#and how often she kept reverting back to being hospital nurse trying to care for her baby. trying to tell staff what to do for him.

[nonsupe]

where is my mind at on this fine saturday evening? thinking about the fact that shiloh's mom came to see him when she heard he was stateside again, how she was by his side for as long as she could be in the hospital during his month long stay before someone from vought found him. how she cried when she first saw him because her baby was all broken (and we get that "momma, don't cry. i'm okay, i promise) she was so devastated to see him in that condition but relieved that he was alive, and from what she could understand that was a blessing on its own after initial injuries and the infection and the plan going forward.

how one day he's whisked away yet again. shiloh told her that he was being moved but he couldn't tell her when or where, but that they would see each other again and that he'd call when he got the chance. it took a whole three weeks until she heard from him again but he sounded so much better compared to last time they spoke. and when they did see each other again it was like nothing ever happened to him, he'd been completely healed with a touch of a hand. she would never understand it but she was grateful. he never told her about cva or vought or any of it.

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 10

 Warnings: parent/child angst and strife. Some language.

We also finally get info on how the hell Tyler and Esme ended up in Dhaka together ;)

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @alievans007, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y

If it isn’t too much trouble, just leave a comment or even send me a message! I love hearing from you guys!!

@valkyrie-of-the-light  we are getting closer to finding out who the stranger is ;)

“In all fairness,” Esme says with a yawn, as she lays in the middle of their rumpled bed. “I don’t think Ovi meant to cause problems.”

It’s seven thirty in the morning and the house remains in peaceful slumber; unusual, as all of the kids are usually up and causing chaos at the crack of dawn. The baby is at the breast; suckling sleepily and contently, while Millie is tucked into her side; snoring lightly, a thumb in her mouth. A bad habit she’d managed to break before starting kindergarten but always reverted back to in times of stress.

“He just should have kept his goddamn mouth shut,” Tyler grumbles, as he pulls on a pair of baggy and weathered jeans, doing up the zipper and button before attending to his belt.

“Well she did ask,” his wife attempts to reason, watching him as he dresses, eyes feasting on those broad shoulders and wide back; his skin a canvas for the bulging, rippling muscles, tattoos, scars, and now bright red and brutal looking scratch marks caused by her nails. “She wanted to know why you go away so much. She’s five and curious. Not to mention she misses you like crazy when you’re gone.”

It’s hard on all of them, but it’s especially difficult for the little five-year-old that thinks the sun rises and sets on her father. In her mind there’s nothing he can’t do. No promise big or small that can’t keep or no problem he can’t fix. And when he’s gone she’s heartbroken; refusing to sleep in her own bed and choosing to stay with her mother, sleeping on his pillow, wanting to cuddle up to one of his dirty shirts so she can smell him. When he calls or video chats, she’s the first and the last he talks to. Then spends hours in tears after he disconnects.

“It’s way too early for a guilt trip,” he says, and pulls a simple white t-shirt over his head.

“That’s not what I was doing and you know it. When have I ever guilt tripped you over making the decision you did? And I mean an intentional guilt trip.”

It would have been so easy for her to do. He knows that. He’d made the decision without her and had even talked to Nik about getting back into the game before he mentioned it to his own wife. It should have been talked about. She should have at least had a chance to argue her side against it instead of just feeling as if her hands were tied and her opinion or her fears and worries didn’t matter.  In many ways he still struggles to find a balance between the way he was before and his role as a husband and a father. He’d spent years only worrying about himself (and even that wasn’t done well) and it wasn’t an easy habit to break.

Yet not once has she ever intentionally made him feel guilty for going back on the job. He knew she was pissed. That she still is at times. Disappointed that he just couldn’t walk away and make a clean break from it for the sake of her and their kids. But she still supported him. Never made him feel like a selfish fuck.

Even though he often felt that way about himself.

“At the hospital when you were having the twins,” he says. “You lost your shit on me.”

“I had been in labour for eighteen hours and you’d just gotten back from Croatia on the only flight you could find. And you were covered in dirt and blood and wearing fatigues and you looked like you’d just walked out of a war zone. The doctors and the nurses wondered what the hell had happened to you. Not to mention the epidural wouldn’t take. You can’t take anything seriously I said at that point. I was just pissed at you because I was in bloody agony. And because of your weak as fuck pull out game.”

He smirks at that.

“She asked him, Tyler. She wanted to know why you leave so much and where you go. What was he supposed to say?”

“He could have said anything. He could have made up any kind of bullshit. He didn’t have to tell her that.”

“Didn’t have to tell her what? The truth? Because that’s all he did. And it’s not like he went into all the gory and brutal details. All he told her is that when people need help, you go and help them. You get them away from bad guys. Because that is exactly what you do.”

“But it’s not all I do.”

“She doesn’t need to know that part. She doesn’t need to know how capable you are of hurting people. Of killing people. All she wanted to know is what you do and where you go. Ovi explained the best he could. It was better than lying to her and then her being totally pissed when she’s older and finds out the truth. She thinks you’re a superhero.”

He sighs, sitting at the end of the bed as he straps on his watch. “I’m no hero. Especially not a super one.”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” she stretches out her leg and rubs the tips of her toes against the small of his back. “You’re built like one. Not to mention sexy as hell. Aren’t most superhero’s sexy? So you fit most of the categories.”

He reaches around to grab her foot; massaging softly as he winks at her over his shoulder.

“The people you help think you’re a hero,” she says. “So do their families. So does your daughter. And so do I.”

He doesn’t deserve that kind of praise. At least not in his own mind. While it may be physically easy to inflict pain and even death on those deemed to deserve it, it was difficult…mentally speaking…to take a life. After the adrenaline wore off and you were able to register both what happened and that you were still alive, reality would set in. And he’d be covered in someone else’s blood and God knows what else and he’d think about how he’d just killed someone else’s family member. Someone’s son. Brother. Uncle. Friend. Maybe even someone’s husband and father.

He did what he did out of necessity. Not pride.

He stands, running a hand over his weary face and then raking his fingers through his damp hair. Collecting his wallet and sunglasses of the nightstand on his side of the bed, sliding the former into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Please tell me you’ll be home by the time Ovi’s girlfriend…or whatever the hell she is…gets here. If you abandon me and leave me to deal with this by myself…”

He leans over the bed to kiss her. “If I’m not home in a few hours, just assume your mother somehow managed to kill me and has hidden the body somewhere you’ll never find it.”

“Thank you, for doing this for me. I know it isn’t easy for you.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You know that.” He kisses her again, a finger hooked under her chin, tilting her face up towards his. “I love you.”  Those words had never come easily to him. Not until he’d met her. Now he says them as often as he can. Just in case.

She smiles. “I love you too. Try not to let her get to you. Easier said than done, I know. But I’m sure she’s going to try to bait you into lashing out. Just so she can paint you as the bad guy.”

“I can handle her,” he assures her, then leans down to drop a kiss on Millie’s head and then the baby’s.

“Call when you get there,” she says as he heads for the door. “Just so I know you got there safe and sound.”

“You’re turning soft on me in your old age,” he teases, running a hand over her hair and giving her one last kiss.

“Maybe I just like knowing you’re okay. I can’t control what goes on thousands of miles away, but I feel like I can when it’s forty-five minutes.”

He’s the same. Always wanting to know if she got somewhere safe and sound. Life was way too short not to remind the people you love just how much you actually do care about them. And sometimes that love comes out in different ways; verbally, gestures of appreciation and affection, making sure they check in so you know they’re okay.

“Check on the boys,” she suggests before he slips out of the room.  

“I will,” he promises, and gives her a wink before stepping out into the hallway.

 ****

His mother in law answers on the third knock; eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.  And he can smell the booze on her when she gives him a stiff and awkward one-armed hug. Even this small gesture of affection is out of character for her; she was more apt to punch him in the throat or kick him in the nuts than give him any sort of hug. It takes him by surprise; brain needing a few minutes to register just what the hell is happening. Slowly and a bit reluctantly bringing his hand up to settle in the middle of her shoulder blades.

“It’s good to see you,” her voice is slightly slurred and she’s a little uneasy on her feet as she lays a hand on his arm, both steadying herself and guiding him towards the hall that leads to the kitchen. “Esme is right. You do smell really good.”

He smirks, toeing off his boots, hoping he doesn’t come across as rude when he gently removes his arm from his grasp and then gestures for her to go first.  Being drunk doesn’t make up for all the things she’s said and done while sober. He doesn’t give a shit about her opinion on him; he’s heard worse from better. But he’s been in her company when she’s tried gaslighting her own daughter and has heard the abuse she’s lumped on Esme for years.  He tries to remind himself that he’s here for his wife. For his kids. When his mother in law had left a voice message on his cell asking him to come to the house for a ‘chat’, he’d been leery about her attentions.

But he’d seen the way Esme’s face had brightened at the thought of them actually burying the hatchet and he didn’t have the heart to let her down.

So here he is. Just shy of ten in the morning. Following behind his already inebriated mother in law. He remembers those days; drunk off his ass by noon hour. Back then it hadn’t mattered; he’d had fuck all to live for and was very close to just putting a bullet in his own head. Now when he thinks back on it, he realizes just how pathetic it was. And he’s determined to never get that far into the booze again.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks, as she motions for him to sit down at the kitchen table. It’s cluttered; days worth of newspapers and unopened bills. The counters are in a similar state; a sink full of unwashed dishes and empty and half empty bottles of liquor and wine littering every available space.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Tyler points out, and he removes his sunglasses from his eyes and his cell phone from his pocket and places both on the table. “Don’t you think it’s a little too early for that?”

She ignores him and moves to pour herself another drink, then starts up the coffee maker.

“Where’s Sarge?”

Everyone calls Esme’s stepfather that. When they’d first met, he’d attempted to call man by his first name and was quickly corrected. He was a good guy, tall and broad with a head full of thick white hair and a handlebar moustache. Posture rigid and proud as if he were still serving in the military.  And other than Esme’s younger sister Lyla, he’d been the only one that had welcomed Tyler into their family with open arms.

“On one of his boy trips to Vegas,” she sighs.  “And we all know what goes on in Vegas.”

Tyler has never been there himself, but according to Esme, it means that her stepdad and the boys go around fucking random women and spending their money on three things: booze, gambling, and strippers.

“We’re having troubles,” she admits.

“Sorry to hear that.”

He’s not really. Far from it. There’s a feeling of vindication that surges through him at the mere thought that the woman who’d been badgering her daughter about her decision to stay in Australia with some ‘random fuck’ (as her mother called him), was now being served a nice dose of karma. That all those times she’s been on Esme’s ass about an unwanted and unplanned first pregnancy and a hasty marriage, were coming back to haunt her.

He wants to ask her how that slice of ‘shut the fuck up pie’ tastes. But he doesn’t. Reminding himself yet again that he’s there for his wife and his kids. To be the bigger person. To make the visits and the holidays at least tolerable.

“Black, no sugar, right?” she inquires, pausing before pouring the fresh brew into a mug.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he manages a small pleasant smile in appreciation and accepts the drink as she slips into the chair across from him.  

The next few minutes pass by excruciating slow; no sound other than the soft hum of the fridge and slight dripping off the kitchen tap. And she nurses her drink while he runs his palm along the side of the porcelain mug, then taps it against the side, wedding band making a soft clinking noise.  

“What am I..” he attempts.

“So I guess…” she speaks at the same time, then laughs. “You go ahead.”

“It’s your home.”

“Visitors first,” she insists.

“I was just going to ask what I’m doing here. I’m normally the last person you like to see darkening your doorstep. I was surprised when you called.”

“I thought that you and I needed to have a chat.”

“About?”

“My daughter, mostly.”

He nods. “You mean, my wife.”

There was no need to say it. It was petty as fuck and Tyler knows it. But there’s a sense of satisfaction at seeing the way that it bothers the woman. She can’t handle the fact that that’s exactly what he is.  Her daughter’s husband. The father of her grandkids. Five years and counting and she can’t accept him.  He’s still a stranger to her. That random guy that had talked her daughter into his bed and never let her leave.

“I know your secret you know,” her eyes are narrowed as she regards him.

He cocks his head to the side, smirk tugging at his lips. “You do, do you? And what secret is that?”

“I know what you’re up to. I know why you go away so much. Why you’re gone for so long.”

He doubted it. But why not play along and see where it goes.

“And why’s that?” he asks. “Why do I go away so much?”

“It isn’t for a job. No one travels that much for a job.  It’s women. Other women. Not just one. Many. All over the damn place.”

At first, he just stares at her. Trying to even comprehend the nonsense that is coming out of her mouth. He’s made a lot of stupid decisions in his life and has been a complete and utter asshole while both drunk and sober, but one thing he wasn’t was a cheater. And it wasn’t for the lack of temptation. He simply isn’t that kind of guy. The second he decided to pop the question, that was it. There would be no other women after her. Ever.

Finally he throws his head back and laughs. The mere idea so ridiculous that he can’t help himself.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he agrees. “I have other women all over the world. I even have another family back in Australia. Eight kids. Your daughter knows all about them.”

She frowns. “You can laugh all you want. But I know it’s true.”

“You don’t know shit. There are no other women. There haven’t been any other women since I met your daughter. I would never, ever cheat on Esme.”

“I know men like you,” she growls.

“Men like me? What kind of man am I?”

“Just look at you. You just look the type. The good looks and the muscles and…”

“Are you trying to pick me up? Because I hate to sound like an asshole, but you’re not my type. And I’m not into a whole mother-daughter thing, so…”

“How many are there?” she presses. “How many other women are there?”

“You’re actually being serious about this? You really think I’m cheating on your daughter?”

“I know you are.”

“Like I said already, you know shit. I am not cheating on your daughter. I will never cheat on your daughter. She’s my wife. The mother of my children. The last thing I would ever do is hurt her like that. I’d put a bullet in my brain before I’d ever hurt her. Or my kids. There are no other women. There’s only her. I only want her. For the rest of my life.”

She stares at him.

“I love your daughter. More than I ever thought I could love someone. She’s my entire existence. Her and my kids. So don’t sit here and insult me. I don’t cheat. I’m not your husband.”

She blinks at the harsh truth dumped in her lap.

“I know you hate me. I know you think I took your daughter away from you.”

“You did.”

“But she chose to stay. When I was in the hospital, she was the one that chose to stick around. I didn’t even expect her to be there when I woke up. But she was. And you know what? That was the happiest fucking moment in my life when I opened my eyes and she was sitting there.  Imagine almost dying and when you come to, that is the first thing you see? Someone that beautiful at your bedside?  You have no idea what that felt like. To see her there. And to know she chose to be there.”

“She’s loyal,” her mother agrees. “To a fault.”

“Maybe. But she’s also the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. And an amazing mother. You don’t see her with those kids. How she is with them. She puts everything she has into raising them. She tries every day to be a better person, a better mother for them. Probably because she never had that herself.”

“Excuse me, but what…”

“Don’t bullshit yourself. You know it’s the truth. You’ve spent the past thirty-five years shitting all over her. Making her feel horrible about herself, making her feel as if she doesn’t measure up, that she disappointed you. You even stayed friends with her ex husband. Who’s a fucking coward that likes to abuse women. You don’t hate me because I took your daughter away. You hate me because I’m the only one that’s ever defended her. Because you know you can’t manipulate me.”

She gives a small snort and takes a large gulp of her drink.

“I gave her the chance,” Tyler continues. “After I woke up in the hospital and before anything went further between us. I told her that she could leave. That she didn’t have to stick around. That she didn’t have to feel obligated to be there. And you know what she did? She told me she loved me. And it didn’t even matter that I didn’t say it back right away. She was sticking around. I didn’t force her to be there. Regardless of what you think.”

“You got her pregnant,” she hisses. “Of course she’d stay.”

“We didn’t know about the baby before I told her she could leave. That was three weeks later. And no, it wasn’t planned. We should have been more careful. But Esme gave me a beautiful daughter. Millie is beautiful and she’s smart and she’s caring and she’s everything that’s good about me and everything that’s good about Esme all rolled into one. She wasn’t planned, but she wasn’t unwanted. She’s your granddaughter. How can you look at her and think she was an accident? How the fuck can you honestly think that?”

“I never said she was an accident.”

“You were drunk last Christmas and told her to her face that her mommy and daddy made a mistake and that’s why she’s here. She was four years old. You broke her heart. A little girl. And not just any little girl. My little girl. That’s pretty fucked up and I probably should have let your daughter beat your ass when she wanted to. But I didn’t.”

“I was drinking. If I’d been sober..”

“Please. You’ve said some pretty messed up shit about your own kid when you’ve been sober so don’t play that shit with me. You really want to know where I go and why I’m gone for so long? How I ended up in the hospital all torn up to shit?  You really want to know?”

She stares at him.

“Because I’ll tell you. I will tell you the honest to God’s truth if you want to know. You won’t like what you’ll hear, but I will tell you. Is that what you want?”

She nods.

****

He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Clears his throat noisily.  “I’m a mercenary,” he says, and he watches the way her eyes widen and her brows shoot up.  “I was a mercenary when I met Esme. It’s how we met. She was involved with the same people I worked for. That I still work for.”

“What?” she laughs incredulously. “Esme? My Esme?”

“She was an intel person. She was the one that would that go into a place and trick people into telling her everything that we needed to know. Names, places. That sort of thing.  And she was good at it. No, she was fucking great at it. And that’s how we met. My boss put us together and sent us to Bangladesh. Dhaka.”

She swallows the remains of her drink, then gets up to pour another.

“We were sent there because one drug lord took another drug lord’s kid and my boss was having a hard time getting information. So we had to pretend that we were married. Newlyweds doing missionary work. She was there to get the info, I was there to protect her. After that, I was the one in charge of getting the kid out.”

“Ovi.” It’s a statement. Not a question.

Tyler nods. “Things went to shit. Everything blew up in our face. I almost died. On a bridge there. When I was shot in the throat. There were other injuries too. Tons of them. It’s how I ended up in the hospital for as long as I was.  I was this close…” he holds his thumb and forefinger a hairs width apart. “…to dying on that bridge. And the only reason I didn’t? The only thing that kept me hanging on? Your daughter. So don’t you ever question my love or my loyalty to her ever again.”

She leans back in her chair, hands tightly clasping her drink.

“That’s a lot to hear, I know. But it’s the truth. That’s what happened. That’s who I am. Who I really am. I get sent places to help people. I get paid to go into god awful shitty messes to fix things. And sometimes, things go wrong and I get the shit kicked out of me. Or I get stabbed. Or shot. But I always come home. To my wife and my kids. So no…” he sips his coffee. “…I am not cheating on your daughter. Although right now I bet you wish I was instead of hearing all this other crap.”

Silence. Even longer and more tedious than the first one. And he sits back in his chair and slowly sips the coffee.  Waiting for her to finally come to terms with all the information that she’s just been given.

“But why?” she asks at last. “After everything you went through…after almost dying…why would you still do it?”

“Because the money is good,” he admits. “And I’m good at it. Damn good. It’s what I do.”

“Well that’s pretty fucking selfish don’t you think? A job like that when you have a wife and kids at home?”

“Maybe. But your daughter accepts it. She supports me. I do what I have to do for my family. Even if it means killing people.”

“And Esme is okay with that? With you…killing people?”

“Your daughter was in the Marines. She specialized in weapons and ammunition. You really don’t think her hands are entirely clean, do you?”

“No…I just…I…” she stumbles over her words. “…I guess I never thought about what she was actually doing when she was overseas. And now you’re telling me she was a mercenary and…”

“She wasn’t. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to gather intel. That’s it.”

“It’s your job to kill people.”

“I kill them if I have to. Sometimes there’s no other choice.”

“But what about your children? What do you tell them? What…?”

“They have no clue what is going on. Millie sort of does. She asked Ovi why I go away so much and what I do when I’m away. He just told her that I help people get away from bad guys. They’re young. They don’t need to know anything more than that. And I hope you can respect that. That you can respect your daughter enough not to say anything. To them. To anyone.”

“I can’t even wrap my head around all of this,” she admits. “This is all just so crazy. I’m sitting across the table from a killer. A hired killer.”

“I don’t just kill people. That’s not all there is to it. It just has to happen sometimes. I’m asking you for a favour here. I’m asking you not to say anything to the kids. To anyone else in the family. This goes no further than the two of us. The less people who know, the better. Trust me.”

“I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” she promises. “And even if I did, no one would believe me. This is just all so…insane.”

“It’s wee bit crazy,” he agrees, and then checks his cell phone as it vibrates against the table.  

“Esme?”

“Yeah, the kids always get her to send me pictures,” he smiles at the one currently on the screen: the twins helping feed the chickens.  And he holds the cell out, screen towards her. “They like to help. They love being outside. Love to help their mom out.”

For a few minutes they’re able to put their differences aside -and she’s able to forget about the booze- as he shows her the various, most recent pictures in his room. Including the one that Esme had sent him of himself, Millie, and the twins sleeping on the hammock.

“Do you ever think about taking them to your home?” she asks curiously. “You’re home, home. Where you’re from.”

“Sometimes I think about it, I guess. About how much they’d like it. All the beaches and the water. And it would be nice to take them. At least for a visit. Just to let them see where I grew up. Maybe even meet their grandfather. That’s up in the air. He isn’t exactly the grandfather type. He wasn’t even the father type, so it shouldn’t surprise me that grandkids aren’t important to him.”

“Esme said that they two of you aren’t close. That’s sad.”

“It is what it is. We haven’t been close in a long time. Since my mother died. Even before then things weren’t great. He was there, but he wasn’t there at the same time. Esme’s told me a lot about her father. They were very close.”

“Very,” she confirms. “She was a daddy’s girl. Daddy could do no wrong in her eyes. They were always together. He was always right by her side, supporting her every step of that way. He would have been proud of her. For joining the Corps. He would have been so proud,” she clears her throat noisily as tears threaten. “He was a good man. A fantastic man. And a big piece of her died when he did.  She was never the same. Never happy. Rarely smiled or laughed. That changed when you came along.”

“It’s all I want. For her to be happy. To make her happy.”

“I saw it right away. That first night when the two of you got to Colorado. She was tired and she was hurting but she was happy. Every time she looked at you, every time you smiled at her, the way you spoke to her. I knew that you made her happy. And I could tell that she made you happy as well.”

“She does. She came into my life when I didn’t have anything to live for. She gave me a reason to keep going. Now I have four other reasons.”

She smiles at that.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for your daughter,” he says. “Or your grandkids. You can hate me all you want, but they’re my family. My entire world. And I love your daughter. More than I could ever tell you. More than I could ever tell her, actually.”

She reaches out and lays her hand over his. The first display of genuine affection he’s received from her in five years.

“You’re good for her,” she says. “And I hope she’s just as good for you.”

“She is. In so many ways. I don’t know what happened between the two of you. Why the two of you stopped being close. But your daughter deserves that again. She may be a mom now, but she deserves to have a mom, too.”

She nods slowly, considering his words.

***

He stays for an hour. Helping her clean up the mess in the house. Fixing lose cabinets and changing burnt out lightbulbs and helping take things down to the basement for storage. They talk; she tells him stories from Esme’s childhood, he shares tales of growing up in Australia.  Afterwards she walks him out to the car, and the hug she gives this time is genuine.

“Please take care of them. My daughter. My grandkids. That’s all I ask. Just take care of them.”

“I will. I promise.”

“And don’t hurt my daughter. She trusts you. Don’t make her regret that.”

“I won’t. You don’t have to worry about that. I love her too much to hurt her.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes. “Thank you. For loving her as much as you. And for giving me those beautiful grandbabies.”

He smiles, and then gives her a hug of his own.

“And be careful,” she adds, as he climbs into the SUV. “When you’re out there. Just be careful. Be safe.”

“I always am.”

She reaches out and pats him on the cheek affectionately. Motherly. Then steps back as he shuts the door, guns the ignition, and drives away.

[uvicgirl]

Sound Barrier

SUMMARY: Following the end of the war both Farrier and Collins struggle to reconcile their experiences over the past six years with a world now at peace. But peace looks very different these days. Fallout from the atomic bombs is felt throughout the world and the race to prevent another drop has begun as the Iron Curtain spreads across Europe.

WARNINGS: none

Fanfiction.net Link AO3 Link

CHAPTER 1/5

“And how are you feeling this morning?”

 Suddenly light headed and disoriented. And the ringing was louder, an incessant souvenir from his time in Europe. Farrier’s mind tried to keep pace with it. Stay on rhythm. He was once good at deciphering the chaos in his head, knowing where and when to rack focus to resolve concrete forms out from their fuzzy white backdrop. Right now, it was all a blur. His mind raced but it passed nothing or maybe it passed something but that something sped away again so quickly that its pieces fragmented and blurred into the next something. His brows furrowed, and he shifted in his seat. Had they succeeded in taking his mind, the SS thugs who guarded the prison camp where he had been held. No. He would not give them the satisfaction. Violence was their only tactic. The British military, however, maybe they were the ones to blame. They had built a soldier, a fighter pilot, not a man. They had crafted a mind capable of shielding bombers from enemy fire, for directly engaging the Luftwaffe, twenty thousand kilometers above the earth, at speeds that no other human had reached and lived to talk about. They had trained him for enemy capture and torture and interrogation but never for rescue, liberation, victory. It was as if they had expected to lose or to lose him or expected this war to go on forever because they never trained him for after. But after was exactly where Farrier found himself. The world had slowed. Young women in white uniforms bustled about him, reassured him, tended to his needs. He had been pulled back from the front line. His shattered leg was useless in combat. He was returned to civilization despite knowing nothing about it. His eyes were still sharp though and they saw that civilization moved at a slower pace. His Spitfire had moved at 800km/hr. The London Underground maxed out at 60. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe his mind wasn’t broken. Maybe it was just incompatible with its new reality. His mind had been trained to keep up with his plane and the planes fighting for airspace around him. Questions from a stranger sitting across a desk were about strategy, about the strength of the British force. They were not personal. They did not concern his own well being. So how was he feeling this morning?

 “Fine.” Farrier shrugged.

 “Fine? Not anxious? Not excited?”  

 “No.”

 “What about pain level? Where are you at today?”

 Nurses had been posing this question to him for the past four months and Farrier still hadn’t figured out how to answer it. You were either dead, bedridden, or not. A soldier did not exist without pain. Feeling it was a good thing. It meant the limb was attached, the brain was still inside the skull. The ringing meant he could still hear. Civilians didn’t understand this. He presumed the war nurses had at one point but now that there was no war, they seemed to be the first to revert. He had learned their game. A number less than four and they would move on to their next patient. Five through seven would prompt further interrogation. Eight, nine, and ten would send a higher ranking official, maybe the doctor, and if you were lucky, more morphine. Greater than ten would earn you a smile and a flirt. He was a one on most days, an eleven when the monotony became too much. Some days he was surprised at how much damage a pretty girl with a prettier smile could repair. Other days he was surprised at how little effect their fluttery eyelashes and playful chides had. Most days though it was all just white. White uniforms, white bedding, white bandages, white walls. White noise. And ringing.

 “I don’t know.”

 She smiled, set down her clipboard and folded her hands on top of it. “That’s the first time you’ve answered that honestly, Mr. Farrier.”

 His eyes shot to hers. He hadn’t been Mr. in fifteen years.

 “That’s a sign if any,” she continued. “If you need a place to stay tonight until you can catch a train, we still have some billets available.”

 “I’m just in London.”

 “Oh, of course. East end, yes?”

 Farrier nodded.

 “That’ll be nice. Home at last.”

 Again, he nodded.

 She tilted her head as if waiting for more before seemingly giving up. She picked up her pen and scrawled it across the bottom of the form on her clipboard. He reached for his pack and pulled the strap over his shoulder. Then he reached for the cane leaning on the arm of his chair. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled out of her office and out of the hospital. His steps were slow but deliberate. He hesitated only when he reached the stairs to the underground. He paused at the top and re-adjusted his pack to his back, and then to his left, and then back to his right. Its weight threw off his balance.

 “Sir? Sir?”

 It wasn’t until the man stepped down onto the step below him and moved to block his path that Farrier noticed him. His cheeks were still round. He was young. Too young to have fought, he reckoned, but then again that had been a frequent thought when faced with new recruits.

 “Would you like a hand? I can carry your pack.”

 “A soldier carries his own pack.”

 “Of course, sir. I meant no offence. My brother served. Killed on D-Day. I just thought…”

 The ringing grew louder, as if it was echoing out of the stairwell. The disorientation was back. Farrier blinked to clear his head but the stairs twisted further with each new frame. He clutched the hand rail and shrugged the pack from his shoulder. The boy took it and reached out a hand but quickly retracted it. Farrier smiled. He could still enact fear. He could still conjure some respect.  

 He nudged his damaged leg down a step and down another. The boy kept pace, always just one step ahead. He followed Farrier to the empty platform and waited beside him. The damp air hung heavy and stale around him. A few feet away a steady drip of water fell from the ceiling. Electricity buzzed along the rails, like a bombing contingent headed for the continent, hundreds of planes, Hurricanes, Halifaxes, Spitfires, flying in tight formation. Loud cracks popped from the rails every so often as the electricity jumped between them. An anti-aircraft gunner had connected and somewhere amongst the formation a plane was tumbling out of the sky. The buzz rattled on. The contingent moved forward towards the target.

 A low hum came through the black tunnel where the platform ended and the tracks disappeared into the depths. Farrier turned towards the growing sound, the horizontal white tiles that lined the walls guiding his eye. He willed its approach, something to drown the ringing. The train rounded a curve in the track and light cut through the black. Enemy fire. Then the ground below him began to vibrate. The rumble traveled up his cane and into his wrist. It shook the healing bones in his shattered leg. A hit. He dropped his cane and stumbled sideways into the boy.  

 “Are you okay, sir?” They boy asked, breaking a more dramatic fall and helping to right him.

 “’M fine. Fine. Cane,” he said.

 “Right. Sorry, sir,” the boy said and hastily picked it off the concrete.

 “And my pack.”

 “Right.” He hesitated. “I could carry it for you. It’s really no trouble. Where are you headed?”

 “Home. Where you should be.”

 “It’s only four, sir.”

 “No, no. I can take care of myself. Did it for the past six years, didn’t I.”

 “Of course.”

 Farrier took his pack and swung it back over his shoulder and limped onto the train car just before the doors slid closed. He was grateful to find a free seat before it lurched forwards. He looked out the window and saw the boy still standing there watching him. His chest tightened and sunk. He shouldn’t have snapped at him. He lifted his right hand to his brow in salute. The boy smiled and returned it and then he was gone as Farrier was pulled into the black tunnel.

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 He got off six stops later and hobbled slowly up the station stairs. The sky was darkening and the streets were starting to fill with commuters on their way home. Shoes clattered impatiently on the sidewalk behind him and when there was a break in the cars, they would step into the street to rush past him. He took up too much space. He was an inconvenience. His mind raced too fast for this new world but his body moved too slow.

The streets looked different. Buildings he remembered were gone and new towers stood in their place. He wasn’t surprised. His landlord had left him a letter with the RAF offices. His flat had been hit in the Blitz. His landlord had salvaged what he could and was storing it for him. His building would not have been the only casualty. He passed a lot that was still rubble. He stopped and leaned against the lamp post that stood in front of the property. The joint in his knee was beginning to ache. He studied the twisted iron and splintered wood trying to remember what it had once been. He had once passed the building every day. Now he didn’t know if it had been shops or apartments or the doctor’s office. A grey dust coated the debris. Farrier couldn’t tell if it was from the original hit or from the rebuilding going on around it. Both, he supposed but really it didn’t matter. They were the same source. A changing world that so readily destroyed that there was no longer time to repair the broken pieces. Better to bury the mangled parts in the suffocating smoke and ash.  

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 “Farrier! It’s good to see you, lad. You look well. You look really well.” Farrier raised an eyebrow. With every step he took, his limp grew worse and he leaned further and further into his cane. By the time he knocked on the door his torso must have been at a forty-five-degree pitch. “Come now, lad. You were in a prison camp for four years. Some men walk out of those looking like corpses. Now come in. Sit down.” Mr. Finchley took his pack and stepped aside, ushering him into the sitting room. His reading chair was positioned opposite Mr. Finchley’s sofa by the fire place that was cracking lightly.

 “I see you’ve helped yourself.”

 “Waste not, want not.”

 He shuffled around the coffee table and stumbled on the rug. When he sat though, he sat slowly and delicately as if half expecting the chair to give way beneath him. The legs held though and the cushions formed around his body and pulled him deeper. He let out a satisfied hum. Off his feet and reunited with a little piece of home, maybe the only piece of home that remained. The feeling was similar to when Canadian troops had stormed the prison camp or when the transport plane had touched down in Dover or when the train had pulled into Kingscross. Relief and warmth. Like he could breathe again. Tears had welled in his eyes on each occasion. They did so again. The dim room, lit only by the small orange flame, blurred before him. Mr. Finchley had disappeared to prepare a pot of tea and Farrier let cool drops pool, let them sooth his tiered eyes. He thought he was past the emotion of survival but something felt different this time. He let his head fall back against the chair. Mr. Finchley called from the kitchen and Farrier called back with his order: just black thanks. It went quiet again. Not silent but the quite of homely puttering. More peaceful than quiet really but the tinkering was something you could fall asleep to and so he let his mind drift.

 The fire popped and he startled. A large ember jumped out of the hearth onto the wood floorboards. Farrier reached for his cane and pushed it back to the stone. Foot steps creaked from the hallway and he wiped the tears from his eyes. The old man entered the small room holding two cups of tea and Farrier tried to push himself upright to meet him half way.

 “Sit, lad, sit.”

 “You shouldn’t fuss over me.”

 “A little fuss is good for a man my age. I was out everyday helping clear rubble after the bombings.”

 “Should’ve known a shoddy job when I saw it,” Farrier said with a smile. “Passed at least three lots that haven’t been touched yet.”

 Mr. Finchley chuckled. “Government’s not paying. What do they expect. I fixed the leaky tap of yours and then boom, Germans blow the thing to pieces. Water main shooting a mile high. Flooded the whole street. How’s that for a drip? But we managed, we managed. Would have been worse without you boys in the sky.”

 Farrier gave a small nod. He wished for nothing more than to have piloted one of those planes in the skies over London. He dropped his gaze to the cup of tea in his hand. Heat poured from the porcelain over his skin. It burned. Instead of setting it down, he brought it to his lips and sipped. His tongue curled away, refusing to swallow, an act which would immerse it in the scalding liquid. His gums were left to burn.

 “What do you recon now?

 Forced to speak again, he swallowed. The hot liquid rushed over the roof of his mouth stripping a layer of pink skin as a crashing wave strips the sand from a beach. He shook his head. “Don’t know. I think London has moved on without me.

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 Farrier spent the next two nights on Mr. Finchley’s sofa. Despite it being far cushier than the hospital cot, he did not sleep. For hours, he lay in the dark, his tongue playing the piece of dead skin dangling from the roof of his mouth, pushing it back and forth, sometimes trying to tear it off completely. When exhaustion finally won, he was always jolted awake by German shouts, and German guns, and German bombs. Black swastikas pierced through the center of red maple leaves and bled outward, swallowing his saviours before swallowing him. Nights in the hospital on the other side of the city had been no different. He needed out.

 He left on the third day. He limped to the train station and purchase a one-way ticket to ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Hemsby, a small village on the South-Eastern coast.  

 The train rumbled through London, through the buildings that exploded and crumbled down on him in his nightmares. Farrier closed his eyes, the hum and the gentle vibration reminded him of his Spitfire. It was the last place he had felt safe and he had set it on fire. He had stood and watched the flames burn through the chill of the early night air. The teal blue sky, suddenly black, against the bright orange and yellow. It was blinding. And then he was surrounded, guns pointed at him from all sides, commands shouted at him that he did not understand. He tried to run. He knocked a rifle out of one soldier’s hands. He knocked another soldier to the ground. The sand was deep though and his feet sank too far into it with each step. His legs felt as if they were fighting through on opposing ocean tide. A soldier caught up to him. He waited for the bullet he could see poised down the barrel of the rifle. Instead, pain shot though his right leg and he collapsed onto the sand as the soldier continued to strike him with his baton. He tried to crawl away but the soldier was relentless, even as the flames from the burning plane charged towards them. He howled as the flames engulfed him and his eyes shot open.

 A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

 He was quick to come down from them these days. A few deep breaths, a pan of his surroundings, each blink slow and methodical, as if he were taking a photograph, proof of reality. Across the isle, a woman read a newspaper, the front page headline: Sinews of Peace: Churchill warns of Iron Curtain. The seat across from him was empty and fabricated in dull blue and green stripes. Out the window green hills dotted with purple wild flowers rolled past. A white seagull glided across the blue sky, its wings still, stretched out wide, like those of a plane.  

 The salty smell of the sea washed over him as he stepped off the train. The small Hemsby ­­­­platform was quiet enough he could hear the gulls call from above. The station house was just the way he remembered it from childhood visits to his grandparents: white siding, green roof, green doors, green window frames. His grandparents were long gone now though and as he limped into town, sun shown through the thin veil of his plan. Get out of London. That was what it amounted to. He remembered a hotel at the north end of the beach.

  “We can have a room ready in about an hour, Sir. You can leave your bag if you want to wander through town or enjoy the beach.”

 “Thanks, but I’ll stick to the pub.”

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 “You serve?” the bartender asked as he poured him a scotch.

 “Something like that.”

 “Hard to believe it’s over.”

 Farrier hummed. He took a long sip of the amber drink placed in front of him. War talk required booze.

 “I swear the airfield’s busier now than it ever was. Look, there go all the girls.”

 Farrier turned in his seat. Passed the windows, a group of young women bounded, bundled in wool coats and mitts. His brow furrowed as his gaze followed the girls to the beach. Then a Spitfire shot across the horizon. It was low and its speed surprised even him. To the pub patrons, mostly middle age men, the girls seemed to be the real show. Though muffled, their enthusiastic shrieks could be heard through the glass window panes.

 “What are they doing?”

 “Something to do with a sound barrier, I think. I asked one of the lads once but he was well pissed at that point and I’m not the sharpest.”

 Farrier’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, a small grin pulling across it. “They’re trying to break it,” he said. While he still had his wings, the sound barrier had been a myth of sorts. It was all theoretical, something pilots overheard engineers talking about in abstract aspirations. Maybe this would be the plane. Maybe this would be the engine. Maybe this would be the pilot. And then the war broke out and attention shifted.

 “And what would that accomplish? Aside from amusing the local girls.”

 Farrier shrugged. It would be the greatest achievement in aviation history, the fastest man had ever flown.                  

[sending-the-message]

The Birth Monsters by SpookyKat0512

I know this title conjures up ideas of supernatural beings, but it isn't that. It's about being abused by the people that are supposed to take care of you and love you. This is a story of why alcoholics shouldn't be parents.

This story is disturbing, as it involves child abuse and neglect. I'm going to give away the ending up front since this may be a little "dark" by the end. My husband was adopted by a wonderful family that gave him a great childhood after all of this. It's because of his mom keeping the files from social services and the countless hospital visits we've been able to piece this together at all.

I will refer to my husband as "M".

We refer to his birth monsters as the "egg donor" and the "sperm donor" and that's how I'll refer to them from here. In no way, shape or form do we call them "parents". People like them should never have had children, so we don't consider them "parents". I know I should at least be thankful to them for my wonderful husband as we have a very happy marriage, but everything good about him is due to his parents. So, if I use the phrase "parents", I'm referring to his adopted parents because we consider them his real mom and dad. I just wanted to get the clarifications out of the way up front.

When I met my husband he was trying to have a relationship with the egg donor . He really wanted to try to get to know the sperm donor, but the man had no social media accounts at that point and she wouldn't let M talk to him. She said horrible things to M and denied the abuse and neglect saying her brother was jealous of her beautiful family, so he called child services and had her children taken away. She vehemently denied being an alcoholic and any abuse or neglect . She maintains she was a good mother. He broke contact with her shortly after and blocked her on social media after she lied to him and denied any wrongdoing. You see, they were never punished any further than losing their kids. This makes my blood boil because the older my husband gets (he's only 30), the more he is physically affected from the neglect.

M has 2 brothers and 2 sisters from his birth family. I'm not going to bother naming them, except his brother "C" because they have all chosen to allow the birth monsters into their lives. I'm only naming "C" because he was adopted into the same family as M and so they grew up together.

M was 5 when he was removed from the birth monsters house. He only weighed 25 lbs. Social services had been called to the house several times before, but never found a reason to remove the kids before this. The girls were placed with a foster family that adopted the baby soon after, and the 3 boys were placed in his parents home. His oldest brother had cerebral palsy and after a period of time was placed with people that were equipped to take care of a special needs child and eventually adopted to a family that could properly care for him. My mother-in-law tried to keep up with him for the boys' sake, but it was a closed adoption, and she wasn't able to find out where he lives. She and her husband eventually adopted M and C and gave them a loving home. They had wanted a boy, but after having 2 girls, weren't able to have any more children, so M has two older sisters who are very sweet and love their little brothers!

The birth monsters are (still) raging alcoholics and spent all of their money on alcohol instead of food. When the social worker and police broke down the door (due to hearing children crying and screaming) and entered the house the birth monsters were drunk and passed out in the kitchen. All 5 children were found in a bedroom huddled together screaming and crying because they were hungry and thirsty. They all had wet and dirty diapers on. Keep in mind, they ranged in age from a few months old to 12. And. Were. ALL. Still. In. Diapers. The bedroom door was locked from the outside and a chair was wedged under the doorknob to keep them from getting out. This was finally enough to get them out of that house and into foster care and eventually adopted out. I should add my husband later remembered being in that room often and never being able to get out, but never knew why. He was horrified when he found out they had been regularly locked in there so the monsters could get drunk. Upon further investigation, it was discovered by the police they often left the house with the children left in that room unable to get out. The monsters didn't deny this and didn't see anything wrong with it.

The preschool M and C went to had several concerns about the boys and had made several reports to social services preceding their eventual removal from the home.They were concerned about their weight, and that the boys were withdrawn and didn't play with the other kids, and seemed almost scared of adults. The last call that got them removed was from some teachers who noticed they were stealing food from other kids at lunch on a daily basis. They were cramming their pockets full of anything they could get (even things like peas and mashed potatoes) so they would have something to eat later. I know this doesn't sound that bad, but you have to realize they were preschool aged and were more concerned about having something to eat than playing like normal kids their age. I can't begin to imagine how terrifying it was to know when they went home on Friday, they wouldn't eat again until Monday.

M had been to the hospital several times in those first 5 years of his life. He was taken as a baby for FTT (failure to thrive) and it was noted every time he was under weight and lethargic and would "perk right up" after a few days of being fed consistently and fussed over by the nurses. He would gain a few pounds and be sent home only to come back again and repeat the process several times. They noted that he had big brown eyes and was very responsive to the attention, but he never cried. He still doesn't to this day. The hospital paperwork states he learned crying from hunger or being wet, etc. did him no good, so he taught himself not too, or to self sooth instead.

When he was 3 he was taken to the ER for a broken leg. The paperwork states it as suspicious, since the egg donor seemed tipsy and angry at him instead of being concerned like a normal parent. She stated he was jumping on his bed even though she had told him to quit and he fell off. The injury wasn't consistent with her story apparently and social services got involved, but couldn't prove abuse. At least this landed the birth monsters on their radar. After this he had suspicious marks and bruises that were noted and investigated to no avail. There were more suspicious injuries and hospital visits, but apparently nothing severe enough to get him out of that house. At least his preschool teachers kept making reports as things escalated with the boys. If not for them, I'm afraid of what would have happened to my husband at the hands of the birth monsters. His leg never healed properly and makes his foot kind of "bow" inward, and we couldn't find any hospital report showing when his cast was removed.

My mother-in-law is an extremely bubbly, sweet and caring woman. In the beginning of our relationship, I would tease M that she was like a cheerleader on crack, because she was always so cheerful. He is so much like her that it's hard to believe he was adopted. Always happy, always smiling despite everything he went through. I think he clung to her desperately as a child after he figured out it was ok to trust her.

She told me the boys broke her heart almost daily in the beginning. Obviously, first of all they were so tiny and under weight. She gave them vitamins and took them to the doctor regularly and always had plenty of food and treats for them. Despite this, she would find rotting food stashed all over their room. In drawers under their clothes, in pockets of dirty clothes in the laundry and several other places. She told me she had to go to her room and cry several times. At first, they would cling to each other and cower in the corner behind their bunk beds whenever anyone would enter their room. She would catch them pocketing food at meals. They were terrified of loud noises and adults. It took a while for them to trust their new family, but now they are very close and they have a great relationship.

Unfortunately, the birth monsters were granted visitation and the boys were forced to go visit them weekly. M's sister was old enough to drive, so she often took them to these visitations. She told me the boys would cling to her legs and scream and cry, begging her not to leave them and have to be pulled away. This clearly angered the birth monsters, and she hated leaving them, but had no choice. She said she would hear them screaming at the boys to shut up as she drove away in tears. That's not all she heard. Several times when she would come back to take them home, she would hear them crying and the egg donor screaming at C that he wasn't supposed to be born a (boys name), that he was supposed to be born a (similar sounding girls name) and that he messed everything up. Since he was born a boy and not a girl, it messed up her ideal family of having a boy, then a girl and so on and because of him she had two boys in a row and that was unacceptable. She would scream this over and over and the boys would be traumatized afterwards for days on end. They would revert back to hoarding food, and clinging to each other when anyone from their adopted family came near them. Needless to say this was all reported to the judge through social services and the visits were finally ended. M's mom was obviously relieved because every visit would undo any progress she'd made with them.

So, the time finally came to proceed with the adoption. This presented an opportunity for the birth monsters to be free from blame once and for all. For whatever twisted reason, they refused to admit guilt and wanted their children back. The egg donor refused to admit she ever hurt her children, physically or mentally. She, to this day swears she was a good mother and it was just their jealous uncles (her brother) complaining that caused her to lose her babies. Every time she says she was a good mom, it makes me think of Eminem's lyrics: "go ahead and tell yourself you were a mom". Anyway, they refused to sign away custody and give up their legal rights to their children. My in-laws had to work out a deal with them that stated they wouldn't testify to the abuse or press charges against them. When M's mom told me this I couldn't believe she agreed to it, until she explained to me they knew they belonged in prison for the abuse and neglect, but were only playing the part of "the loving parents" to avoid prison. In other words they were using the pending adoption as a get out of jail free card to save their asses. This is the part that makes me angry. At this point, they didn't give a shit about anything but saving their asses, so, they used the boys adoption as a bargaining chip. My MIL didn't want to go along with it and only relented when she realized it was the only way to ensure the boys never went back to the birth monsters house again.

As time goes on, my husband remembers more. He was beaten for trying to get food from the kitchen at night and told the food was only for the birth monsters, not the children. He has flat feet as a result of never being made to wear shoes and has constant pain in his feet. He didn't have proper nutrition in his formative years and has a lot of medical problems as a result. When he was in training for the military, he fractured his knee during a normal training exercise. He also developed a bulging disc in his lower back. He had other issues as a result of the neglect, but those are the most severe. I think he will always suffer the psychological trauma more than anything. He doesn't talk much, almost to the point you'd think something was wrong with him. I think it goes back to being ignored as a baby and learning to self soothe. He just doesn't feel the need to talk a lot.

He has changed so much in the eight years I've known him. Like I mentioned, he went in the military, but received a medical discharge. After the military he went to college and earned a degree. We have been happily married for 7 years now and he has really come out of his shell. He still has a good relationship with his adopted family and speaks to them often. He is especially close to his mom. I love his parents and am so grateful they adopted him and gave him a great life!

I only wish the birth monsters had been made to pay for the things they did. I have fantasies of hurting them and making them pay, but I know one day karma will catch up to them. M doesn't have anything to do with them and doesn't want them to know anything about him or our life. He cut contact with C because he had a relationship with them and M can't believe he'd let those people into his life after everything, but C doesn't remember much because he's younger. He drinks a lot too, and obviously they condone that behavior and their adopted parents don't.

I would love to make them pay for the things they did to my sweet husband, but they aren't worth spending the rest of my life in prison over. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.