#and ill still have to go to the hospital tomorrow instead of rotting in bed all day

[newtness532]

my period being over 2 weeks late only for it to come 2 days before pride feels like an extremely homophobic act 😒

[laerrynseelie]

TAD death/chronic illness theory

buckle up motherfuckers and blame the discord for this because this is about to get into some real fucking sad shit and it’s gonna be a very long post my apologies in advance (tw death! chronic illness! mentioning respiratory issues + tumour + hospital! please take care of yourselves)

for me, this all begins in Not Yet/Love Run, just from the words “not yet”. it’s all about someone (Mads) who is dying of a chronic illness, and the phrase “not yet” of don’t go yet, keep going, just a little longer. “it’s time to fight”, “keep running it’s up to you now”. and so through the song, they go on adventures in their head using their imagination and songs because that can’t do that irl, with 

sing me awake with a song about pirates

I’ll point you steer and we’ll rip up the map by the seams

or since you’re stuck inside, perhaps on bed rest or in a hospital “sip the sunlight from your eyes”, experience what I can’t, I’ll live vicariously through you, “sing me awake with all the things we’ll do today but instead we’ll build a den out of pillows and get drunk again” because we can’t do anything else. “run until your lungs are numb” is it a respiratory illness? “run from all you know that’s coming” is the end, connecting to this “run from all you know that’s coming”, “oh let the world come at you love”, “it’s not from what we run that drums / but what’s to come, what’s to come”. and “it’s nought that rum won’t solve / though some would harm you, none - not one - no none / will raise to you a hand nor thumb” nothing else can hurt you, or when you’re gone all this pain and suffering and hurt will end.

some more straightforward NY/LR things connecting to this is “but I held your hand as you shook in the middle of the night” “seems to me that you can’t sleep” “where is god ma” “I cannot find the words to keep you” “for all the things we wished we’d done”

let’s connect this to Pruning Shears! because why not destroy myself with my fav songs from this album first. “my entire life it’s running away too fast” is sung by Joey, and underneath Mads sings “my whole life”. her whole life is going, she’s about to die, but she’s his entire life and she’s about to go. and he’s listening to all these people talk about being rich and all this stuff that doesn’t fucking matter compared to the fact that she’s dying. “the best laid plans had it all planned” “we do each other’s laundry in our hearts sometimes” they were going to have this long, happy, domestic life, and it’s all gone straight out the window. “my fall makes no sound here”. “we don’t have time to fuck around”. “come back”. “doesn’t matter mate”. “forget the girl that she once was” “my whole life it won’t last”

this is gonna be a stretch, also with PS, but clothing from the “lost and found” because you didn’t have time to prepare? or don’t own clothing for a formal event? could it perhaps be... a funeral? and since she’s dead “yes I know you got your shoes from Oxfam” is like kinda omnipotent. “whatever you do don’t turn round” don’t watch me slowly die, or that voice you hear in your head that you think is mine isn’t, I’m gone. move on, “merry make me love forget the past”. “watching everyone I’ve ever loved walk past” she’s watching her own funeral.

“put up one hell of a fight against all my sins and the candlelight”, fighting against the illness, the “light” is death

alright so I really only made this theory for PS and NY/LR, but then I went through the other songs of Love Run and hoo boy buckle up because I am making myself sad with my own bullshit

king is preparing him for her death. she’s trying to make sure he’s okay after she’s gone “when you are gone away” “I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait” “rips into the bark of my bones”. is she buried at “the house at the top of the rock”?

I’ll smile as I climb the stairs (to the light) To the light that you keep burning there (all hell) And our muscles that are waltzing and our shadows that are bold sing Come rip up the flesh of my fears

is he dying to be with her? more evidence:

I know your fingernails are the colour of rust (come back) And your veins are empty of dust (but our voices)

and finally

all hell and its fire waits for us

Elsa’s Song? more funeral stuffs. 

I can hear the cannons calling As though across a dream And I can smell the smoke of hell In every stitch and seam And like flowers, the bodies tumble Around this muddied lot I cannot hear them scream ‘Forget me not.’

Because love does not exist here In this garden there’s no feeling

And in years to come you’ll wander To the place up on our hill And then you’ll cry to our painted sky ‘I loved him then, I love him still’ And you’ll strew some sage and lilies And roses where I rot Of all the flowers you picked I knew you would forget Forget-me-nots

want me to make Shower Day even sadder? I can do that! “its just a sitting down in the shower day” is already a v sad, energyless idea, could be from exhaustion, illness. but something I thought of is how people hide their tears in the shower. and he’s trying to keep himself strong for her, making sure she doesn’t see him sad. same with the other lines of the chorus

You’re the one who asked me if I’m feeling ok I said I’m fine

as well as “walk around all nonchalant”. along the same lines of her preparing him for her death:

Know you should love him but its such a pain Would have stayed if you’d had asked But instead you just walk away

You’re the one who told me to never look back Well I’m looking back and looking back And looking back and looking back at you

Pray, death, sin, yeah it all fits together real nicely. exhibit a:

Pray for me, I’ll run until I begin to understand What holy men really mean when they speak of sin 

I’m what’s left when children go to war Run from you, I’ll run until I begin to understand What holy men really mean when they speak of sand and sons and seams and symphonies and sweat and sex and sin

“when children go to war” I take as when battling a disease. also “the hearts I’ve broken” from dying when there are people who love me. very tfios, I know. staying with someone, “I’ll haunt the very wrinkles of your skin”. and finally, “my eyes are made of winter and these hands I hold are skin and bone” for eyes made of winter could be blue eyes, could be eyes drained of life, as winter seems sometimes. 

I don’t want to go into Little Miss Why So too much because it’s already so sad for me but here have some prominent lyrics

You’re going too fast You’ll burn up soon

Just to distract you 

I don’t know how to reach you when you get like this I’ve been waiting for you to come home

Full of people just pretending to be brave

You don’t see daylight anymore Something’s sucking out your core and it’s so boring

Why so sad I’m here and I’m alive Stop making up death wishes just take my life line

If I am good will you come back

it’s a lot, I know. okay, New York Torch Song! tumour. yes. 

It starts off like a pin prick A trick of the light oil slick Then grows to the size of your hand Turns you outside in Cigar burns and scar skin Ripping bone and nail and gland

connecting to this being a huge thing for both of them and trying to support the other through it but also not yet

From within this gaping wound of ours 

Can’t we just talk about this Tomorrow

I cannot find the words to keep you

and now death

But your blood does not bleed red no more

Are you god or devil

Two Minutes, another devastating song. for me it’s similar to Shower Day, of trying to be strong and not showing her how hurt he is. “give me two damn minutes and I’ll be fine”. and the “him” in the following lyrics is the illness:

If there was one place I could be right now I’d be standing there between you and him And I’ll fight you both, fight you both for the rest of my life long days

and death. again. and the bar thing I’m thinking of it sounds far away. the other dead children are calling for me to go to them.

These hands are growing cold They’re running out of things to hold

I can hear the children calling as though across the bar

and some repeats like “if you’re good will you come back” 

okay, that’s it for this theory in Love Run. I’m gonna go be sad now. goodnight.

[whattimeisitintokyo]

Somos Familia: Chapter 34 (Part 2)

Well this chapter ended up being way too long. I had planned more for this chapter, but that ended up being long enough to be its own chapter and I’m tired of feeling that I have to finish the whole thing in order to post it. So here’s the last bit of the chapter. You can find the whole chapter on ff.net, and I’ll try to have it up on AO3 with a illustration soon. Sorry again for the long wait.

Also tomorrow is my birthday. I guess you could say that finishing this chapter on my own terms was my gift to myself. :)

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

Chapter 34: No Me Dejas (Part 2)

“Three days have passed since Dia de Muertos, and the country still mourns the abrupt and tragic loss of Ernesto de la Cruz, widely considered as one of the greatest musicians in the modern history of Mexico. Señor de la Cruz had just finished performing a concert that evening when sources say that a giant prop bell had accidentally broken off from the stage rigging above the singer, crushing and killing the singer instantly.

Since then thousands of grieving mourners have flocked to the gates of de la Cruz’s magnificent mansion in Colonia del Valle, holding candle light vigils and singing prayers while also leaving tokens and flowers outside. The mansion has also served as the home to his goddaughter and rising starlet, Coco Rivera. Whilst being known as a favorite topic of gossip this pass year in newspapers and magazines, Señora Rivera has surprisingly been keeping a low profile and out of the public eye since that fateful night. It can only be assumed that she is taking this time to mourn as well for the loss of such an important family member.

In related news her father Héctor Rivera, de la Cruz’s longtime business partner and songwriter, has been in hospital since that night after being taken from the scene by paramedics. There is no word on his condition, but his lawyer has assured that Señor Rivera was not injured in the stage accident but is instead seeking treatment for an undisclosed illness. We here at Excélsior wish him a speedy recovery and our thoughts and prayers are with him and his family.

Petitions are already being made to have Senor de la Cruz’s body to be lain to rest in his hometown of Santa Cecilia in Oaxaca, despite heavy requests to have him entombed in la Panteón Civil de Dolores alongside other famous people in Rotonda de las Personas Ilustres.

At the time of his death Señor de la Cruz was in the middle of several movie projects that will sadly forever remain unfinished, including a biopic about the Mexican Revolution, and was in talks of a deal to lend his voice for an American animated movie with Dis-“

A low, quivering moan broke Imelda’s concentration on the newspaper and turned it towards her husband currently occupying the hospital bed in front on her. With a sigh she folded it and placed it to her side, reaching out and grasping one of his twitching hands with hers. She winced at the tremors she still felt rattling slightly through his fingers, as well as the awkward way she was forced to hold his hand.

What with his wrist being tightly braced and strapped to the guard rail of the bed.

His other hand was also strapped on the opposite side, and a large padded belt wrapped around his thin chest to keep him firmly in place on the bed. An oxygen mask was placed over his face and several IVs were pumping him full of fluids and medicine. And despite being in a deep state of sleep, his teeth were clenched tight and his brows knitted into an expression of intense distress. A keening whine escaped his throat that gave into a deep, hacking fit of coughs.

Imelda immediately pulled off the mask and brought a clean handkerchief to his mouth as Héctor coughed painfully, only the straps keeping his body from convulsing on the bed. Finally, with one good expulsion he was able to clear his airway for the time being, gasping as Imelda wiped the corners of his mouth and placing the mask back. As he settled back down, he gently started to tremble again, whining pitifully and tears leaking from his dark sunken eyes.

Imelda sighed as she brought a clean corner of the handkerchief to wipe the tears from his face before placing it down to run her fingers through his greasy, unwashed hair to offer some form of comfort. It only seemed to distress him further and with a broken dry sob he wrenched his head away from her touch, lost in his nightmares.

It was truly heartbreaking to see Héctor reduced to such a state, but she was grateful to see him getting at least some form of rest. Especially after the last few days.

“What is this?!” she had screamed at the doctor, watching on in horror as several orderlies fought to restrain her husband’s mad flailing. “This is not pneumonia! What is happening to him?!”

Before the doctor could answer Héctor let out a wail and swung a punch at an unfortunate orderly standing too close by and knocking him off his feet. His arm now free he managed to rip off the IV out and began to frantically scratch at his chest, all the while yelling out profanities and indecipherable words as his eyes tracked at unseen figures and visions. As Imelda was hurried out of the door the last thing she heard was Héctor calling out for Ernesto.

And then for her.

“It’s the DT’s.” the doctor had explained after he was able to calm her down some with Coco and Julio by her side. “Delirium tremens. It’s alcohol withdrawal. If he’s been drinking for as long as you’ve said, Señor Magallanes, then it’s quite dangerous for him to just completely stop. It causes vivid hallucinations, irregular heart rates, sometimes seizures and, if severe enough, death.”

Ignoring the agonized weeping from her daughter and her own chest clenching in grief, Imelda whispered. “What can be done?”

The doctor wrung his hands and looked down in dismay. “Honestly, not much. There are medicines that can be given to treat this, but they would adversely affect his respiratory system. Given his pneumonia I can’t recommend giving it to him. Also, there’s the fact that he’s malnourished, and the shock… All I can do is give him some mild sedatives and monitor his heart and lungs. The rest is up to him, I’m afraid.”

They had returned to his room a few hours later to find him as he was now: strapped down and barely able to move, Dios knows that he was trying though. Despite the small amount of medicine that was given to calm him down, Héctor still saw visions that were terrifying to him and he strained to lash out at them. His screams had died down to pitiful whimpers and moans, and tears streamed down into his hair and ears. Over the next few days he was either in this state or a death-like sleep, and Imelda didn’t know which one was worse.

She felt absolutely foolish about it now, but seeing her husband going insane right in front of her had caused her to lash out at her daughter. Why didn’t she tell her that it was this bad? That he was starving and drinking himself to death, that his cold was actually much worse than it was, and that he was so miserable and broken-hearted that he screamed for her in his nightmares?

Instead of a cowed child being rightfully chastised by her mother for keeping secrets from her, Coco had met her glare dead on and even more. Imelda flinched back in shock at the righteous fury that showed on her daughter’s face, and what she had said next had finally knocked her off the high pedestal that she had set herself up on:

“What do you care, Mamá?”

And Imelda had to admit, she was right. Nothing she had done the past few months had shown that she cared about the man that she had kicked out of her life. She ignored every call, sent back every letter and telegram, even dodged each mention of him when Coco would talk to her on the phone. When she had bid a warm goodbye to Julio and Victoria she told them to give her love and warm wishes to Coco when they arrived. But not to Héctor. She just didn’t care.

But that was wrong. She did care. She cared about him and loved him so much that it hurt. And seeing her husband now, so lost in his sickness and misery, Imelda couldn’t bear the guilt that was crushing her from the inside.

“idiota… This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Imelda whispered as she locked Héctor’s cold fingers around hers once more. “You weren’t supposed to do this. Héctor…”

But he continued to sleep fitfully, his breathing hitching and occasionally giving in to more cough fits, and she continued to stay by his side. It was all she could do, now that it was too late.

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

It was quiet now.

The walls had stopped melting into putrid puddles of gore and maggots, the bugs had stopped buzzing in his head and stinging his flesh, and the monsters had stopped attacking him.

The monsters were the most terrifying though. They held onto his arms and legs so tightly that he thought he would end up breaking his bones in his efforts to get away from them. They had looked human too, but humans didn’t have glowing white eyes and rotting flesh. They’re voices were low and distorted, filling him with dread despite what the words they said that were supposed to sound soothing.

Señor Rivera, calm down. You’re safe!

We have to give him something!

We can’t risk his lungs giving out! Just strap him down!

Dios, turn him over! There’s too much fluid, suck his lungs out!

It took forever for them to finally let him be, after many terrifying episodes of not being able to breathe and more fits of screaming in terror of the horrible visions in front of him, but he was finally able to break free and make a run for it. Well, run wasn’t the best word for how he was able to finally move. Floating wasn’t either. The world seemed to dissolve into a myriad of distracting colors and sounds, and he simply let his mind flow with it in a dream-like state.

And then suddenly he found himself finally there.

Back in front of the bell.

With a cry of triumph, he made his way over to it and braced himself against it in a sort of clumsy hug. “Don’t worry Ernesto! I’ll get you out! You’ll be alright!”

And so he had pushed. And pulled. Digging his feet into the earth and straining as hard as he could against the cold hard bell. He shouted encouraging words towards his friend, not letting the lack of a response deter him in any way. It seemed like he did it for hours, for days even, his throat hoarse as he cried out for help from someone, anyone! He’d even accept the monsters help if he could find them. In a last ditch effort he had even called out for his wife, pleading with her to help him even if she wanted nothing to do with him afterwards.

But she didn’t come. He could swear he heard her voice whispering to him, but he couldn’t make it out no matter how hard he tried to listen. With a broken heart he could only conclude that she was telling him to leave her alone. She had no use for such a lousy husband and a terrible father to her children. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He couldn’t even help his brother escape from his prison.

He was worthless.

And so, for the longest time, there was nobody except him and that bell. When he couldn’t push against it anymore, when his voice finally gave out and his spirit broke, he sat in front of it and softly cried. He murmured apologies to Ernesto, to Imelda, to his children, to anyone he had wronged in his existence. There was no use. There was nothing left for him. Except that bell.

“What are you doing?”

With a gasp Héctor looked up at the new presence before him. At first he feared it was one of those terrible monsters come back to take him away again, but it’s voice was not bone-chilling and grating. Rather it was sweet and clear, the clearest Héctor had heard in a while, but the figure itself was… light. A vaguely human shape ball of light that burned so bright yet oddly didn’t hurt to look at. If he squinted a little Héctor could guess that its head was slightly tilted in a sort of curious quirk. It was sort of cute, if a ball of light could be considered cute, and Héctor found himself slowly start to relax.

“I-…” he sniffled pitifully and turned watery eyes towards the bell. “I can’t move it… Ernesto’s under there and… I have to save him.”

“Really?” the light said and floated over the bell. Héctor saw a hand reach out and knock against the bell, and it rang out loudly enough for Héctor cringe back with a wince. He didn’t like that sound. Not at all. “I don’t know. Sounds empty to me.”

Héctor gaped at the bell, his heart sinking, and frantically shook his head. “N-no!... He’s under there! I saw it drop on him!”

The ball of light chuckled in tinkling sort of way, and Héctor glared at it. “Well, si, you did. I saw it too. But that was a while ago. He’s not under that bell anymore either. This bell,” it said and knocked on the bell again, the loud clanging causing Héctor to grip his head in pain. “… is hollow. Empty. And is just here to waste your time.”

Tearing his hands from his head, Héctor stared wide eyed at the ball of light. “Waste my time?... What do you mean?”

“I mean you need to wake up and face reality, tonto!”

Suddenly the ball of light zipped towards him and enveloped him in a soothing warm glow, almost as if it was hugging him, and Héctor found himself being lifted towards his feet. Once he was firmly standing up the light took him by the hand and started to lead him away from the bell. He resisted a little with a slight whine, his gaze fixed back on the bell, until a sharp tug jerked him away and pulled him forward. With a huff he glared at the light leading him away, gritting his teeth when he thought he could make out a sly smirk flitting across the vague features.

He continued to look back though, watching as the bell slowly faded from view into a white void. Then he noticed that the walls started melting again. His breath hitched a little in fear, terrified that the horrible visions from before were coming back to haunt him. The light gripped his hand tighter, but in a soothing manner, and Héctor managed to find comfort in the light for the first time since he met it. It was then he noticed that the walls weren’t exactly melting, but rather… falling into place.

Windows stacked next to each other, light fixtures dotted the ceiling in a straight line, and floor tiles tumbled into place just as his feet managed to touch them. It was then he noticed the pattern of the tiles, the color of them, and the shape of the windows and other fixtures. He had been here before. It had been a long time ago, but he had been here long enough to recognize the way the hallway was set up, and what doors led to what. It was engrained into his memory.

“I don’t like this place.” Héctor whispered.

“No, I don’t either,” the light said softly. “But it’s where you need to be right now.”

They continued on at a comfortable pace down the hallway, and slowly people started to materialize in Héctor’s vision. Men and women in sterile white clothing walking past them without even noticing them. Two of them were wheeling a bed down at such a speed that Héctor barely had time to react before they barreled right through them and raced down the opposite direction. The light giggled at that, and Héctor couldn’t help but give a shaky smile himself.

But suddenly a thought came to mind that chilled him to the bone, and he looked down at the light apprehensively. “Am… Am I a ghost?”

“Hmmm… No, I wouldn’t say that. But I wouldn’t worry about that. It’ll all be over soon.”

That was when the light finally led him into one of the rooms and let go of his hand. Looking up Héctor stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw: It was him. Lying in a bed, his hands strapped tightly onto the railings and his chest rising slowly with breath. And sitting beside him… was…

“No.”

The light paused on its way to bed to turn back and look at him. “No?”

“No I-I… I can’t.” Héctor whispered, his eyes never leaving his beautiful wife’s face. “Why is she there? She… She doesn’t love me. I can’t take it anymore… It h-hurts too much.”

“I’m pretty sure she loves you. Why else would she be sitting with you? Look at her. She looks so sad.”

Héctor shook his head miserably. “She’s just waiting for me to wake up… to tell me it’s finally over. That she’s moved on… I can’t face her… I’m too tired.” He dropped to his knees and stared at the floor, all the peace he was starting to feel again being crushed by despair. “Maybe it’s for the best… That I don’t wake up at all… Ernesto’s gone. Imelda hates me… I have nothing left.”

His head hung low and tears clouding his vision, he almost didn’t see the light step towards him until he felt its warm glow cup his face gently. With a sniffle he raised his eyes its face, or what he could guess was its face, and let it wipe the tears from his cheeks. Then he watched as it raised its hand slightly above his line of sight, and then…

*THUMP*

“OW!”

Héctor reared back onto his rump and flashed a hand up to his stinging forehead, rubbing it and staring at the figure before him in shock. “Did… Did you just flick my forehead?!”

“Si.”

“Why?!

“For being an idiot.”

With a snarl he managed to get back onto his knees. “I don’t need to take that from- GGGNAK!” His head was yanked forward as the light grabbed his nose, twisted, and pulled down hard. Then with its other hand it pulled his ear as hard as it could and started to shake his head back and forth. “GAH! What are you doing?!” he screamed nasally. “Stop!”

“What do you mean don’t wake up at all?!” The lighted shouted at him, continuing its assault as Héctor’s eyes watered with pain instead of sorrow. “Where is that coming from?! ‘Riveras never give up.’ Isn’t that what you’ve always said?”

Trying to pry the figure’s hands from his face, he glared up at it. “I’m not a real Rivera… I just married one- ARGH!”

“You’ve been a Rivera a whole lot longer than you haven’t been, old man!” the light yelled back. “And you haven’t lost everything! What about your children? Coco, and your granddaughter! What about Miguel. Are you really going to leave a little boy to grow up without his father? And who’s going to greet Matty when he comes back from the war?!”

“As for your wife, she right there waiting for you to wake up! She can’t run and hide in Santa Cecilia anymore! If you have something to say to her, then you make her listen to you! Think about it, you’re sick in a hospital bed. At the very least you have pity on your side, right? But don’t give up on her so easily, cabrón!”

“All right, all right! Ow! Just let go of me already!”

With one last shove the light let go of Héctor’s head and he cradled his face in his hands, getting his breathing back under control and trying to rub away the burns and stings. He flinched as the warm hand landed back on his shoulder, but when no further violence came his way he dared to look back up.

“I know this has been hard on you.” The light said gently. “And I know that you’re scared. But even if things don’t work out for you and your wife, you shouldn’t feel the need to give up. You still have a lot to live for.”

Héctor stared at it for a few long moments, before turning back towards the bed. Towards Imelda. It was right, she did look sad. And tired. If he woke up now, maybe he could talk to her. Maybe she’d talk to him. Despite his brain trying to convince him over and over that he was done, it was his time, and there was no need to linger on, his heart wouldn’t let him. It was leading him back to her. To his family.

Just like it always had.

Damn poet.

With a heavy sigh me slowly stood up and made it to his feet, his gaze now fixed on his unconscious form on the bed. With a new determination he made his way over and paused at the edge. Do I just… lay on myself? With a short snort of laughter he did just that, and was surprised to see his leg phase through himself as he climbed onto the bed. Rolling over he laid down onto his back, stared up at the ceiling, and waited.

…..

And waited…

…..

“Uh, nothing’s happening?”

The light shrugged. “You have been sleeping for a long time, and you’re sick. It might take a while for you to actually wake up.”

Before Héctor could reply to that, he started to feel changes slowly flowing into his body. Ah, this must be it. He started to feel heavier, more solid. That itself was a comforting feeling. He settled back down onto the bed and let the sensations build up through his limbs. He stayed still like that for a few minutes, with his eyes closed, before a tinkling little laugh next to him caused him to open them.

“This is taking forever!” The light giggled. It was such a sweet sound. So pure. Where had he heard it before? “Though not surprising. Even when you were healthy it took forever to wake you up, even when I jumped on your chest in the morning and tried to pry your eyes open.”

Héctor brows furrowed in confusion. He tried to lift his head off the pillow to look at the light properly… but found that he couldn’t. Slowly the solid feeling of his body turned into a heavy burden. He was so heavy! Too heavy! I can’t move!

“W-what?... What’s hap-”

The heaviness started to form inside his chest. His breathing turned into frantic gasps as he struggled to get air into his lungs. And now his body started to hurt! His arms and legs cramped and his head started to pound. Behind his gasping he heard his heart beating loudly in his ears. This is bad! This is bad! What’s happening to me?!

Then suddenly the light was leaning over his face, and Héctor stared at it with fright. Was this it’s plan all along? To trap him in this pain filled husk and laugh at him for his foolishness? He never should have trusted it! It started to lower itself to him, and with a small whimper he clenched his eyes shut and braced himself against... What? Oblivion? Mutilation? The destruction of his very soul? Whatever it was it couldn’t be good! It couldn’t-

“And don’t worry about Tio Nesto. He’ll be all right. I won’t let him be alone.”

….

Tio Nesto?

Héctor’s eyes snapped open and he saw the light was hovering over his face. He saw that smile again grace it’s face before it leaned over and… gave him a small kiss on the forehead. It was quick and chaste, but it was so warm and sweet, and it slightly soothed the aches that were afflicting his body. It drew back again and stared at him with such love in it’s eyes, and Héctor realized with a start of the fact that he could see it’s eyes.

They were his eyes!

Her eyes.

“You feel better Papá.”

With a choked out sob, reached out towards the light- my daughter!- but found that he couldn’t. He glanced down at his hands and saw that they were strapped to the railings of his bed, and no matter how hard he shook or strained against them he could not tear them free. Sitting up was also not an option, as the thick belt across his chest prevented him from lifting even an inch.

He turned his attention back towards his little girl, but she was gone. She had left him. Again.

“Leti!” Héctor cried out, tears streaming down his face as he tried to strain against the bindings once more. “Leti, don’t go! Leti come back, please come back! Don’t leave me, mija. Please don’t leave me again! Please, please, please…”

“Calm down Héctor.” A tired voice broke through his weak sobbing, and he glanced up through watery tears as his wife ran a hand through his hair in a calming motion. She began to speak to him, numbly, as if she had been repeating the same things over and over. “It’s not real. You’re alright. None of this is really happening. She’s not here. It’s okay, Héctor.”

Héctor concentrated on his wife’s face, forcing himself to calm his seizing chest and his pounding heart. He listened to her soothing words and slowly the hysteria faded away, leaving him exhausted and light-headed. And as the minutes passed and he became more and more aware of his immediate surroundings, the visions from before slowly faded as well. What had he been dreaming about? There was a light, he remembered. And a voice. It was so familiar. But even those vague recollections of his dream faded into nothingness as well, as for the first time in over three days Héctor was finally awake and aware.

“Imelda?” Héctor whispered. “What happened?”

“…Héctor?”

[remem-brandt]

Making Up For Lost Time: A Poem

“At 17 the doctor told me that I was chronically ill

And that memory is burned to the front of my mind still

I mean how could I find relief from this pain I’d been feeling?

Couldn’t absorb that it was possible

That for 3 more years I’d be living in a hospital

With drugs in my veins and family by my side

Never ceasing their prayers for the pain I couldn’t hide

From this sickness that I had been afflicted with

Never could have predicted

How close I could get

From treading the line between life and death

So every day at 17 I was dying while living

Holding my head high but ready to give in

I mean there comes a point when you wonder just how much you can endure

When the doctors are telling you they can’t find a cure

So you’re left stuck in this bed and stuck in this body

I never thought at 17 I could have fallen this ill

And still I regret all the things I had missed

Graduation and college and friends going on trips

While I was stuck in a bed or at home with this pain

And at 18 I was wondering if I’d ever feel the same

I mean one day I woke up and my body felt awful

No warning just one day I got given a handful

Of shit I never signed up for or wanted

And then one day I’m told that all of it’s chronic

So at 18 I’m getting up every day in the morning

Trying my fucking hardest just to feel normal

Hardly telling anyone what I truly felt inside

So I hid all my feelings for fear of being depressing

But I’ve decided I’m done with all of this repressing

I mean fuck it at 19 years old I was dying

At 19 years old I was lying in a hospital bed waiting for morphine

Praying for more dreams that this nightmare one given

This life I’m not living

My body was rotting from the inside out

My head and my heart were filled with such doubt

And my sister was telling me she feared for my life

Because her own baby sibling was going under the knife

So give me all of your struggles and strifes

And I will take them with ease.

I’d trade you any day

Because at least I’d have a life instead of throwing it all away

To a white room with white sheets and white pills and no sleep

So give me it all because at 20 I was dying

And at 21 I’m still trying to grasp all this shit

That three months ago I didn’t know if I’d live to see tomorrow

Didn’t know if God would grant me another day to borrow

And my heart is filled with sorrow and grief for my life

That was cut away from me like my guts with a knife

But now at 21 I’m living

But still struggling with forgiving my body and God for all of this shit

For all of these problems I’ve been forced to deal with

Nobody asked me if I was ready to take it

Every day waking up and wondering if I can make it

I’m done faking that I was ever okay

Done worrying that my sorrows would get in everyone’s way

And I’m done sugar coating

Because fuck it, I was dying

And I’m done lying

To myself or to anyone else

So no, I’m not okay and I’m swallowing my pride

And finally letting show what I’ve been hiding inside

Because at 21 I struggle to get out of bed

Every day and that much is fucking with my head

And I’m waiting expectantly for something to go wrong

Because that’s how my life has played out for so long

And at 21 I’m waiting to be free

From this disease that has its grasps so tight around me

And I’m struggling to make up for so much lost time

Because I’m trying to get back all the years I was dying”

- remem-brandt (please don’t remove credit)

[imagine-darksiders]

Sorry to bother you,but I'm gonna be stuck in the hospital overnight with a super swollen face :( could I get Draven trying to cheer up a sick friend?

Oh no! That sucks! Well, I hope this makes you feel a little better. But if it doesn’t, treat yourself to some ice cream. Good for swollen faces, or so I’m told x

—

It had been Ostegoth that told Draven of your condition, one uneventful day in the Eternal Throne. The old goat didn’t seem too urgent though, which set Draven’s mind at rest, though he was still anxious to see you after hearing the news. 

When he took his request to the Lord of Bones, the king was so taken aback by it’s nature, he actually considered granting it. 

“In all the years you’ve served me,” he wheezes suspiciously, tapping his long, claw-like nails against the throne’s armrests, “you’ve never once expressed a desire to return to Earth….So, why now?” 

Impatiently gritting his teeth, the Blademaster crosses his arms and gives a defensive sniff, swiping a hand quickly beneath his nasal bone. “Y/n’s sick,” he mutters. 

Almost immediately, the king’s cold, dead eyes light up with recognition. “Ahh! I see,” he chuckles darkly, stroking his thin, pale-green beard thoughtfully, “Then, perhaps desire does play a role here…” 

Draven stiffens and scowls deeply but he refuses to give the Lord of Bones any more ammunition - he gets enough grief from the other guards about his friendship with you - so he holds his tongue. For a long time, the throne room is perfectly silent, save for the stale desert wind that moans through the large, open archways set into the far wall. 

At long last, the Lord of Bones peels himself from the throne, dislodging centuries of dust with a sickening crackle of old, skeletal remains. He leans forward to level a long, gnarled finger at the Blademaster warningly. “You have one day,” he growls, “just one. So make it count. And don’t forget to whom you belong…..” 

Stiffly, Draven bows, backing towards the door. As he turns to stalk past the guards, he hears the king call after him. “Oh, and Blademaster?” 

With an elaborate roll of his pale eyes, Draven peers over his shoulder, half turning to face the undead ruler. “Yes, my Lord?”

Sneering, the Lord of Bones reclines back into his seat with a contented grunt. “Do give my best to Y/n, won’t you? And be sure to mention that, should this sickness prove……fatal-” Draven’s fists clench violently at the barely concealed hopefulness in his tone “- there is always room for one more soul in my Dead Court.” 

‘Over my rotting body,’ Draven wants to growl. Instead, he nods sharply, turns and throws the doors open a little too aggressively. Infuriated as he is with the king’s remark, he’s equally glad that he’d been given leave to visit Earth. A whole day to spend with you. He just hopes Ostegoth is right and whatever illness has afflicted you, it isn’t too serious. 

—

Draven stands in front of the enormous, concrete building, jaw slack and eyes wide in unashamed wonder. 

When Ostegoth described where and how to find you, he mentioned that this place was called a ‘hospital’, and as Draven walks hesitantly through the strange, glass doors that seem to have a mind of their own, he can’t help but to feel a little out of his element. 

Earth really has changed since he was alive. 

It’d been only a few years since humanity was resurrected and already the resourceful little species has rebuilt itself nearly to its former glory. It seemed that the eradication of their whole planet had put some things into perspective and people decided that restoration takes precedence. A lot of humans had become Wicked after their passing, leaving behind the far purer, ultimately good-hearted souls to populate the Earth. 

It soon becomes clear to Draven that despite humans now being both aware and used to other species walking around their planet - angels, makers, constructs and even the horsemen - something gives him the impression that Earth isn’t frequented by undead. Any human that’s seen him so far has either stopped in their tracks, mouths agape, whipped out a phone to take a picture of him, or they’ve simply turned around to scurry off in the opposite direction. One poor woman had turned a corner, took one look at his semi-exposed intestines and promptly dunked her head into a nearby bin and started heaving. 

That one stung a little…

He’s made painfully aware that his image is probably made even stranger by the bunch of flowers that Ostegoth had hastily stuffed into his hands, informing a clueless Blademaster that ‘one simply cannot visit a friend in hospital without bringing them a gift.’

Suddenly feeling very self conscious, he finds himself standing in the centre of a busy room filled with green chairs and sickly-looking humans until a young man who’s stood behind a stark-white counter clears his throat and beckons Draven over. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, eyeing the undead up and down suspiciously, though his face is the picture of exhaustion and his eyes keep flicking down to the flowers clenched in a large fist. 

Drawing himself up, Draven matches the other tired glare with a fierce one of his own. “Y/n,” he grunts, “I’m here to see Y/n L/n.” 

He’s surprised when the man sighs heavily, dropping his pen onto the desk and starts to furiously rub his temples. “Another one, wonderful,” he mutters to himself dismally before glancing back up at Draven and saying, more loudly, “Fine, why not? We’ve already let one of those horsemen and a maker in….I’m gonna go ahead and guess you’re not a relative?”

“N-no,” the blademaster stammers, put off by the man’s rather irritated reaction and informal way of speaking. In Draven’s time, a man as clean-cut and sharp as this one would have been almost insufferably prim and proper. “Just a friend.” 

“Your name?” 

 Proudly, he crosses his arms over each other and brings them up to his chest, announcing, “I am Draven. Master of blades. A warrior from the-”

“Just ‘Draven’ will do, thanks.”  

“…oh.” 

The undead stands there awkwardly, watching the man tap his fingers against an odd contraption he’d never seen before. Just as he’s about to lean further over the desk to get a better look, the man suddenly snatches up the discarded pen and points it down a long, crisp white hall. “Follow that red line on the wall to a ward called ‘Inpatients.’ Y/n’s in ward 51. I’ll go ahead and let them know you’re coming so nobody-” He gives Draven a quick once over, lips pursed “-freaks out.”

The warrior nods, grunting out a quick word of thanks as an afterthought before he turns to whisk off down the hallway, his green, hooded cape billowing behind him regally as he goes.

— 

“Remember that time I got to watch you get your ass handed to you by an old man?” 

“Ah, no. Eideard was an old man. Thane - despite what he says - is a maker who’s still in his prime. It was an honourable loss.” 

“It was a funny loss. My favourite part was when he dumped you in the water trough.” 

Death rolls his eyes, letting his head loll back against the uncomfortable, plastic chair by the side of your hospital bed. “I’m glad to see this illness hasn’t dampened your sense of humour.” 

A laugh catches in your throat, causing you to lurch forwards off the pillow and break into a fit of weak, painful coughs that sound haggard, wretched and rife with sickness. Death’s large hand finds your back and he gives it a few pats to clear your airway. You shoot him a grateful look, managing to chuckle softly,  “Nothing short of an apocalypse could ruin my hilarious repartee….Oh wait-”

Your conversation is abruptly interrupted by a soft knock on the door. 

Instantly, Death’s head snaps towards it and you stifle a snort when his hand twitches to Harvester’s hilt. 

“Really, Death? They’d have to be a pretty shitty bad guy to knock first.” 

The horseman grumbles at you but allows his hand to fall to his side as a doctor pokes her head around the door. “Y/n?” she sighs, “You’ve another guest. Honestly, I don’t want to know where you keep finding these…People. But listen, everyone’s getting nervous about Death being in the hospital.” Her exhausted gaze drags itself over to him and she shrugs apologetically, “I’m sorry Sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can come back and see Y/n tomorrow, but somebody’s head is gonna roll if our Chief of Medicine finds out you’re still here today.”

Stretching, Death catches your eye, sending you a questioning look. When you make a shooing motion with your hand, he nods at the doctor. “Fine. I’ll take my leave then.” 

Her expression lifts into one of relief and she steps back, ushering in your next visitor before trotting off down the hall, the sound of her heels clicking classily against the rubber floor and disappearing down the corridor. 

Standing to leave, Death’s attention remains fixed on the doorway, in which looms a tall, decaying figure with haunting blue eyes and a permanent, skeletal grin to put even the jolliest of rogers to shame. 

“Draven?” Death blinks, astonished to see the large undead here, on Earth and not in the court of his king. 

At the sound of the Blademaster’s name, you perk up and push yourself upright in the bed, straining to see over Death’s shoulder. “Draven?” you echo excitedly as your old friend steps into the harsh light of the private room. 

What’s left of his stomach churns nervously when he sees you and he begins to knead the stems of the flowers between his large, sinewy hands. You look so different from when he last saw you six months ago. If it’s at all possible, you actually appear even smaller than you already were, laying in the hospital bed, surrounded by bizarre machines and beeping instruments. Your eyes look shattered, heavy-lidded and your skin is several shades paler than it usually is. But your smile is still the same as ever when you send it his way. Even without a heart beating in his chest, Draven feels the telltale rush of warmth spread through his corpse at the sight of you.  

“Y/n,” he breathes, “I…I heard you haven’t been yourself lately.” 

As if on cue, you grimace at an unseen pain that races up your spine and into your head and you moan, massaging your temples tenderly. “Ugh, yep. Just a bit under the weather, nothing major.” 

Raising a skeptical brow ridge, Draven glances over at the horseman, who nods his head at him, almost imperceptibly. “It’s nothing Y/n can’t handle,” he confirms, “Though, I would try not to cause too much….excitement.” The horseman raises himself from the chair, resting his hand on yours for the briefest moment whilst Draven hovers uncertainly. “I’ll be returning to Earth in a week or so.“ 

You take hold of his fingers and squeeze them amicably. “I’ll be out by then. Come by my house when you’re back?” 

He nods once then turns to the Blademaster. “Take care of our mutual friend,” he warns, angling his mask away from your line of sight so you don’t catch the challenging glare he’s boring into him.

The undead simply smirks and lifts a hand to put it on Death’s shoulder, revelling in the way the horseman bristles noticeably under the touch. “Now where’s the fun in that,” he winks. 

Obviously deciding that an argument in a hospital room is beneath him, Death scoffs, bids you a quiet farewell, then vanishes out of the door, leaving you both alone in each other’s company. 

The easy atmosphere in the room dissipates slowly, leaving it cloaked in a thick silence that you’re dying to break. Meanwhile, Draven continues to stare down at you, his bright eyes wide and unsure. Finally, roving your eyes up and down his sword-punctured body, you find a topic of conversation to focus on. Gesturing to the flowers hanging from his grasp, you ask, “So. Those for your mum? Or do you just like the smell?”

He almost drops them, embarrassed that he’s lost his suavity in your presence. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he berates himself, ‘you used to be good at courting.’

You wait patiently, smiling as the undead suddenly stumbles forwards to your bed, glancing several times between you and the flowers before he pushes them into your hands. “They’re for you,” he explains needlessly, frowning when you let out a bark of laughter. 

“Well I didn’t think you brought them for Death!” Grinning widely, you shove your face between the petals, mostly to hide the giddiness evident in your expression. Giving someone flowers is a regular enough occurrence amongst humans. And sure, Draven used to be a human himself, but for whatever reason, the act of your zombified friend giving you this bouquet sends your mind in a tizzy. 

“They smell lovely,” you say once you’ve taken a good whiff. 

Draven shrugs. “Ostegoth chose em.” 

“Oh come on,” you laugh gleefully, “You know, you could have just lied!”

Leaning across the bedside table next to your bed, you try to reach the empty vase sitting on the far side of it. 

“Oh! Let me.” Draven jumps forward and grabs the vase, nearly sloshing water all over himself in his haste to help you. You thank him, placing the flowers in the proffered vase and laying back whilst he puts it on the table again. 

Satisfied, he gathers his cloak under one arm and plonks himself down in the flimsy chair, wincing when it creaks in protest. He looks up at you then, startled to find you shuffling down the bed and leaning towards him, resulting in the Blademaster lifting his hands to steady you as you collapse heavily against him with a happy huff and snake your arms beneath the hood, looping them around his sturdy neck. In return, he allows himself to relax into the hug with a quiet sigh, bury his nasal ridge in your hair and nuzzle his face against the side of your head. 

“It’s so good to see you,” you chirp into his hood, “I’ve missed you.” 

Draven’s throat constricts at those words. He’d forgotten what it was like to have people care about him - to have friends who wouldn’t stab him in the back and who sends his spirit soaring with a phrase so simple as ‘I miss you.’ 

Hesitantly, the words feeling foreign and strange as they leave his tongue, he whispers, “I’ve missed you too,” and tightens his rawboned fingers into your hospital gown. 

You both remain like that for some time, just enjoying the physical contact, though something tells you Draven is garnering far more happiness from the simple hug than you are. Eventually, you have let go and pull back, letting his hands slide down your arms and land in his lap. 

“So, what are you doing here?” you ask, rubbing at the bags under your eyes self-consciously. 

“I came to see you.” 

“Well, yeah. But why are you on Earth? Are you on a mission?” 

Draven blinks, tilting his head to the side. “No? I’m on Earth to see you.”

“I……oh.” 

He sits forward in the chair, resting his forearms over his knees and quirks his brow bone at you, sharp teeth gleaming grotesquely in the bright light whilst you try to formulate a response. ‘He’s here. Just to see me?’ After a brief moment of uncomfortably trying to respond, you settle on taking a sip of water from the plastic cup on your night-stand and swallowing thickly. “How - uh - how did you get the king to agree to that?” 

Draven shrugs, “he likes you.” 

When you snort obnoxiously, he reaches onto the bed to give your knee a playful shove. “S’true! Y’know he wants you in his court.” 

“He’s still going on about that?” you gripe, “Why?” 

“Well….He likes you.” 

“Again. Why?” 

For a fraction of a second, Draven’s eyes glimmer and his voice dips low, husky and soft as he murmurs, “What’s not to like?”

When you don’t respond except to blink tiredly up at him, the undead ducks his head, shadowing his face beneath the green, tattered hood and scratches at a patch of rotting skin on his wrist. “Y/n…I-” 

Suddenly, there’s another knock on the door and the same doctor steps into the room. “Visiting hours are almost over, you have ten minutes.” 

“What?” you whine, clutching your chest, “But he just got here! We’ve barely had time to talk!” 

Suddenly, Draven scowls and stands up from his chair, towering easily over the doctor and rolling his shoulders in an unnecessary display of power. “M’not leavin’ if Y/n wants me to stay,” he states gruffly. 

To her credit, the doctor merely adjusts her grip on the clipboard and draws herself up to seem taller than she is, not that it makes much difference when she only reaches the top of Draven’s chest. “My patient needs rest, sir. Besides the fact that my superiors will have my head if I let you st-” 

“Then send your superiors to me,” he pounds a fist against his chest twice, “I’ll deal with them. I’ve got twenty four hours on Earth before I have to go back to my realm and I plan spending that time with the only friend I’ve got.” He indicates to you with a wild wave of his hand, although he quickly realises that he’s revealed too much weakness to this stranger. Distractedly, Draven begins to fiddle with one of the blades sticking out of his forearm, ignorant of the disgust that flashes across the doctor’s face at the sound of his paper-dry skin tearing slightly with the gentle back and forth pulling motion. He slinks backwards to the headboard and glances down at you, pulling his teeth into a soft smile before looking back at her. “Please Doc?” 

The doctor seems more than ready to put up a fight, but eventually she just peers around Draven’s broad shoulders to stare down at you in the bed. “Are you okay with this?” she asks. You nod, reaching out unconsciously to weakly wrap your small fingers around the Blademaster’s wrist, sending a jolt of electricity straight up his arm. 

Rubbing the bridge of her nose exasperatedly, she gives a breathless laugh and flaps her hands out to the side. “Why the Hell not. Screw it, right? I’ve already died in an apocalypse, what’s the worst those pencil-pushers up top could do?” Turning on her heel, she stalks to the door, swinging it open and shaking her head. Before she leaves though, she glances over her shoulder at the Blademaster and shoots him a cool stare. “Just….just don’t leave this room tonight, okay? I don’t want people in a panic because they’ve seen a ghost walking around the ward at night.” Her eyes dart to you. “Y/n, surgery tomorrow is at ten. A nurse’ll be by to give you breakfast around eight. Use the call button if you need anything.” She raises a trimmed eyebrow at Draven. “Although I doubt much could go wrong with tall, dark and ghoulish here watching over you.”  And with that, she’s gone. 

Draven deflates visibly and drops back down into the chair, studying your face worriedly. “Surgery?” he asks uncertainly. 

You wave your hand reassuringly, “S’nothing major, don’t worry about it.” 

His eyes bore into you, trying to sniff out any hint of deception. “You’d tell me if it was serious.” It’s not a question or a request, it’s a demand. 

Rolling your eyes, you laugh quietly at the sober look on his face. “Yes, Draven. I’d tell you if it was serious,” you promise, leaning back into the pillow and turning onto your side with a grunt of minor pain. You stare up at him underneath his hood, blowing air out through your nose as you scrutinise the way his jaw is shifting every so often, a clear sign that he’s thinking of something to say. Deciding to help him out, you voice the thought that had been on your mind since the doctor came in. 

“So.. you’re only here for a day?” you ask. 

Nodding, he returns to picking the loose skin on his wrist. “S’right.

“Seriously?” You abruptly prop your head up on one arm and give him an incredulous scoff. “You’ve only got one day on Earth and you want to spend it inside a hospital room?”

“What else would I be doing?” 

“Um! Anything? You could be exploring. Finding out what’s changed. You could visit the place you used to live! I bet someone would help you find it. Hey, you haven’t even discovered television yet, or had a glass of wine. You said how much you missed wine.” 

Draven,” you furrow your brow and gaze at him sincerely, “I don’t want you to stay if you’d rather spend your time out there.” 

“I want to spend it with you,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes entirely now. 

You find yourself lost for words.. Again and again the master of blades does something heartfelt, reminding you that he wasn’t always an undead servant to the Lord of Bones. He may be a dead man, yet the spirit of humanity is still very much alive in him. It’s humbling when you get to see it. Draven, similarly, is grateful that you make him forget what he is - just a ghost. A ghost with a serious attachment to a living human. 

“Well,” you break the heavy silence in a reticent voice, “Thanks. I guess this means you’ll just have to ask the king for another day off, hmm? Maybe when I’m out of hospital.” 

Hopeful, he scratches behind his ear and has to stop himself from removing the hood altogether. He’s not sure you’re ready to see the grey matter showing through the large hole in the back of his skull. “Guess there’s no harm in tryin’.” He leans forward and taps a cold, sharp finger against your forehead. “But you need to get better first.” 

“Alright, alright,” you smirk, brushing his hand away. 

The light filtering in through the window diminishes slowly as the conversation turns to more jovial topics. He asks what you’ve been doing since the resurrection, you inquire after affairs in the Dead Plains. You fall into the conversation easily, as though you hadn’t been apart for six months. 

When you start to yawn, Draven asks if there’s a way to ‘extinguish that bloody, bright torch on the ceiling,’ which gets a hearty but weak chuckle out of you and you have to walk him through the proper use of a light-switch. He flicks it on and off several times, fascinated by his first interaction with technology before at last turning the light off as you reach over to switch on the lamp, casting the room in a much more pleasant, warm glow. You continue to talk softly well into the night, keeping laughs hushed and secretive so as not to draw any night orderlies to your room. 

Inevitably, your words trail off into a sleepy drawl and Draven’s wide, spectral grin softens at the sight of you fighting to stay awake. The last thing you feel before you fall asleep, is a large, ashen hand slipping beneath your fingers that rest on the bed and a cold thumb pressing gently into your palm. 

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Twenty Eight

Note: Please excuse the long absence, a combination of being metaphysically hit by the fandom feels and being hit by actually physical issues with my crumbling bones interfered with my ability to write this chapter. I'm still pretty unwell but I'm going to catch up on all of my fics this month hopefully.

As always, I recommend you check out my novel on Kindle if you like my work, and there's the added bonus that if I get struck by lightning or have another embolism you will have something to read while I'm in the ICU, cursing the lack of wifi.

US link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BGSPPBY

UK link: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BGSPPBY

Also, soon to be available in paperback form!

…..

Waring's lawyer tried to argue for an insanity plea, but it was rejected. There was no doubt he was insane, but functional enough to kill so many women and keep a kidnapped child hidden for nearly half a year. He was given three consecutive life sentences, narrowly avoiding the death penalty because there was limited proof that he had killed the missing women. The prosectution was quoted as saying that without Helga's testimony he might have walked away.

That was some consolation during the week she spent in an induced coma followed by an intense surgery to relieve some of the pressure on her brain. The nosebleeds had been a herald of something that could easily have killed her, and there was still no telling what effect it would have on her long-term. When she came to after surgery, she couldn't speak and had trouble moving her arms.

It was depressing, Arnold had to admit. She had come so far he had pretty much assumed it could only get better, even though he'd been warned multiple times she could slide back like this. He was lying on his bed at home, staring at the ceiling and wallowing in his unhappiness, when his phone pinged.

It was Phoebe, of course, because she was the only person who really texted him.

Arnold, you might want to

come down to the hospital.

Why? What's up?

He had that sinking feeling it was going to be bad news.

She's talking again and

she seems okay, but she's

acting strange.

Strange in what way?

I don't know how to

explain it properly

over text.

Can you at least try?

She thinks she's dead, Arnold.

What? How?

I don't know, apparently

it's something that happens.

I don't know what to do.

Is she being treated for it?

We're waiting on the psychiatrist,

they probably won't get one until

tomorrow. I'm trying to act

normal but it's really hard.

Is there a way to act

normal in this situation?

This is why you need to

be here, Arnold. She

remembers what we did

when she was a ghost.

What?

Just get down here when

you can, okay?

…..

When he finally made it to the hospital (Ambrose was away getting some things sorted with his estate and so couldn't drive him) Phoebe had left. Helga's main doctor caught him in the corridor before he could go into Helga's room.

“Cotard delusion,” the doctor sighed, as if that explained anything. “It's not uncommon with brain injury. At least she's not self-harming or suicidal, she's taking it pretty well.”

“But...she thinks she's dead?” Arnold wondered.

“Specifically, she thinks she's a ghost,” the doctor explained. “And she's kind of upbeat about it. Most Cotard patients are manic or depressed or a combo of both. All things considered, it's not a bad result.”

Arnold wondered sourly how Helga suddenly believing she had died wasn't a bad result, but he supposed that was what separated the doctor from the normal civilian. She didn't die or become a vegetable after surgery, which technically meant it was a success.

She was scribbling something in her newest pink notebook when Arnold entered the room, but shut it hastily when she realized he was there.

“Thank God,” she muttered darkly. “Someone sensible.”

“Sensible?” Arnold laughed. “Are you sure about that?”

“Depends on what words come out of your mouth in the next few sentences,” Helga quipped. “Apparently everyone can see me now. At least here in the hospital anyway...”

“Well, yeah they can see you,” Arnold chuckled awkwardly. “You're alive.”

“God, not you too,” she groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “Phoebe already tried this, I know I'm dead. Don't try to sugarcoat it.”

“Why do you think you're dead?”

“I got shot,” she shrugged, seemingly without a care. “We found out that much. Who survives getting shot in the head?”

“You did,” he pressed. “The bullet just grazed you, the medical records prove this. Why do you think the nurses and doctors are treating you, if you're dead?”

“They don't believe in ghosts,” Helga answered. “It's easier to believe I'm just some sick kid that needs treatment. I suppose if I was going to manifest somewhere besides your house it would be the hospital I died in.”

It made a crazy sort of sense, at least from her perspective.

Maybe I should play along, at least until the psychiatrist can come to treat her.

“Okay, fine,” he shrugged, trying to put on a casual face. “You're dead. Did anyone tell you the guy who shot you got three life sentences?”

“Yes, everyone who's come to see me since I manifested,” she said. “And now you. Good. Let him rot in there.”

“So we did what we set out to do, we found out what happened to you.”

“Guess so.”

“What now? If you were a ghost, wouldn't you have moved on after we solved the case?”

“I don't know,” she moaned. “I'm not some sort of authority on ghosts.”

“Well then, it looks like you're here to stay,” Arnold said agreeably. “You're still welcome to haunt the boarding house.”

“I might just do that,” she said, smiling warmly.

An idea suddenly struck Arnold.

“I'm just going to find something,” he told her, getting up from his chair. “Oh, and I should talk to your doctor...”

“About what?”

“If I find it, I'll tell you.”

He hurried off to find the nurse's lounge. After asking a few of them, he found one with a bike she was willing to lend him and it had a basket on the handlebars (smaller than the one on his own but that didn't matter. He okayed it with the doctors, as long as he kept her warm and didn't stay out too long he was able to take her out. Rushing back to her room, he bundled her into her wheelchair and wheeled her out to the front of the hospital, where the nurse had propped up the bike waiting for them.

“Even ghosts need some fresh air,” he explained, lifting her into the basket he'd lined with pillows.

He took her out through one of the rarely-used country roads, bumpy and rough as it was the air was so clear and crisp and fragrant with the scent of blossoming fruit trees. She laughed wildly as they skittered over potholes and bumps in the road and didn't seem to mind that her bare feet were getting splattered with mud. Arnold's arms and legs ached with the strain of pushing the bike through the rocky terrain but it was worth it to see her so happy.

The bare patch of skin on her hairline where the bullet had struck her was covered by gauze since her surgery, but it brought back memories of hauling her ghost form around in his bike like this. Back then, he had come to terms, at least a little, with her death. He was more fearful now that she was living, that things could go wrong and she could be snatched away again. At least as a ghost, nobody would be able to hurt her.

Maybe that's why she believed herself to be dead; for protection.

…..

“I'll be going now,” Gertie told Arnold, kicking him out of his half-sleep.

“No, Grandma,” he groaned, rolling over in bed. “You don't have anywhere to be.”

She was wearing her coat but no shoes. Keeping shoes on her was the hardest task, even if she didn't leave the boarding house she seemed to lose her shoes within minutes of putting them on. Arnold brought her downstairs, took her coat and put some slippers on her feet. Phil was already at the breakfast table, frowning at some bills.

“Everything all right, Pookie?” he asked when Gertie sat down.

She didn't say anything but mumbled to herself a little. She was irritable these days, the new medication made her groggy and confused.

“I'll get started on breakfast,” Arnold offered.

Phil grunted in response and went back to scanning his bills.

A spike of resentment fired up in Arnold as he took out the ingredients to feed everyone in the boarding house. It was the weekend, and he should have had less work to do since Ambrose had started more or less renovating the building, but he'd found himself taking over his grandmother's old jobs instead. He appreciated Phil's money worries, but would it kill him to say thank you?

Other teenagers had the luxury of rebellion. Arnold didn't even have enough time to himself to get an ill-advised tattoo.

“Hey Arnold,” Ambrose said, leading Della into the kitchen. He was a naturally early riser. “On breakfast duty today?”

“Guess so,” Arnold shrugged.

“I'm going down to the hospital later. You wanna hop in?”

“Sure,” Arnold agreed. “Any news from the doctors?”

“They say another month and she should be good to come home,” Ambrose told him. “She has to be monitored by a home visitor but that's no big thing...and I almost got the ramp finished.”

Finally. They'd be living under the same roof. Helga remembered the things they did when she was a ghost, and at some point the Cotard delusion would fade.

She kissed me back. I know she did. It's not just me.

Once the scrambled eggs he cooked were ready, he piled them onto a platter, buttered enough toast to feed an army and brought both into the dining room.

“Ambrose is giving me a lift to the hospital,” he told Phil. “I should be back around ten or...”

“What?” Phil snapped, dropping his bills for probably the first time all morning. “No, I need you here.”

“I don't have any homework,” Arnold shrugged, that little resentful spike pricking him deep. “And the boiler's fixed, Ambrose finished up last night...”

“There's a pile of laundry higher than the kitchen door,” Phil retorted. “None of the floors have been vacuumed in a week and there's weeds all over the garden. Now I've been patient with this hospital business as long as you kept up with your chores...”

“Chores?” Arnold snorted. “Chores are cleaning your room and taking turns with the dishes, not doing laundry for an entire apartment building of adults!”

“Watch it,” Phil growled. “This is your home, you're as responsible for it as I am.”

“No, I'm not,” Arnold growled back. “I didn't choose to live here and I sure as hell never agreed to work here. You've had me doing what should be your job since I was six, you pay me next to nothing for the work I do, you ruined my social life and you're killing my future!”

Arnold hadn't realized but his voice had been climbing in volume, and now there was a line of awkward lodgers standing in the hall, not wanting to come in for breakfast. Phil looked shocked, the bills crumpled in his hands, two bright mortified spots on his cheeks. Even Ambrose and Della back in the kitchen had gone silent.

“Well,” Phil said at last. “If that's how you feel....you know where the door is.”

That just made Arnold even angrier. Over the years Arnold had been such a good kid, never given either of his grandparents any trouble, never even been caught smoking or taking a few dollars from a wallet or ditching school. And this was what he got for a lifetime of good behavior.

“Yes, I do,” he said as he stomped past the lodgers to the front door.

[somedaypast-thesunset]

Ive been thinking about my dad alot lately but not in the same way. Because of my life circumstances with my mother, by comparison this man was sane. He was stable, consistent, able to communicate complex thoughts and ideas.

But the thing is I've met many men now who are certainly suffering from a mental illness, even just depression, who are capable of exhibiting some of the same behaviors.

And my dad was such a character. Like in some ways it didn't matter how this character came to be because you loved the character itself. My dad was hilarious but he wasn't at the same time. He really influenced my humor in a dark way and kind of normalized it for me to a point that I didn't even know I was coming across like.. Brash in my humor until everyone I've known pointed it out.

And that doesn't make him mentally ill at all. Just his character if you liked it, you loved it and if you didn't you hated it and didn't get it and maybe just humored him for the sake of politeness. And part of the negative quirks of this character or maybe the webbing holding it together was a sort of either personality disorder or variables of mental illness. And it's veryyyyyyy hard for me to see or admit this because to me he was "great" because he wasn't my mom. He was the lesser of two evils and if your choice is poverty from a suitcase or a stable place to live and eat - obviously he's sane enough he maintained this and this is All I ever knew. Period. I thought my life was average. Not the same as "everyone" but the average person maybe experiences a few traumas in their adolescent or childhood or both. Maybe big or small. Maybe both. And my experience is not the worst by any means. I had no sexual trauma. No body trauma. No physical abuse. But these people were just crazy and just sane enough to not be that fucked up. They coped with it enough to protect their child. Mentally ill people can raise children without huge neglects. They're not completely non functioning people. But they didcause harm. Both of them. How did I end up so sick I almost ODd on drugs at 4? My father was not really around most of the time but the honor is that he wasworking to support us but he wasn't as involved as he could've been - it wasn't hard to see what she had done and I know He felt guilt for a very long time because she had nearly killed me and we didn't talk about it. I was just very sick. I somehow had gotten soooooooooooooooooooooo sick doctors didn't "know what was happening" and clearly this traumatized everything for me after that. I remember this hospital stay and I was fucking 4. I remember nothing of like 15 yrs ago but I remember this and being hooked up to an IV for days and days and my mother did not even stay with me the entire time so the nurses were just there and I was getting blood taken and shots given all the time and I remember when they moved me from the one bed to the other the first night and just screaming.

It was on her though. She was responsible for this. She was taking care of it. He had no part until I went home and he was never there with me and her during the day and even in my early teens I was stuck with her and he didn't take my angst about her seriously - well she's your mother. She takes care of you when your sick.

On the weekends when he was around and off work he was drunk and high from Friday night until Sunday afternoon. He worked so he deserved this time you know. He drives 40 hours a week and my mother wants to go places and she doesn't get why he doesn't want to drive anymore he just wants to "have couple drinks" and smoke some weed and listen to music at home and it's OK you know because he's at home with his family and not out at the bar "like back in the day" because he used to be a real fighter in the hotels you know but he's calmed down and he loves his family and I'm his favourite kid (I thought I was his only - I literally replied "I'm your only kid") and hey - I wonder what the poor people are doing. And you know my mother, my mother doesn't clean or do the dishes yet she's home all day on the phone and she didn't pay any bills until she finally got a job but you know she had an attitude and threw the money in his face when he asked her to pay the phone bill and he took her off the joint qccount because you know money was going missing and she never had enough for groceries but you know shealways got a job for Christmas because they always wanted to give me a good Christmas

For 17 years. Over. And over. And over. I sat and listened to this man tell me this speech again and again.and you-know he didn't believe in the doctors his sister Lee is taking 10 pills a day for this and that and she's still chronically sick and you wonder why you know the pills make you sicker than they do any good and the doctors are just in it for money

And he got sick and wrestled with his own moral code - was he really sick. Was diabetes real even. Like he ate this and this and nothing happened right so clearly he knows what's going on much more. Insulin? Fuck insulin.

While my mother contracted and recovered silently from all major ailments and diseases according to her own qccount. She was very sick u know. Very sick. She's got this pain in her right side and today it's in her knee and tomorrow she has bad headaches that lead to a brain tumor and breast cancer and diabetes. She's 47.

I watch her sit and rot in depression for 16 years. Then dieing 3 years later. My mother gave birth to me at 32 which meant she met my father at 22. When she was 48 I didn't comprehend this. All I knew that she was becoming increasingly terrible to be around and really unstable and much of what she said to me in my life has been blocked out because I hated her so much and I was not quiet about it at all. People knew I hated her for good reason. She also wrote letters. Lots and lots of letters that really made me feel like shit and are probably part of the foundation of my lack of self worth. I chose not to really process them but just block it out and move forward but I sometimes regret it because I'd like examples to bring up instead of just saying this person was shit.

I spent way too much money and I'm sad and overwhelmed and anxious. I feel sick and gross. Hungry too. I'm not even excited for him to come home now cuz it feels oddly tarnished. Obligated. I don't know.