,” Ruby confessed to the slayer of slayers, refusing to let him be in denial any longer. “Face facts Theo if your parents never died then you would never have run off with them and they knew it! I get you to want vengeance so how about you get it on the bitch who really deserves it?”

[petty-revenge-stories]

Former friend bullies and steals from me and I ruin her prom.

So, I used to be friends with this girl, let's call her BC for Bratty Cathy (not actually her name). We'd known each other for years as our families went to church together. By the time we'd gotten into middle school, she'd made friends with this group of really stuck up rich kids (both our families are not well off, this will be important later) from the track team and she just turned into a complete monster. She became rude, selfish, and super vain. Also, she started completely ignoring me and, when she did speak to me, she'd make fun of me. She'd make fun of me for everything, the way I talked, the way I dressed, just very standard girl bullying. I had some confidence issues as a kid and so to hear a former friend constantly put me down really hurt my feelings. What's worse is that she'd made me believe that I couldn't do anything about it. As she'd never gone so far as to physically hurt me, nobody would believe me. All her friends would back her up and say that I was lying and looking for attention and jealous of her, etc. The worst thing is, it actually worked. I didn't think I could tell anyone about how they were treating me and this went on until junior year of high school.

That spring, after saving up like crazy for months, I'd managed to buy myself a brand new Nintendo DS (the latest thing back then). It had taken all of my birthday and Christmas savings to be able to get it and I felt really proud of myself being able to save enough to afford it. I naturally wanted to take it to school with me, but my parents suggested that I write my name on it in permanent marker just in case it got stolen and I did so. So I'm playing with it in between classes not even a week after I got it and guess who drops by? BC shows up and just HAS to comment on how "cool" my DS is and how she's suddenly "always wanted one".

I'm freaking out inside. I know what's coming but I'm such a nervous wreck that I don't know if I can stop it. I try turning it off and putting it away before BC reaches out her hand and asks "Can I see it?" I want with all my heart to say no, because I know where she's going with this, but I rationalized that it does have my name on it and so I let her snatch it from me to "look" at it. And, of course, the bell rings for class and she rushes off....taking my DS with her. I yell after her but she shouts back, "I'll give it back after school, okay?"

If your thinking I'm an idiot...you're right. I WAS an idiot.

I looked all over for BC after school but she'd completely disappeared. I tried for three days straight to corner her and ask her for my DS back, but she'd just smirk and dodge me. When I finally managed to talk to her, she just scoffs and say that she didn't know what I was talking about, that I'd probably lost it, and acting like the whole thing never happened. When I tried to tell her how hard I'd worked to save up for it and that I needed it back, she just went back to her old sayings about how nobody would believe me, that I was stupid and ugly and jealous of her, and nobody would be on my side. I went home in tears. That DS was my baby and I'd lost it in a moment of weakness to my bully and I was convinced I'd never see it again.

But then, the moment for revenge arrived.

Three days after confronting BC, my mom came to my room and the phone was for me (it was my mom's phone since I didn't have one back then). It was BC's mom on the phone. She'd called to ask if I'd let BC borrow my DS, as she'd seen her playing with it and saw her trying to scrub my name off the cover where I'd written it. BC had told her that I'd "let her borrow" and was trying to wash the name off because I'd "asked her to".

I knew my moment had arrived. Maybe because it was over the phone and not an outright confrontation, but the courage I'd been lacking for so long finally came to me. This was my chance, my one chance, not only to get my property back but to tell both her mom and my mom what was going on between BC and I. The rage, humiliation, and shed tears had all been leading up to this moment.

So I sang like a little bird.

I told her mother EVERYTHING. A dam just broke and everything just came spilling out. I told her all that BC had done to me over the years. I started crying on the phone as I recounted all the things she'd said to me, from refusing to return my DS to the countless times I'd been told nobody would believe me. When I got done, my mom looked like she was in shock and BC's mom had been completely silent for my whole confession and only said, "Thank you for letting me know" before hanging up.

The next evening there was a knock on the door. It was BC and her mom. Now, I mentioned before that BC was vain and self-absorbed right? Well, when I answered the door, BC's long, straight, perfectly cared-for hair had been reduced to a Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby pixie cut. I almost didn't recognize her, it was such a drastic haircut. With her mom glaring at her the whole time, BC handed back my DS (still in mercifully good condition other than the obvious attempts to wash of the permanent marker) and apologized to me. I could tell she'd been crying a lot.

I found out later that BC had been getting in trouble with her parents for awhile now, mostly for stealing. She'd lost her allowance privileges from overspending and taking money from her dad's wallet. It had all been an attempt to convince her awful friends that she was just a rich as they were. Apparently, stealing my DS and learning about her behavior towards me was the final straw. In an attempt to teach BC some humility, her mom had given her a choice: Be grounded from now till the end of summer and miss out on her prom or get a haircut of her mom's choosing. She'd foolishly taken the haircut and they'd gone straight to the salon. The experience had been so humiliating that she didn't even want to go to prom afterwards (and her boyfriend at the time did break up with her three days before it was meant to take place though I'm pretty sure for unrelated reasons)

It's been years now and she won't speak to or even look at me, but I'm completely fine with that. I'd stood up to my bully and helped feed her the biggest slice of humble pie I could find while I sat back and enjoyed a sweet petty revenge sundae.

(source) story by (/u/MillerLight491)

[dangimagines]

You had been a friend of the Mikaelson for quite some time, meeting them when they moved back to New Orleans, you worked in a bar that the family took a particular linking too, Rousseau’s. Whilst it was fair to say all of the Mikaelson’s considered you a friend, and you held the same sentiment, it was clear to you that there was one Mikaelson whose company you enjoyed above the others. Elijah Mikaelson.

As it became clear the Mikaelsons would be moving into New Orleans for the foreseeable future, you began to see more and more of Elijah Mikaelson at your bar, always ordering the same brand of bourbon, and heading to play the piano until last call was announced, leaving before you got a chance to talk to him. That is until one night when Elijah stayed around, waiting outside Rousseau’s until you locked up, startling you as he spoke. This was how your love affair began, although as close as the two of you became, Elijah always withheld himself from letting himself fall in love with you, never making anything official and remaining somewhat reserved even in your most intimate moments. You believed this was because Elijah did not truly love you, however, this was not the case, the truth was Elijah was deeply in love with you but believed that by distancing himself he would be able to keep you safe.

This is why when you were badly injured as a result of your involvement with the Mikaelson family Elijah was beside himself, believing it was his own fault you were injured, and for that, he would never forgive himself. For a time Elijah maintained that he would not visit you in hospital, however, when Rebekah returned from visiting you speaking of the nightmares you were having about the destruction of the Mikaelson, and about Elijah’s torment, he decided it was best he visit you, in an attempt to comfort you. From this moment on Elijah didn’t leave your bedside, making idle conversation with you, exchanging smiles despite your situation and holding your hand as you slept, squeezing it gently when it was clear you were having a nightmare, which almost always helped them subside. Though despite all of the time Elijah had spent by your bedside, it was clear your condition was not improving, quite the opposite in fact, and much as the Mikaelsons’, Klaus, in particular, attempted to force the issue you refused to drink vampire blood due to your fear of becoming a vampire yourself. 

However, after you had been in the hospital for over a week, your body slowly worsening over time you suddenly crashed, your heart rate had plummeted, it was clear that despite the medics best efforts, it was going to take more than medicine to bring you back. It was at this moment Elijah had compelled the doctor attending to you to leave the room and without as much as a thought as to how you may feel about it, bit into his wrist and began feeding you his blood. You regained consciousness moments later, finding yourself in Elijah’s arms. While conscious, you found yourself unable to speak, you were unsure if this was as a result of shock, or because of the blood running down your throat. As you looked up at Elijah you saw the tears visible in his eyes as he gazed down at you. What felt like an eternity later, you finally gained the strength to speak.

‘You saved me.’ You uttered, your voice still raspy from the exhaustion of your ideal. 

‘Yes Y/N, and I am truly sorry I did not head your wishes regarding feeding you my blood, but you were moments from death, and, well, I couldn’t lose you.’ 

‘I didn’t know you cared for me Elijah, I thought that’s why you were so cold with me half the time.’ You questioned. 

‘No, Y/N, I kept myself away from you because I foolishly believed that I could keep you safe if you stayed away from me, I understand know how wrong I was, and how difficult it was to be away from you because I love you Y/N. I love you with all of my heart.’ Elijah spoke honestly, at which a smile spread across your face, at last, you spoke once more.

‘I love you too, Elijah.’ As you spoke he smiled lovingly and placed a soft kiss on your forehead, squeezing your right hand as his hand engulfed yours.

[lewigm-blog]

Newsletter 1: And we’re off!

Published December 17, 2018

“For it is like a man going abroad, who called his servants and handed over his goods to them. And to one he gave five talents, to another two, and to the other one, each according to his particular ability, and then he went on his journey… For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me…” (Matthew 25:14-46).

*Full reading here

http://www.usccb.org/bible/matthew/25

http://usccb.org/bible/readings/121017.cfm

  Folks, I have officially arrived at my new home in Andahuaylillas, Peru! These past few weeks have been hectic with holiday preparations, intense academic work, and finding time for yourselves, but I hope that this email finds you well. First off, I hope that these monthly newsletters becomes a way for all of you who have accompanied me these past few years to follow along in my journey in Peru. All of you have played an integral role in my formation and I hope that this serves as a means for you all to hear more about where I am in this journey! This will be a literary project for myself and I hope to maintain it on a monthly basis. With that being said, any input, comments or suggestions are more than welcome! Also please share with me any interesting articles and readings that you come across because I need to stay sharp! Also if any there is another email you would like me to use, please share that with me.

This month, I would like to use the theme of Jesus’ Parable of the Talents and the Sheep and the Goats in Matthew 25:14-46 to organize some of my thoughts for this letter. Please read the verses carefully in order to help orient you and provide context. As many of you know, I have been meeting with many friends and family members these past few months and sharing a bit about why you matter to me. While attempting to connect this time to an overarching theme, I found that the Parable of the Talents and the Judgement of Nations’ story seems most relevant. I am using this passage because all of you have had some role in refining and developing my “talents” and “feeding me when I was hungry” (both literally speaking and figuratively, but more so literally with guest swipes and dinners). Many of you have helped me work through problems with conversation, helpful guidance or by simply offering up your active presence, which have in turn helped me to grow and mature. These are the moments in which you have met me at a most appropriate time helping me discern what exactly it was that I “hungered” for. Perhaps even more importantly, some of you have helped me to distinguish that hunger and passion I had from mere “appetite” in order to refine my palate so to speak. Through our relationship, I have been able to seek out those talents that have been stowed away, focus on the gifts that I had left undeveloped and improve my awareness of the temptations that can have them grow faint and distant. After careful reflection and suggestion on your end, I am entering into this volunteer experience confident and aware that I am exactly where need to be. This of course was not due to a few interactions and commentaries, but rather a collection of moments of the Spirit constantly working through us together! For that I am grateful for you all!

           There are three specific moments leading up to my departure in which I have found the grace of the Spirit to be alive and true with regards to these passages; the first being my interactions with an Uber driver Hector and with the Avianca worker who allowed me to somehow board the plane with all of this (See the google photos album for the luggage picture). The significance of my departure date being the Feast of the Immaculate Conception is another example as well. Lastly, I will share with you my experience at “La Misa” this past Monday.

Reaffirmed and helped by strangers: My encounter with Hector in Jersey City was a brief one, but one of great importance. While on a family visit with my girlfriend, Cat, we began discussing the nature of our visit with our Uber driver. After sharing that we were both planning on serving two years in Peru, he surprised us by telling us that he did a 31 month stretch in Peru himself! We were shocked to say the least and did not want that ride to end because we began probing him about his experience and any other wisdom he had to share. It was a very interesting experience given that Cat was preparing to leave for Peru the following Friday, and he shared with us that this experience would, as they say in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, ruin us for life (or dare us to change for the kosher JVC friends out there). This moment of shared camaraderie and experience abroad helped reaffirm my decision to come to Perú, as it did for Cat.

What I believe was perhaps divine intervention was my encounter with a woman who worked for Avianca. Now, I know that typically stories involving airlines don’t usually have a lighthearted and good ending, but this was a different case. Just hours before my flight, I had to nervously repack and structure all of my luggage because I was apparently overweight. I had to figure out what I truly needed from what I had just wanted to bring. One of those items was a guitar that was gifted to me for my trip. I questioned whether it would be considered an extra personal item or an expensive checked bag, if it would be left behind, or even worse, taken by airport customs and security. I had just about come to terms with everything regarding my trip except the packing and organizing of all my belongings for this two-year experience. I had decided to simply put on all my extra clothes that I needed on my persons and go for it. This is what I look like with 5 pairs of pants and 4 jackets looks like. (Refer to the Google Photos Album)

Once we got into the airport, I waited tediously and uncomfortably in the never-ending lines. At the Avianca check-in center, I wondered was if all my training in sneaking food and drinks into the Cinnemark movie theater would translate well at the John F. Kennedy Airport. After allowing me to take a few extra pounds over free of charge, I had simply walked away with my guitar as if I had done it a thousand times before. BUT my conscious and anxiety thinking about the worst-case scenarios crept up on me. I felt that I had done something wrong and so I (perhaps foolishly) went back to the woman and asked her if the guitar was enough of a personal item… and she said promptly said yes and hurried me off! I felt an amazing sense of comfort in her human response and I felt that she recognized that if she was in my shoes, perhaps she would’ve wanted to hear the same thing. She may have also just been overwhelmed at work as it was and thought it would be too much of a hassle to process everything again, but I’ll stick to my original narrative and believe in humanity for a change!

Both encounters were moments of grace that left me wondering exactly why those two people helped me out. I felt that perhaps was another sign telling me “Keep going on, there’s much more for you to be focused on!” At any rate, I am grateful for the kindness shared by both people.

Feast Days: Although I don’t keep a close eye on the Liturgical calendar, a few of you mentioned that December 8th was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I found it quite interesting that my departure fell on this day because it gave me insight into how my mother must have been feeling from the day that I told her that I was to become a volunteer.

It isn’t the easiest thing to hear that your eldest son, a first-generation Salvadoran American, is deciding to take two years voluntarily to serve the poor further south than one’s native country of El Salvador. I’m sure that Mary wasn’t exactly sure what to think when God came to her and Joseph telling them “Yes, you will have a child and He will be the Savior of mankind!” In fact, I am almost certain that this is exactly the opposite thing you would want to tell any new parents, let alone recently immigrated parents. But my mother has only shown me the unconditional love she has always had for me and supported my decision, knowing well that this might mean infrequent communication and the uncertainty that comes with letting any child leave the nest over 3,000 miles away. I have been truly blessed with my mother and with all the opportunities she sacrificed so much of herself for, but I know that my mom has faith that this will all turn out well for me so long as I call her every so often and remind her of the Jose Saramago quote that has helped her through this experience (Pictured with translation in the Google Photos Album)

La Misa: Finally, we reach the “La Misa” or The Monday Mass moment. This was my final “sign” in reaffirming my decision to join the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. To provide some context, La Misa is a weekly tradition that the volunteers in Andahuaylillas and a number of Parish and Fe y Alegria workers come together to share a meal and have an intimate mass in someone’s home. It is a longstanding tradition to have mass inside homes when physical spaces of worship such as churches or temples are limited. Padre Gonzalo, our in-country coordinator, shared a beautiful homily at the Jesuit residence in Urcos about the December 10th readings. He focused on our ability to recognize our limitedness as humans to be self-fulfilling and whole and ask God for help. Currently in Andahuaylillas there is a two-week long drought that has left many farmers and workers out of money and food. Each evening at around 6 o’clock, there is a rogativo walk through the streets of Anda in which families and children pray and cry out for rain. It is a truly moving experience to witness how the people here express their faith in times of hardship. Another moving reading that week was in Mark’s gospel reading (Mk 1:1-8) as an image of an austere and simply dressed John the Baptist is shared. He says,

"One mightier than I is coming after me. I am not worthy to stoop and loosen the thongs of his sandals. I have baptized you with water; he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit."

 This reading and imagery connected with me on a few levels. First, is John the Baptist and his task at hand. He recognizes the goodness in obeying God’s will and mission for him but understands that he isn’t the ONE who will make the greatest impact on the world. For him, it is Jesus who will do that, and I feel that I can relate. I could say that I am in Peru to change the lives of many here in Andahuaylillas, but that isn’t necessarily true, or even a task that I should place on solely myself. I must trust that goodness will come out of the faith of people themselves and allow myself to accept that this change will not happen by my own hands, but on the good will and faith of God and the Spirit working through me. I can try to change people all I want, but if they are not ready and open to that, then I can only hope that one day it will happen.

The second note is the physical appearance of John the Baptist. Being that we have in our four JVC values, the pillar of simple living, I thought it was interesting that John the Baptist only wore and ate what was necessary for his mission. Although I tried very hard to bring as much as I thought was needed, I recognize the importance of this approach to mission. I had to have a bit more faith that I need not worry too much about clothing, food and water as much as I thought, but have faith that with some preparation, I will have what is needed for my journey here.

In many ways I see this will and call to ask for God’s grace and guidance for these next two years in my own life as I see it in others. God is always asking of us to call out to him and seek forgiveness, love and orientation in our lives. I believe that my desire and thirst for this wisdom and vocation into service and faith has been quenched by His love and Spirit working through each and every one of you. You ALL have so many gifts to offer others and you willingly share that in the ways you have been there for me and live your lives. I only hope that I can model that for others here and have the humility to learn that from the Peruanos here as well; To recognize those that hunger and thirst for more, to hone my talents, both hidden and apparent, for the greater glory of God.

Peace,

Luis

GOOGLE PHOTOS LINK https://photos.app.goo.gl/WSb9vEEBo64FPw3k7

[screamingatanemptyroom]

Fictober18 Day 1

Original Fiction

Prompt: Can you feel this?

This is a continuation of the Aelfdane/Morlance story. Part 1 is found here. 

I was alone once again in the darkness. It surrounded me, coating my skin, soaking into my lungs and making me whole. As I rested, I felt a strange sense of anticipation come over me.

Typically, after feasting like I had on the living force of the wicked, I would often sleep for centuries, sated, unwilling to involve myself too heavily in the world of men. After all, my existence was a counterpoint to light, a balance to the order of the world. Without me, the world would be plunged into chaos, as the wicked eagerly consumed all without fear. If I overstayed my welcome, however, the balance could tip the other way, and force the world to a tyrannical light that no one could refuse. 

I hated my wretched existence, but I could not deny that it was needed.

This time, despite devouring many souls within the last few days, I felt myself wide awake, curious about what was going on behind the fairy vale.

“When I grow up, I will catch lots of really bad guys so you always have something to eat.”

I thought over the fairy child’s curious words from earlier that day, unable to suppress my curiosity. 

I wonder if he will keep his promise.

 I had never had a disciple, unlike the gods of light, love and harvest. As the god of darkness, many claimed to follow me, but the wickedness in their heart and their vile intentions instead led them to become sources of nourishment to my power. They foolishly believed that by indulging in their evil intentions that I would reward them. They paid for their mistake with their lives.

What would it be like to have a true disciple? The concept baffled the mind. Consumed by my thoughts, I found myself pacing outside the vale, the barrier between the realm of the gods and the fairy world.

“Morlance? What are you doing hanging around the vale?” A calm voice spoke out, startling me. I glanced over, spying a being who appeared like a beautiful woman, a lazy smile crossing her face. It was Eldra, the god of love. I felt her curious gaze and stopped my pacing, unable to completely hide my altered mood. 

“It’s nothing, I just had a strange encounter.” I glanced at the shimmering wall that separated me from the fairy world. “I’m curious to see how a child of the fae grows up to be.” 

Eldra chuckled. “You? Interested in a living being? That child must be quite wicked to have caught your gaze.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that.”

“Well, either way, make sure you stay far from the fairy realm.” She smiled, but the expression wasn’t friendly. “They have their own gods, and would not appreciate your interference.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I forced myself away from the vale, moving back to my corner of the realm. I felt her eyes on my back as I walked away, making me uncomfortable.

I stayed away for a century or two. Desperately wishing to sleep, I tossed and turned, but couldn’t quite take my mind off of the small fae child and his promise. He should be grown up by now, right? Unable to rest, the emptiness in my belly drove me back into the world of men, searching for something to fill me.

I wandered the earth, looking for someone evil enough to truly sate my hunger. Perhaps then I would be able to rest, and put the matter of the strange boy from my mind. I passed over many smaller wicked souls, not satisfied with the paltry sacrifice they would provide.

It was then that I heard my name called.

Morlance

A sacrifice? It had been millennia since someone had called my name correctly. Typically those that tried to sacrifice to me simply called me the Dark Lord or the God of death. They didn’t know my true name or appearance, often shocked if I truly did appear. Curious at who had the knowledge of my name, I transported myself over to the place the call came from.

It was a beautiful scene of slaughter.

Before me on the ground lay a man at death’s door. A sacrificial knife protruded from his chest. He maintained his breath, his eyes wide and his face pale. I moved closer, intoxicated by the smell of evil coming from him.

What a wonderful sacrifice.

“He was a murderer, a rapist and a thief. The blood of the innocent stains his hands. A perfect choice for my first sacrifice to you.” A voice came from behind me, sounding amused. I turned, distracted from my prey, unable to hold back a quiet gasp of surprise at the sight that greeted me.

Green hair. Transparent wings. Familiar golden eyes. Similar features to the boy I had seen centuries ago, but now on a fully grown adult fairy. A smile stretched across his face as he studied me in kind.

“You haven’t changed from when we last met.” A laugh was hidden behind his words.

“Aelfdane?” My voice was incredulous, cracking on the single word.

“You remember me.” He seemed pleased his smile widening as I named him. “I kept my promise, Morlance. I grew up to be the strongest. I left the fairy realm and I found the perfect sacrifice for you so that you can feed properly.” He gestured to the dying man on the floor. “Please enjoy.”

The murderer let out a frightened shriek, muffled by the gag in his mouth. Unconcerned, I stepped forward, reaching out a glowing hand to touch his forehead. I sighed with relief as the remainder of his life energy filled me, the wickedness within it nourishing my power. Once it was complete I looked back at the fairy with a contented grin.

“Did I do well?” He seemed eager for praise.

“Truly outstanding.” I didn’t hesitate. Moving closer until I was only a step away, I looked carefully into his eyes. “Will you become my disciple?”

“No.”

I did not expect such an answer. Startled, I hid the hurt from my eyes and nodded at him carefully, throwing myself back into the realm of the gods before he could speak further.

“Morlance!” He called after me, but I ignored him.

Why are you shocked? Who would want to serve the dark with you?

I laughed bitterly at myself, wiping away my tears. After all, I knew the fate of those who served me. Even if he started innocent, the longer he served the darkness, served me, the more corrupted he would become. The more sin that clung to him, the harder it would become to resist taking him to sate my never ending hunger. It was better if we never spoke again. I resolved myself, feeling better.

His next sacrifice arrived ten years later.

I couldn’t help it, it smelled amazing. I drifted closer despite my determination. Another completely wicked person, near death. I absorbed them, and looked at the individual standing nearby. He smiled at me, his gaze never wavering as I took in the energy from his sacrifice.

“Did I do well?” He asked again.

I nodded, backing away to keep distance between us. I could smell it, faintly, the scent of darkness that clung to him. Aelfdane had only performed a few sacrifices and I was already tempted to take his life energy. How frightening. I fled back to the realm of the gods, hoping he would not call upon me again.

Despite my hopes, every ten or twenty years, whenever he would find a suitably wicked person, and he would sacrifice them. Each time sated my hunger, and each time he would ask for my approval. I tried to keep my distance, the every growing scent of darkness on him taxed my self restraint. I was horrified by my own weakness.

He’s not even your disciple. My heart grumbled at me as I struggled within myself. Why shouldn’t you take his life energy?

But still, the thought of destroying him filled me with sadness, and so our awkward interactions continued.

“Why don’t you ever come to the fairy world?” He asked me one day, curious. I had just eaten, taking the energy from the sacrifice on the ground. Despite his tempting smell, this was the easiest time to interact with him, with the worst of my hunger satisfied.

“The world of the fae has its own rules, its own gods. I cannot go there, not without incurring the wrath of the Old Ones.” I smiled bitterly. “They are much more powerful than I am. I would easily be destroyed.” 

Gradually, our conversations grew longer, more involved. Despite the torture of avoiding the temptation to devour him, listening to him speak, to him laugh, made me smile as well. It was the only brightness in my life, a speck of joy that I guarded jealously, terrified of it being taken away.

Years passed, and finally I couldn’t help it, I asked him once again.

“Aelfdane, you have offered sacrifices to me for centuries now, will you truly not become my disciple?” I held my breath, desperate to hear his answer.

“No, I cannot.” His voice was sad.

I felt something within me snap. Anger flared deep within my being. I walked forward, until only inches separated us.

“Then you must stop these sacrifices, fairy.” My voice was dark and filled with rage, almost unrecognizable. “The darkness clings more and more to your beautiful soul.” I held up a hand, holding it millimeters to his face, smiling. “The next time you call upon me, I will no longer resist, I will devour you.” It would be so easy to move my hand the miniscule distance between us, and touch him, but to do so would take his life. I held back.

“Morlance…”  He looked desperate, trying to explain. I was not interested.

“Enough.” I went back to the realm of the gods, bitter and angry.

It’s for the best. I thought as I hugged myself tightly. Otherwise he will only end up hurt one day.  Tears ran silently down. I let them fall. Even gods needed to cry every once and a while. 

He didn’t call me again. Centuries passed. I felt relieved and sad at the same time. I often thought about him, unable to fall into my usual slumber. Was he happy? Had he moved on to live his life, forgetting me and the darkness that surrounded me? I hoped so, despite the grief that clung to my every thought of him.

Morlance.

I felt him call out again. Startled, I looked up. It was not coming from the world of men, but the fairy world. I walked towards the barrier, listening hard, trying to sense what I could.

It was a sacrifice, one that smelled more delicious than any other.

I plastered myself against the vale, curiosity winning over. Why would he sacrifice someone within the fairy world? I wondered. He knew I was barred from there. I tried harder to sense the nature of the sacrifice performed, and felt my eyes widen with shock. I recognized the scent of the sacrifice. 

Wordlessly, I began to slam myself against the magical barrier, over and over. It hurt, the magic burned my flesh and melted my bones, but still I tried to break it.

“Morlance! What are you doing!” Elder had been nearby, and had spotted my desperation, trying to stop me. “You can’t break the barrier!

I didn’t pause in my attempts to break through. “He’s dying. I can’t let him die.”

She pulled my arm, “Even if you did make it through, the gods of the fairy world would destroy you!”

I thought back to the smiling face in my heart, the one that had changed the last centuries of my existence. “If he can be saved, I would accept such an ending.”

“You would give up everything for him?” She seemed shocked. I shook her off, unwilling to waste any more time.

“Without hesitation.” I flung myself against the barrier again.

“They really are similar.” I almost didn’t hear her whispered words in my frantic attacks on the vale.

Finally, I felt it give way, and with a shout a triumph I pushed my way through…

Running directly into someone’s arms.

Confused, I stepped back, looking at the god I disturbed. I had never met any of the gods of the fairy world. I hoped they would spare me long enough to save Aelfdane’s life. Even as I was thinking this, preparing my argument to beg to be let past, my thoughts stuttered to a halt.

Before me, wearing the aura of a god, was Aelfdane.

“What…?” I stared at him, confused, unable to ask what was going on.

He smiled at me, the same familiar smile he gave me every time. “Hello Morlance.”

Eldra chuckled. “You actually succeeded, fairy, congratulations.”

He nodded at her words. “Thank you, Eldra.” 

I felt like I was three steps behind. “You know Eldra?”

She smiled. “He asked for a favor, to be able to be with the one he loved. I simply pointed him in the right direction, I never thought he would pull it off.”

“Pull off what?”

Aelfdane grinned, moving past the vale. “I gathered darkness upon myself, and offered my body as a sacrifice to the gods. In return, I asked for one wish granted. “

He was now very close. I swallowed, feeling inexplicably nervous. “What was the wish?”

“Can you feel this?” His question was soft, I felt his hand rest gently on the side of my face. I jerked slightly, surprised, but he was unaffected by the contact. He was not affected by my touch? I nodded in answer to his question.

“Then my wish was granted.” He laughed, stepping forward and enveloping me in a hug.

Eldra sighed. “It looks like they’ve granted you status of the god of the vale.”

“Yes.” He didn’t let go of me, simply glancing over at the smiling god. “I will serve as the guardian of the border between the gods of men and fairies. “

“Excuses.” Her voice was amused.

“It works in my favor, so of course I’m willing to take on extra duties. “

I was overwhelmed, having not touched another living being in almost centuries. “So… I’ll be seeing you more often?”

I felt him laugh. “I would hope so.” He looked into my eyes, the familiar golden now glowing with an aura of power. “I couldn’t be your disciple, Morlance, sorry.”

“It’s ok.” I shook my head. “No one should serve the darkness…”

“You misunderstand.” His hand rested on my head. “I wanted to be much more than that.” He hugged me again.

“Let’s spend eternity together.”

I chuckled quietly, enjoying the contact.

“How interesting.”

[amirdawar]

STREET PARTY [3 of 4]:

So, this is a better description of the aftermath of the bombing. It’s told from the point of view of Amir’s sister, Faiza. Basically just giving myself painful feels. Enjoy. Or don’t read at all. Probably the second one.

Date: August 3rd, 2018. Warnings: This one’s a little rougher. Goes into more detail about the bombing, so be wary if brief mentions of blood/gore upset you. 

They’d heard the explosion, even in Knightsbridge.

Until that point, news coverage had been sketchy at best, but rolling, nonetheless, to feed the attention of the panicked masses. When things like this happened in London, people assumed the worst. They had been conditioned to. And as Faiza scrolled through her contact list, desperately searching for someone at the street party—anyone who might answer their bloody phone—she realised that she was absolutely one of them.

Amir was there. So was her mother.

Neither was answering her calls.

When the BBC Anchor apologised for their feed dropping out eerily soon after the rattling of her living room windows, she knew that ‘the worst’ had just become a reality.

A shaky voice on the television confirmed it was an explosion a few minutes later.

Pranav already had his shoes and jacket on before she’d finished her statement.

“If it’s a bomb, they’re going to need and appreciate all the medical help they can get,” he’d hurried, grabbing his keys and his mobile phone in a mad dash to do the right bloody thing. “You wait here, all right? Just in case they come back. Wait here.”

The idiot should’ve known his wife better.

When they’d arrived at the scene, hand in shaky hand, she could hardly believe her eyes.

Everyone was in utter disarray.

For the first time since the news had broken, there was no more frantically dialling her mother, or Amir, or Revati. All she could manage was shock and disgust. A heart in her throat and hand gripping her husband’s so tightly out of fear and fear alone that he’d be lucky to perform surgery with it ever again.

Faiza was no expert, but what she saw in the far distance didn’t look small enough to be a suicide vest, or some lucky pop by radicalised amateurs. It looked professional. Like a plane had dropped a fucking bomb right in the middle of her city and everything was burning. At the sight of the mangled wreckage of several police cars and what appeared to be an ambulance, she realised that whatever had exploded, had done so right where people had gathered to help.

They were cowards. They always were.

Police in the city had always been praised and renowned for their ability to deal with even the worst case scenarios, and yet, somehow, this seemed to be pushing them to their absolute limits. Maybe because when they’d found their footing initially, someone had planted a fucking bomb right underneath them. How many of those who’d shown up to help—to do a job—had died because of it? As she and Pranav slipped through the crowd and closer to the police cordon, she tried her hardest not to think about it at all.

It appeared that her husband had been right about them being desperate for help. They’d tried to protest their presence, claiming it was too dangerous for anyone to be near the scene, but after a quick flash of his Cromwell credentials, and a word exchanged with a police officer he was apparently friendly with, they were waived through a presence that seemed to be growing closer to the size of an army as each minute ticked on.

Faiza looked at the back of his head as they weaved through the crowd.

All she could smell was smoke—thick with rubber, plastic, people. If she hadn’t been terrified to wear her headscarf at a time like this, she might’ve covered her mouth with it should she be able to find her breath again. They were far enough away from the actual explosion that the fires were under control, but bits of building were scattered across the street; bricks smashed through the windshields of cars, and settled on their dashboards. There was glass everywhere. Shoes.

It was like a scene out of a movie she never wanted to see.

Faiza had thought she was too in shock to cry, but as they passed a woman who was being tended to by paramedics, the sight of her missing limbs was enough to break through to the part of her brain she was trying to save from the trauma.

It was unbelievable.

How could someone do this?

What if the reason her family wouldn’t answer was that they were burnt to a pile of ashes? Because they were crushed beneath the rubble of the buildings they’d been stood in? What if they were gone? What if they’d been stabbed, and couldn’t get away from the bomb even if they’d tried? What if she never got to see them again?

What if she had to explain to her father that his wife and son were dead?

“They would have called if they were okay,” she choked out.

Pranav didn’t hear her. The pained cries were too loud.

Loud enough that she’d remember them forever and a day.

When the surgeon saw someone in need of assistance, he gave his wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze before darting to help the semi-conscious figure just across the road.

What if there was more to come? What if this wasn’t over?

Faiza played with her hands nervously.

In spite of her mind trying to asphyxiate her from within, and even though she trembled so much it seemed impossible, she felt the vibrating of her phone before the screen had lit up with the face of her brother. Amir was calling. The sob that left her was so fucking strangled she was almost embarrassed answering. He was okay, despite her best attempts to convince herself otherwise. Thank God. Thank. God.

“Amir,” she cried down the phone, words so fast they were falling over each other in utter fucking relief. “Amir, please tell me you’re okay. Is mum with you? Did you all get out okay, or are you still in Belgravia? Prav and I just got here because he—”

The voice that interrupted her did not belong to her brother.

“Faiza, it’s Zahira.”

She froze.

Zahira wouldn’t call her instead of Amir. Not sounding like that.

“Faiza, where are you? I’m with your mother.”

A mother she could hear weeping. The assumptions drawn from her brother being unable to call himself aside, that sound alone was enough to make her blood run cold. Combined, it sucked out any of the hope she’d foolishly built up in a second.

“I think—I don’t—” Faiza stuttered, pressing a hand to her forehead, suddenly incredibly nauseous. She was scared to look around. “Just— Outside Baker & Spice, I think.”

“Can you make it up to Eaton Square?”

It was closer to the bomb site.

“Yes. Yes, just hold on. Put my mother on the phone.”

It’d been a wasted request. Nothing remotely coherent had come out of the woman’s mouth in the time it took to make her way up the street—Prav promising to follow as soon as he was done tending to the patient in his care—and it only served to upset her further. Her mother was a thousand times the woman she would ever be; if even Fatima couldn’t cope, what hope would she have? Faiza ran as fast as her legs and the surrounding debris would allow.

The sight that awaited her would surely haunt her until her own deathbed.

Fatima and Zahira were cut and bleeding, but they seemed—physically, at least—okay.

Then her eyes found her brother.

At first, Faiza thought he was looking right at her, and stupidly, as her heart braced for hope once more, she’d almost attempted a reassuring smile. He was awake, at least. That had to be something, right? Maybe it hadn’t been as bad as she was expecting?

Maybe she was wrong.

Slowly, the pieces of reality began to fall into place as though hope was nothing but a cruel illusion. Why would her mother be crying if he was conscious and in good hands? Why wasn’t he saying anything? Attempting to mumble out a stupid fucking joke? Faiza could see that the paramedics were in the middle of CPR, and as her eyes fell, that he was sprawled in a pool of what she could only assume to be his own blood.

When she glanced back at his face, it was like seeing a ghost.

Amir wasn’t looking at her. Amir wasn’t looking at anything.

As his head limply bounced with each compression, she realised:

He was gone.

Faiza opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Even if she’d wanted to call out to her mother she was sure that Fatima wouldn’t have heard it.

“It’s been twenty-five minutes. Still no pulse,” she heard one of the off-duty paramedics who had rushed to help sigh out to his friend. “I think he’s done.”

What?

What?

“No. No, no. No!”

Even if she’d wanted to rationalise their decision, she couldn’t. There might have been others in dire need of assistance—perhaps, ones that had a better chance at survival than her brother did—but was that any reason to just stop? To leave him?

“No.” Fatima shook her head in denial so painful, Faiza was sure she was going to vomit if she had to endure another word. Another pained expression from a woman who, if she’d ever hurt, had never shown it to either of her children. It was fucking guttural. It didn’t even sound like her mother anymore. “That is my son.” At first, it was all anger. As she stabbed a finger in the direction of the paramedic, Faiza could see the fire in her eyes. Wished with every piece of her aching heart that it would help. “That is my son.” Then it was defeat. A deafening silence that could never be unheard. “My boy.”

“Mum…”

“You don’t stop until an ambulance has taken him to the hospital, and a doctor tells you to stop.”

The paramedic looked genuinely sympathetic. He also looked like he’d had this conversation before.

“I’m sorry. He’s lost too much blood. Even if we keep going until—”

“That is my son and you do not stop!”

“Ammi, please.” Faiza took a step forward, reaching out for her. The tears were falling, even if she couldn’t feel it. A quick glance at Zahira, crouched down beside the lifeless body of her brother, said that she was doing very much the same. “Look at him.” Saying the words felt like she was swallowing glass. “He’s gone.”

“No!” Fatima snatched her hand away, rounding on the men as they got to their feet. “Why is it taking so long? Where are they? Where is your ambulance?”

“They’re diverting every available vehicle and paramedic possible. We’re doing the best we can with the resources we have. This is an absolutely unprecedented situation.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“What’s happening?”

As if the sound of Pranav’s arrival was the trigger, the two simple words proved enough to push Fatima over the edge, and into a fresh flood tears. The Indian realised what was happening and rushed to her son’s side. The old woman’s legs finally gave out, and she fell to the ground, sobbing so loudly that surely Allah couldn’t ignore them. Ignore her suffering without mercy.

Faiza couldn’t tell which hurt more: seeing her mother’s pain, or feeling her own.

She watched as her husband took the place of the paramedics, and started his own set of compressions. It felt like her heart was breaking all over again.

It was just giving her mother hope.

It was just dragging out the pain.

As she slumped down against the car parked just behind her, she slipped into her own quiet sobs.

What were they supposed to do now?

Who was going to tell her father?

Who was going to tell Ashraf?

Who was going to tell Revati?

[d-reamingwideawake]

oh geez it’s been a minute since I’ve slapped something onto this blog huh

This... This is what you would call a dystopia. Or an apocalypse. I can never keep the two straight. Maybe it’s both. Either way...it sucks. A lot.

What’s worse is now there are monsters that used to be human roaming around. They don’t move too fast but that doesn’t make them harmless. I’ve seen so many good people die at their hands. Or their...mouths. They seem to like feeding on us, but I’m not quite sure how imperative we are to their diet. It’s not like they can talk and tell us we’re their only food source--but I have seen them crouched over deer and other animals so that can’t be true. They kind of just hiss and growl and attack. I’m fairly certain they can’t see. They’ll respond to any noise, usually loud ones that grab their attention.

More times than not, we end up being their meals.

They look human. I’ve made that mistake many times. But when they turn around, you know nothing is there. The person they were is long gone. We call them the dead, and us the living, but at what point are any of us truly living anymore? Is this a way to really go about life? Running, scared and hungry, hoping the next corner doesn’t become a dead-end as you’re being chased?

I can’t stand it.

I keep trying though. That’s all you can really do is try.

It helps to live in groups. However, a lot of people choose to live alone. I can’t imagine how they do it. I come across individuals once in a while and offer help, most refuse. I’ve had a couple bite me in the ass. It’s hard to trust anyone. Somehow, I can’t stop. I want to believe people are inherently good. Just because the world went to shit doesn’t mean our manners have to as well. Right? Maybe that’s just me.

I live with a small group. We’re less than ten, sometimes a little more than that but never for long it seems. One of us might be on his death bed. He got bit the other day and is running a fever. Not everyone who gets sick dies, but if you don’t have the right antibiotics, chances are pretty slim. And those things are really hard to come by these days. It’s not like anyone makes them anymore or stocks the shelves at the pharmacy. What’s out there is what’s out there these days. I fear the day it all runs out. It’s bad now, but some things are still manageable.

We move around a lot. No place is really livable for long periods. We tried setting up in a house one time. The neighborhood had a hoard come through and we barely made it out. A couple didn’t at all--they fought and died protecting the rest of us. More good people lost to this insane new world.

New world makes it sound better than it is.

If I was a doctor I might call it an epidemic. However, I don’t see these monsters as sick. There’s no coming back from this. Some are so decayed I wouldn’t want them to come back from it.

Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that the bustling cities I knew and loved would become so dilapidated and empty. Well, except for the dead. I never imagined they would be a thing either.

This is how we live now. In a way, it’s the same as it was, but with way less responsibilities. Number one these days is just keep yourself alive. Others too, if you can. That’s why it’s better to have friends, even if you wouldn’t have ever been around them Before if you had the choice. It’s better than no one.

Before is what I call the way it was. Before this dystopia was upon us. Before the living became the dead. Before there were monsters at every turn. Before having to starve for days until I was able to find a measly can of beans to keep me going. Before everything and everyone around me fell into ruin. Before.

   A hot summer day was my favorite. The cicadas buzzed wildly, drowning out the traffic and chatter of those passing me by. I was on my lawn, bathing in the sun. It was supposed to cloud up later and rain so I wanted to soak it up while I could. Right now, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was hard to believe a storm was coming.

In more than one way, that storm was going to hit me hard.

Many hours flew by. I’d ended up falling asleep until raindrops splashed upon my face to wake me up. With a yawn, I packed up and made my way inside. Friends had invited me to go out with them tonight, and after lazing about in the sun all day, it sounded like a good idea to get out and do something. The four of them would be at a bar until seven, and the place served a few choice sandwiches so I wouldn’t have to make myself dinner before headed out.

By the time I readied myself, the rain was coming down hard and it was almost 6:30. I called Kat to double check they had even gone out in this mess. She said they got there before the storm and they might end up waiting it out, so I said I was on my way. The establishment wasn’t too far from my place, so I picked up an umbrella and endured the pouring rain for five or ten minutes.

Needless to say, I was soaking wet by the time I got there. It got a few laughs and I dried off as much as I could in the restroom with the help of Kat and Hannah.

“Pretty stupid not to just drive here,” Kat had chided.

“Could have called a cab or something!” Hannah added.

“No way. It was just a ten minute walk, if that,” I told them as I held my dress under the hand dryer.

That was when we heard some screams coming from the bar. We had figured it was just some fight that broke out and chose to ignore it. Gunshots sounded moments later and we stared at each other but couldn’t find words. It was just more reason to stay in here, away from whatever mess that fight brought on.

Our friend Tamra burst into the restroom almost immediately after. She looked terrified as she slammed her back against the door, appearing to be looking for a lock that wasn’t there. With a single breath, she spoke quickly of what just went down outside. It was hard to believe but once we emerged, the five dead bodies made it a lot more convincing. One of those bodies was our friend Marie, who had been chatting up some guys at the bar with Tamra while the three of us had been occupied with drying me off. Her neck was bloody, along with her entire shoulder and torso, as if an animal had come up and taken a bite out of it.

“It was crazy. If we weren’t sitting so close to the door, she...she might still be alive. Oh my god...” Tamra said as we drew closer.

All I could do was cover my mouth and stare. The guy she’d been talking to had a similar bite mark on his arm. I guessed it was because he had tried to save her. They might have made a cute couple.

The bartender had a shotgun in his hands. He was telling another patron how he’d never had to use the firearm in all his 20 years serving drinks here but he was glad he had kept it around. A pair of men had pistols in their hands, looking about frantically as if looking for something dangerous.

Two of the bodies on the floor were people I never knew. They had similar bite marks to Marie’s. Similar looks of pain and fear on their faces. My hand stayed cupped over my mouth until I came upon the other two bodies. They were sopping wet, much like myself coming in out of that storm, and had several bullet holes in them, including one to each of their heads.

They still looked human at that time. Just...odd.

“Hey...these guys were blind,” I whispered in observation, mostly to myself. Their eyes were glazed over, like cataracts. “What--”

“No girl, they were monsters. You didn’t...you weren’t out here.” Tamra said from my side. “Those guys over there made quick work of ‘em, but I think the bartender’s shots were the ones that brought ‘em down.”

The whole bar was silent save for the music still playing. Uptown Funk was hardly choice background noise for such an awful scene. I noticed a broom had been stuck through the handles of the entry doors. It seemed no one dared to leave the bar. Somewhere outside there was a distant scream, then another. Sirens. More gunshots. We all shuffled uncomfortably, looking about the room at each other, but saying nothing. I had no idea what was out there but if it mirrored whatever this was, maybe it was better to stay after all.

Suddenly Marie’s eyes fluttered open. Several people stepped back. The four of us, her friends, were the only ones who stepped closer. We were hopeful. Foolishly hopeful.

“M-Marie?” Kat stammered, hope in her voice. “You shouldn’t move. You have... Marie you’re injured, stay still, sweetie,” she whispered.

Our friend didn’t seem to hear her. She gargled what could only be her own blood, trying to sit up. Kat moved toward her to try and convince her otherwise--and that was when I noticed her eyes. They were the same as the two bodies on the floor next to her. She moaned as Kat reached out, those blind eyes somehow hungry.

“Kat no!” I shouted. “Something’s not--”

She snapped back at me. “She’s alive, Nikki. Don’t tell me not to--”

And she screamed.

It was earsplitting. The next moments flashed by. I couldn’t believe my eyes as Marie’s teeth clamped down around her best friend’s arm that had been reached out to help her.

The bartender had hopped onto a chair in an instant to take aim. He blew a shot through Marie’s head. Her body fell limp to the floor while Kat continued to scream, only now it was both because she was in pain and because her friend was gone for good.

“This is so horrific,” Kat muttered after a minute, breathing rapidly and crumpled to the floor on her knees. Tears streamed down her face at the same rate blood dripped down her arm.

Marie and her had been friends since they were too young to even remember. She got along with the rest of us but she’d always been closer to Kat. I couldn’t even think how bad she had it at that time. Kat was a strong woman, always had been. But in the face of death like this, anyone would break.

A man stepped up to us through the crowd to bring Kat to her feet, he also motioned at the guy Marie had been talking to at the bar. “Let’s get you two cleaned up. These bites could get infected easily. I’m a nurse, so I know a thing or two,” he added with an authoritative voice. He couldn’t be much older than us, I thought. It was clear we had to listen though.

“I agree,” I said, hugging myself to Kat’s un-bitten side.

“First-aid is in the back, Bailey,” the bartender said, nodding. He must be a regular here. I’d only been a few times myself.

“Thanks, Frank,” was all the more he said that night.

He worked quietly and efficiently, not asking questions or making conversation. For a nurse, he was in a lot more shock than I thought he might be. But, I couldn’t fathom that this scenario was something he was exactly trained for.

Once Kat and bar-boy, who I later learned was named Page, were patched up, Bailey simply nodded assurances. He then returned to the bar full of frightened patrons. Page returned with him, but I hung back with Kat, trying to keep her calm. She didn’t want to move and I wasn’t going to make her just yet.

We both jumped as a couple more gunshots sounded. Someone screamed and we heard a thump. My initial thought was someone fainted from another ordeal. Maybe the other two victims had risen...

Tamra and Hannah made their way to us and filled us in with what I’d already assumed. Stifled through the door, I could hear the bartender trying to keep order and give direction. There were a few shouts of contention but soon all was quiet again.

Once Kat was back to herself somewhat, we emerged to sit with the rest of the group, which had to be at least 50 people. The bodies had been removed, which was probably for the better, and most of the patrons were seated at tables once again. The music had been turned off. We took seats at the bar.

“Now what?” I found myself asking. It was partly to myself, partly looking for answers.

The silence was killing me. The not knowing...the random screaming we heard outside now and then. It had to be getting near two am, which was bar close, but no one would be getting kicked out of here tonight. In fact, shots were being handed out here and there free of charge to those who asked. I didn’t think that was safe, but we were barred in here for the night so what could it hurt, really?

“We wait, is all I can say for now,” Frank the bartender answered. Somewhere down the line I found he owned this place. Not that it mattered anymore.

“Is there anything to wait for?” one of the waitresses interjected.

“Has to be,” Hannah said. Her eyes darted all over the place. I could tell she was tired, but there was no way any of us could sleep right now. A few were trying, some managed to, but most of us were simply too strung up. “There has to be, right?” she asked me.

I didn’t think I was an expert on that but I answered anyway. “Sure,” I said, not meeting her eyes. I continued to rub Kat’s shoulder. She’d been huddled into me since getting her wound treated. “I mean...life...goes on. It has to.”

    Did Kat make it? Yes. Page? Somehow he fought one of the worst fevers I’d ever seen. Did everyone else in that bar make it to today? I’m sad to say that isn’t the case. Some separated and moved on from us. We lost Hannah a few months later. One of the dead got her while we were out doing a run for food. Many others lost their lives the same way. Eventually we started being more careful. We learned how to draw out the dead before entering any buildings. We never traveled in less than a pair if possible. We learned how to fight back and protect ourselves through trial and error.

Oh, there were so many errors.

Eventually our group from the bar dwindled to myself, Kat, Tamra, Bailey, Page, Frank, and 23 other people. That was the biggest our numbers have been in a long time.

Further down the road, we lost Page. He saved my life. I regret being on that run, looking for medicine so Bailey could treat another bite. I’d been careless, and it cost us.

Our nurse is good at containing and eliminating the infection, whatever it is. Sometimes amputation is necessary, but not always. We’ve met people who believe it’s the only option but not with Bailey around. Every day I’m thankful he was in that bar with us. He doesn’t say much, but he’s quick to solve problems and takes on leadership when the need arises.

Several of our group went missing, some turned up later as the monsters we fear becoming. Others were lost on similar runs like the one Page and I had been on.

I can count those we started this screwed up journey with on one hand. The other hand of our group these days are some we picked up along the way.

Right now, we’re holed up at a motel. The doors open right to the street so there’s no chance of getting trapped. We managed to find a pair of rooms that connect. We didn’t dare split up, but nine people crammed into a single room would have been a certain kind of awful, no matter how important it was to stick together.

It’s our third day here--mind you it’s our third year into this dystopic mess--and a few of us are getting restless at the fact. Most of the stores around here were picked dry some time ago. There isn’t much to stay for. We have canned foods in the cars but those only last us so long and it’s never a good idea to get down to nothing when it comes to the thing that gives us our energy. We’ve pushed through starvation twice. I’m not particularly thrilled about facing it a third time since I know how it feels.

I overhear Frank telling Bailey we’ll be headed north tomorrow.

“Promise of food, I hope!” I call into the other room. I’ve become a lot more bitter these days, but can you blame me? “Something other than beans, too. Yeesh.”

“There should be a supermarket, Nicole. But I can’t guarantee you your choice of ribs or steak,” Frank shoots back. He always knows how to deal with people. He had to, owning that bar back in the day. I never did locate my parents back in the city. In a way, Frank has sort of replaced them for me--my apocalypse dad. On that note, I never saw my roommates after that awful night either.

“Long as I can smother it in barbecue sauce I don’t think it’ll matter.”

Kat and our newest addition, Russel, return from their latest run, a last sweep of the town, on that note. They look a little beat up but nothing serious stands out to me.

“Always a silver-lining with this one,” Russel remarks as he shuts the door behind them and crosses over to where Frank and Bailey have a map laid out on one of the beds.

“Anything?” Bailey asks in his quiet way.

“Just more of the same. Did find a few bottles of Advil in an abandoned car though,” he smiles, pulling them from his pocket and tossing them to the nurse.

“And a jar of peaches!” Kat announces with excitement. She had loved fruit back when it was easy to get your hands on. I can’t help but smile as she pops the lid off right away and takes in the sweet smell. “Want some?”

“I’ll have one,” I say, sitting up and holding out a hand.

There are echoes of “me too” throughout our pair of motel rooms. Kat shares without question, but I can tell she wanted more of it for herself. By the time all of us are given a slice, she’s left with just a few. It’s more than she could have hoped for going out there so she relishes in the treat without complaint. She could have easily eaten them before coming back and none of us, aside from maybe Russel, would have been the wiser, but Kat isn’t that selfish. Never was.

She even offers a bit of the juice to Aidan who’s nearly blacked out from his fever. His bite’s been looking worse. I have doubts he’s going to make it, especially with only Advil as a medication. At least it might lessen his suffering.

Hours later, it’s become dark outside and time we rest up for the half a day of driving we have ahead of us. I’ve always hated long car rides. The feeling has only gotten worse these days, feeling trapped like that. I deal with it though. I have to.

[kalbong-tiu]

Men Bake Roses, Women Plant Cakes

I used to bake Tru-Orange flavored puff pastries when I was younger which mother affectionately called 'chiffon cakes' although they're not thin cloth materials made of silk and weren't that soft either, literally. There must be something wrong with the ovens today since I can't figure out as to why all my kneading and pleading doesn't work out its magic anymore. My wife said I must have forgotten the recipes or probably the yeast I was using were already past expiration date. She must have noticed that every single cake I baked flopped or turned into something ressembling a millstone. My daughter said its all because I was scrimping on everything, baking time included. Gas is expensive too, right?

It was also during that time when a few varities of roses were blooming right through Mother's front yard garden, the years she anxiously thought I turned yellow, although much of that passion was born out of reading Mills and Boon's paperback novels my older sister was hoarding in the dining room bookshelves. Tradition must have equated flowers and cakes go well together to sum up some silly notion that I was going soft, as vacuous people are inclined to percieve, though I didn't blame them for being so. Boys just don't plant roses, right?

Wrong.

I do and the poor St.Valentine has nothing to do with it considering I've never had any serious relationship whatsoever with the opposite sex during that wimpy life phase I wasn't very fond of remembering, regretfully. My day as a youngster always starts with a bowlful of steaming rice porridge and ends well under the kitchen stairwell thinly slicing those sticky banana stalks and pounding them afterwards with a wooden pestle before mixing them with milled rice husk to feed mother's voracious hogs. Serious relationships were far and remote as the chilly Siberian tundra except perhaps for some coercive happenstances of mutual understanding borne out of youthful taunts, unrestrained ignorance and envy. I can't even remember saying 'I love you' to someone else, not even to myself. There were instead a few potshot crushes and short shrift affections especially with the loveliest girl in high school who remains as lovely as she is today than as she was before. Turns out I was stupid enough to believe that we were of distant relation which eventually wasn't true either. Anyway, we both grew up in a kquaint little town where everybody is related to anybody at some point in time somehow, either by intermarriage or just by the simple fact of being long time neighbors. Honestly though, I believed she never knew about my intentions until now and hopefully, to make things less embarassing for me, will keep it that way. She was definitely the reason for the white roses. People usually wear white during Chinese funerals, right?

The potted double-petalled purplish pink hugging inside the unpainted picket fence just below the guava tree in front of our old house were strickly for show-off partly because they were grafted hybrids from a cutting that I yanked from somebody else's garden. My on and off girlfriend at that time was totally unaware that what I had been giving her were actually from the elementary school garden and the reason for it was because there were also a few bees in her bedeviled heart, as what my best friend reminds me of, constantly. We're not friends on Facebook anyway so there's no need to worry.

Unquestinably, the prolific bloomers were the deep reds which goes bald as they were in huge demand for the corsage during school's yearend commemoration exercises. They were the only roses planted right in the soil because they were of native variety and were highly resistant to aphids and other pest. I also happen to hate their prickly thorns. 'Never sell your flowers if you don't want to be castigated by the whole neighbor-friendly community', mother used to say. I'm not a whore but that would have been a lot of pennies for a hard-up youngster like me and it was agonizingly tempting.

You don't need to be a romantic to be able to plant roses anyway, or a horticulturist for that matter, as I reckoned years later. A 'handsome' sapling or a 'decent' grafting in a nutrient 'rich', moisture retentive soil is all that is needed other than a pest and temperature controlled environment to grow most varieties of roses. (Mother said to remember those three words too!)

So, why roses?

It was all probably because at that age I thought roses are like girls that needed constant attention and all-out patience in order to grow and bloom into something beautiful and sweet-smelling. They must also be handled delicately otherwise the petals will wither easily or you will get feverish from a single prick of its pernicious thorns. Too much water and the stems will molder and rot. Starve the soil and you'll get miniaturized flowers that only flourish for a day. It would take a lot of time to understand their nature and disposition inasmuch as their inversely inscrutable intentions. They are mostly beautiful externally but dare to venture a tad closer and you will definitely be scorched crisply by their temper or worst being prickled by their biting retorts. Mother said to be very careful with them, one freakish parental lesson I never took to heart very seriously then. I should have known better!

Roses too are like second chance promises that men foolishly fall into believing. Girls like everything expensive, that's the hard truth, though it is only through the gift of a flower where their hearts melt and eventually reveals the fidelity of their true feelings. Roses are like truth serum that most girls can't resist or lie about though luckily for them men gullibly believed otherwise.

The exquisite canary yellows are definitively exotic, larger than most varieties and very delicate to grow. The buds seldom flourish into full-blown flowers but when they do the waiting was worth it. Compared to the other varieties, they wither easily and will never last long enough in the vase even when am Aspirin tablet is added to the water, one reason why they're best suited for cemetery votives.

Compost takes a long time to rot while fertilizers are expensive and hard to procure during those days so the eggs shells that were proudly impaled and lined up along the decorative finials of the kitchen sink were expropriated instead as a substitute along with a few sun dried starfishes that were pounded into powdery dust by mother's garlic pestle and the redolent cow dungs that bemired the town's public plaza. Some say urine is good when mixed with water but I was afraid the flowers would turn musky so I settled for beer. Turns out I liked beer better than flowers, and skittish girls too, so the plan was stupefyingly dismissed heartily.

The bold pink roses were definitively the most memorable of the lot partly because of the circumstance of its incipience rather than its distinctive rareness. It took me a few months to win the heart of a girl just to be able to transgress her uncle's garden for the pretentious variety and it was worth it! Her uncle, ( for heaven's sake, forgive me!) was a priest by the way.

Valentines date?

Nah, that's totally rubbish. Winning the heart of a girl with a wrapped Cartier, a glittering Bulgari or a sleek Prada is exponentially much better albiet to the special someone that you really, really loved, a bouquet of flowers is honestly more than enough. I recommend the 'all-weather' polyethelene ones made in China because they really suggest something like 'forever'. Otherwise, get busy and bake a damn cake!

[kxtemxss]

I remember reading Romeo and Juliet for the first time, I must have only been about eleven or twelve, feverishly turning the pages of my crumpled old copy. I began to search the words for meaning, the hopeless romantic inside me yearning for a resolution other than death. However, when I reached the final act, it became apparent that the curtain had fallen on both the play and the young lovers lives.

Although it may seem cliché as fuck, an impressionable young girl fawning over the actions of two fictional children, I felt a certain numbness upon learning their fate.

I often found a strange sense of calmness amongst the images of decay. 

I would romanticise the idea of death, obsessed with finding meaning in the absence of life. 

I would wonder what people would think if I ceased to exist, creating elaborate realities in which I had sacrificed myself for the good of others, desperate to discover if my life had a meaning. 

Although real life continued to seep into my delusions, like a busy train in rush hour, leaving me stranded at the platform with no hope of ever catching up.

The first time I put a blade to my skin I had hoped to find comfort in the pain, I yearned for the euphoric numbness I had read so much about. However, once again reality crept in. The turn of my mums key in the lock, the familiar mumble of “I’m home” as she struggled to carry her bags through the door. 

I’d rush to help, but by then she’d be back at her desk, the door shut and the usual groan of her laptop as it struggled to ventilate against the wooden surface would once again echo down the hall. “Not now” she would snap, her hand shooing me away from the small crack in the doorway.

My dad wasn’t around much. He was always ‘busy’ working, or as I later learnt busy playing house with other women’s children. But my mum, she was the real hero in the house, working long days to keep our family afloat. 

I didn’t see my mum as often as I’d like. But I grew accustom to the notes scribbled in haste on the back of envelopes.

“Be home late. Dinner is in the fridge. Will call you later, have a good day, Love you xx”. 

I knew it wasn’t because she didn’t love me, in fact it was the polar opposite. She loved me, therefore she had to work. Our relationship would revolve around microwave meals, post-it notes and hushed conversations from the car or the various hotel rooms. The contrast of the harsh crackle of her voice against the humming of her car as she drove became a familiar sound. 

At first I used to love being home alone. I would watch whatever I wanted and eat all the things I wasn’t meant to. But as I grew older it became quite lonely. The ache for attention would become unbearable. 

At night I would hear my mum cry a lot. The muffled sobs would often lull me to sleep. My heart breaking every time my dad’s seat at the table remained empty.

I always played the understudy in my dads life or perhaps one of those secondary characters you add into a novel to flesh it out. It was almost like I had missed the audition for the main part, spending years of my life playing catch up with the desperate hope that one day the leading actor would fall down and then I could finally be the star.

It never happened. I’m still the understudy, but these days I’ve accepted it. His absence never went unnoticed but with age I learnt not to expect much. That way I was never as disappointed. 

I was never good enough to be the leading lady. I never got the right grades, wore the right clothes, had the right attitude. I lived in an emotional prison of my own creation, desperately seeking someone to bail me out. 

When I was 14 I was bullied so badly that I began to hurt myself again. I had started dating a boy I’d known since I was very young. My childish delusions of romantic grandeur had lead me to believe he was ‘the one’. I tried to open up to him, foolishly thinking he might be able to pay the bail and set me free. I craved attention, I just really wanted someone to love me.

This of course ended after three short weeks of playground kisses and late night texting. A girl in my friendship group had told everyone I was actually a lesbian. And this was high school after all, so naturally everyone believed it. 

The late night texts stopped coming. I convinced myself his phone must be broken. It wasn’t. 

He later told me, in front of all his friends, that he couldn’t be seen to be dating the “fat lesbian”.

I was 14, so this was ultimately the end of the world.

I lost all my friends. No one wanted to hang out with the ‘fat lesbian’. They would break my things, steal my money and shove me in the halls. My Facebook account was hacked, slut shaming me, with edited photos of my face on very graphic sexual images. I became a social pariah.

The girl started dating the boy. No one ever believed I wasn’t a lesbian either.

As I’ve grown older I’ve realised how pathetic it all was. I mean who gives a fuck if you like boys or girls anyway. But back then all I wanted to do was die.

I kept a brave face for a while at home, uttering a few words about how my day was fine and school was okay. It wasn’t.

I moved to Australia not long after this. My dad had told me this was my fresh start, a new hope. It wasn’t.

I started at an all girls boarding school, by the sea. My parents were going to move over later in the year, after everything was sorted back home. They never did.

I spent my locked away in my boarding house. I wasn’t allowed to leave.

“You need written parent permission and adult supervision.”

It became very monotonous. I felt almost like I was on auto-pilot for most of that year.

I would wake up, late as usual and have to skip breakfast. I would go to class, making small talk with the day girls, suppressing the deep burn of envy I would feel as they talked about their weekends at the beach or their dinners with their families. I’d then be forced to study in silence until 9pm, before I was able to return to my room. By this point I’d be mentally exhausted, craving the comfort of my bed. Sometimes there would be a slight variation, for example on Thursdays, I’d have to go to chapel. My mum had lied about my religion to get me a place at the school. Something that became achingly obvious with each passing week. I’d often argue with the pastor, telling him he was deluded. As you can imagine, at an Anglican school, this went down like a lead balloon.

It wasn’t long before I had fallen victim once again to the school bully. She weaved an elaborate web of lies that spread across the dormitory like an untamed bush fire.

And once again, one by one, my friends stopped bothering with me. 

But this time I was all alone, 10,233 miles from home. 

I tried to kill myself in the October of that year. It was the start of summer, one of the hottest days so far. I’d been to the beach for ice cream after school as a treat. It was a good day.

By this point I’d stopped texting my mum, feeding her lies about how wonderful boarding school was. I was angry with her. She’d abandoned me here. 

My dad, the fantasist, was of course still determined that everything would work out. He couldn’t seem to accept the reality of the situation. They were never coming to Australia. The dream was dead. 

Coming home felt like a relief. The suffocating heat disappearing behind me as the plane drew nearer and nearer to my home. 

In my head I’d imagined a reality where everything would be perfect when I got home. My parents would be happy, my friends would love me again. It would be like the end scene from every high school movie I’d ever seen. 

It wasn’t.

“Suicide is stupid. Mental Illness is a fantasy. There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t need to see a therapist you’re 15. Grow up. Get a grip. Stop being so goddamn sensitive.”

My dad’s words echoed in my head, fragments of his harsh sentences tearing open old wounds and creating space for more pain.

I later learnt that my dad had bankrupted us. My mum lost her job. We had nothing. My mum had tried to kill herself that year. No one told me, they didn’t want to worry me - especially since I was “so far away”. 

I started a new school, I thought it would be alright. I would be with my childhood best friend. I was wrong.

Her friends were awful. Their false promises of sincerity slipping through loose lips as they sold your personal business to the highest bidder in hopes of maintaining popularity. 

Eventually I finished school. I packed up my things and moved away to London. As far as I could feasibly get, much to my mum’s disdain. 

A lot happened in the 3 years that followed. I suppose you could say life happened. 

In my first week of university, I was sexually assaulted in an alleyway as I stumbled around, drunk and bewildered looking for my bus home. It felt like I wasn’t really there. I failed to believe it was really happening. 

I remember the rough texture of his hands against my shoulders as he slammed me against the wall, trapping my body. I remember I cried and screamed, I begged him to stop but he didn’t. 

I wish I could say this was my only experience. In fact I wish I could say I made this all up. That it was a lie. But it wasn’t.

It happened again in my second year, I’d gone to a party with some friends, we’d invited a guy that worked with my best friend. He seemed nice, I’d flirted with him over the bar on occasion. We’d matched on Tinder, it all seemed innocent enough. 

I was wrong. He’d followed me out of the party, explaining we needed to catch the same bus anyways. His obnoxious voice booming over the hum of the engine as the bus drew closer to my stop. 

He followed me off the bus, pleading to use my phone charger. I shrugged and permitted it, my judgement clouded by substance abuse and exhaustion. 

He made us a drink and I took it readily, my mouth dry and chalky. 

He began to brush the hair from my shoulder, whispering compliments into my ear. It was almost as if he knew exactly what I needed to hear, his words making me believe he cared about me. Making me think maybe he could love me. My mind began to run away with delusions, my vision growing hazier as I sunk into my pillow.

He had laced my drink. I couldn’t feel my body, it was as if my conscious had left my body, as though I was watching from a distance, a bystander to my own destruction.

“You didn’t seem to enjoy that. Do you not like sex? Don’t report me. You probably think I raped you.” He joked as he buckled his belt. 

“You did” I muttered, it must have been inaudible as he never responded.

I sat in shower for hours after he left. Hoping the heat of the water would cleanse my skin and burn away any evidence of his touch. It didn’t. 

I began to sleep on the sofa, avoiding returning to the scene of the crime. I hated him. I hated how he had ruined the city of my dreams. I blamed him for every grey day. It was almost as if his touch had turned out all the bright lights, as if he had dulled all the colour and now all I could see was darkness and misery.

"You were obviously asking for it, I don’t know why you expect sympathy.” My own father’s words. And just like that I crumbled. The lifelong facade was over.