#and one of the nurses would always tell me that being a dyke was the root of all my problems and i shouldve tried harder to fuck adult men

[lesbesim]

kid me was so fun

[fabuladorah]

My top 5 fave DBDA charachters

1. Crystal Palace

2. Charles Rowland

3. Night Nurse

4. Niko Sasaki

5. Jenny The Butcher

Honorable mention: Tragick Mick and Edwin Payne.

WARNING LONG RAMBLING!!

1 - Lemme be superficial first, her looks are simply iconic, i worship her hair and witch-core clothes and the way her powers are potrayed (those white globes, the three eyes, quick flashed) just make me go brwwww. And then there is hee character arc... which is *chef kiss* so, so good: she doesnt know who she is, she thinks people didnt really like her, she is sure her parents are looking for her, her first instict is to be mean, but then for what is she being mean for anyway, so she stops. She drags the boys from Big ol' London all the way to an small town in America just to save a little girl, because she is alone and scared. Her abusive demon ex, even after exorcised, is still haunting her. She offers her life to save an stranger she had just met (an stranger who had been kind, an stranger who had understood her, an stranger who had a place while she didn't). Her abusive demon ex shows that maybe she wasnt a good person after all. She misses her mom. She give away her powers (her strenght, her core) to be free from her abuser. She gets her power back, she buries her abusive demon ex alive in her mind (the place where he had her prisoner) with the help of her FAMILY (she didn't know who she was, she didn't know were she was from now she knows) she wrestles a thousand-year olds witch seconds after gaining her mind power back because she CAN AND SHE WINS. She has her memory back, she was an horrible person, her parents weren't looking for her (she missed her mother) and now she needs to go back home and she needs to make things right. Seriously what's there not love about her? Crystal Palace, please understand, you'll always be famous.

2 - Wait one second *close the door* *inhumans sounds* *open the door* okay now lets start. He is not the brain, he is the brawn, he is the protector. He couldn't protect himself. He died defending a boy he didn't even know, he died because he hated senseless violence, he died by the senseless violence. He fears being a bad person — he think he is a bad person, his father's son. He is terrified, so he'll lie, he'll smile. He was just a boy, he died young, he wanted to grow old, he hates to be dead, but he loves Edwin. He chose Edwin over Heaven — this boy, alone, died young and had been his light during the darkest, final, moment of Charles' life. It was an easy choice. I just really, really love Charles, because of all that, but also because he is charismatic af (all Jayden's hard work) and funny and he foes around with a fucking cricket bar, I should've started with that... he has a cricket bar, your Honour, I rest my case. And and I just love charachters with this """savior complex""", this responsibility of being alright to take care of others, of smile and lighting the mood because no one else will do that.

3 - she's an overworked work and that's my kinda shit. The whole point of her job is to protect and care for the lost children, and being honest to god I know she would shoot a kid right in the head if it meant finish her job and thats so fucked up and hyprocte of her and i just absolutely worship her. Also, her whole life views being changed because of a funny man she met inside of a whale is just--- I think she is underrated, and people are missing her angst potential, but I will not be the one to tell you how to write her because dude my english is going to shit as we speak.

4 - I know this is kinda dissapointing, but my whole reason is that she is Niko. That's it.

5 - She is a dyke running a butch shop, thats actually so cool I could die. On her first appearence I thought she would kill Crystal and the boys (again) and thats how I like my women. Also its really refreshing to seen that there is an adult who cares about these kids... the talks she had with Crystal and Niko, yk, she is so mature and smart and wants to help and she is like so cleary trying not to get attached and failinh tremendously, cmon she saw Crystal going to meet her abusive ex and was like "Nuh uh u aint going alone and I AM TAKING THIS MF CLEVER WITH ME" based af. Local lesbian accidentaly addopts four kids (two of which are dead)

Bonus: okay I feel like I gotta justify myself: I DO NOT HATE EDWIN, okay? I love him, he just didnt make the cut. And about Tragick Mick, cmon he is a goddammned (LITERALLY) seal and runs a funny little shop and saved Niko's life. We love him. We adore him. Tragick Mick may not have the sea, but he has the people!!

[msfbgraves]

The drowning imagery in Lucy's condition is so prominent that it did remind me of Dutch fears (though it seems it's from Stoker's fear of drowning after he dove to drag out of the Thames a drowning man) and her recurring nightmares of struggling to reach the surface

I think that the fear of literal drowning may have been more the author's imagination than a Dutch cultural thing. Beautifully put into the book, wow! I don't know many people in my country walking around with a literal fear of getting engulfed - it's more the idea of water being a potentialy very dangerous element that has to be actively monitored every day. Not much time spent worrying about the supernatural if the natural is right there and ready to kill you at a moment's notice when you don't actively keep it in place. It's always in front of you, the weather is always changeable, it's beautiful and we love spending time near and on it but never mind ghosts who is minding the dykes?! How much rain? What is the wind doing? The tides? Even with droughts suddenly the ground may not be getting enough moisture to keep the water defences working.

Disease is very similar, we're historically very aware of its destructive power. If we want to curse someone, we tell them that he can go get cholera (or typhus, or lung disease). Those are also very immediate environmental threats. In fact, when we want to say: and then the shit hit the fan, we say: "then we had a pleurisy outbreak, alright!" (Toen brak de pleuris uit!) Aka things got as chaotic as during an outbreak of lung disease! We really have enough to be going on with without believing in vampires. What I also love is that in modern Dutch urban fantasy, we would be very dispassionate and utterly practical about prevention: "Alright, kids! Camp supplies - everyone pack their swimsuits, toothbrush, plasters, clean underwear, travel bottles of holy water, half price at HEMA this week, tell your parents, anti zombie salt, pocket crucifix, no Jochem the one in a Swiss army knife is too small, I keep telling you, knives are dangerous. Sunscreen! Bring sunscreen! Pocket money. Miss Visser will be collecting the silver bullets and operating the gun, no small handguns allowed on pain of expulsion. Guns are dangerous. No crossbows or stakes we leave the staking to the professionals! Keep your eye out for bats but know they are a protected species! Any neck wounds are to be reported to the nurse immediately! Also ticks. When in doubt, you call emergency services and press #5, yes, #5 Sanne, share your live location and check for the nearest church for protection at all times! No attacking any vampires or werevolves by yourselves, aight? You can carry a handgun with holy water but that's it, and if someone takes anyone's eye out with it we will be very cross. Musquito nets against pests and vampire dust will be provided. Yes, Esther, Murat, Pranita, the carrying of crucifixes is allowed as a matter of public safety and is in accordance with Hindu, Jewish and Muslim custom, we've checked with the authorities. As is sheltering in churches. Do bring your own prayer mat, and inform us about any dietary requirements. OK? OK! Let's go have fun!!!"

So the imagery Lucy's death may not be a Dutch thing, but Van Helsing makes perfect sense.

[raememg]

Broken Ankle

I felt apprehensive about leaving the house. I almost didn't. But my favorite manager was quitting and I didn't want her to think I didn't care.

After years of pestering my psychiatrist, I finally was allotted a small quantity of klonopin each month. They gave me something else for social anxiety but it doesn't really hit the same as the cloud of protection the benzos offered. I had a box of wine in the fridge too and I was proud of myself for nursing it for a week instead of bingeing it. I took some klonopin, and had a big serving of rosé. I was still nervous but I called a car and made my way up to the restaurant. I didn't feel too far gone, but I definitely felt buzzed by the time I got out of the car.

I ordered some calamari & some more wine. I think I did a shot too. We'd gotten a new natural wine so I tried some, and then I asked for a glass. I was drunk.

The chef came over to the bar and sat with me for a bit. He started telling me about a mosh pit he and some of the line cooks got roughed up in the night before. We started talking about injuries and I mentioned breaking my ankle in high school. After exchanging some war stories about casts and gashes, I realized I was getting a bit sloppy and decided it was time to go home. I settled up with the bartender and gave heartfelt goodbyes to my manager. I decided I would take the train to see a movie.

I never walked to the restaurant but I always walked home; it was a 2 mile downhill walk and it was always fun being drunk alone and feeling like I had a secret to keep. About a block and a half into my walk, I noticed that I was stuck behind an elderly man walking slow. In my attempt to overtake him, I slipped on the curb and lost my footing.

Snap. Fuck that hurt. I tried to get up but I couldn't. I sat on the curb and took some deep breaths. I felt my ankle swelling up in my heeled doc martens. I realized how drunk I was and remembered taking the klonopin. Idiot.

A pretty dyke ran across the street and offered to help me up, dropping her mail in the process and telling me she thought my knee had buckled. Once I was up I could stand, but I couldn't walk. I could tell I needed to get my boot off as soon as possible to asses the damage. I called an uber but it was going to take 15 minutes to pick me up. I needed ibuprofen and ice. I cancelled my car & unlocked a fucking scooter. I situated myself so my left leg was the passive one, and I engaged my thigh muscle with a bend in my knee, trying to bear my weight on my upper leg instead of my ankle.

I could tell I was in shock.

I got home in about 7 minutes. I got the boot off and got violently stoned. I took more klonopin. I realized I didn't have any ice packs. I put a bunch of ice in a 13gallon trash bag and laid down with my ankle elevated and puffy. I wasn't in shock anymore and I called my mom crying. I called my best friend and we decided I didn't need to go to the doctor. I'd had sprained ankles before and I told myself I imagined the snap I felt in my leg when I fell.

I waited a week to go to the doctor. I didn't have health insurance. When I got to the ER, they x-rayed me and the tech started laughing and asked me if I'd been walking & how long ago I fell. I told him a few days ago. Girl your ankle is broken! My stomach dropped. Fuck. I felt like a loser. I realized how stupid it was to mix my meds with alcohol. I thought about how stupid it was to get drunk and walk home alone. I didn't just slip and fall. I made a bunch of choices that led to me breaking my ankle when I was shitfaced at 6pm on a Monday.

I ended up taking 6 weeks off from work because you can't really run around a restaurant full of celebrities in a black velcro boot. I lost a lot of money. I got health insurance and a therapist. I tried not to drink as much on klonopin.

[johannas-motivational-insults]

I'd like to read your commentary on the closet scene in Hail Mary!

Well ask and you shall receive, friend! (Commentary is bolded.)

I love this scene. Tbh I first wrote the sardines gag into an original fic I wrote in high school and I’m just nostalgic for it. But it is also a really great way to get characters in close quarters together, so... ;)

As it turns out, Adora does find Catra first. She knows her better than anyone, after all, knows how she gravitates towards small, dark, enclosed spaces for a sense of comfort. (Ah, here’s another instance of Catra behaving like a cat but hopefully in a non-distracting way.) Also, there’s the whole thing about how she used to hide in the closet at home when she was scared, or upset after a disciplinary encounter with Ms. Weaver. It was about the only place she could get privacy in that house, sharing a room with two other girls.

Adora remembers hearing her muted whimpers from behind the slatted doors, knocking gently and being yelled at to go away. She remembers sitting down leaning against said doors, guarding the space while Catra collected herself. (A lovely role reversal here!) In the times when she was scared, for good reason, Adora would eventually be torn away by threat or force, Catra would be ripped from her hiding spot, and the screaming would begin. The screaming and…

Adora prefers not to think about those times. She prefers the memories of after the danger had passed when she could just sit there, a comfort to her friend. On rare occasions Catra would not even allow her that, would shout at her until she left the room. Others, she didn’t tell Adora to go away at all, and Adora would crawl into the darkness and find her curled up on the floor, her face stained with tears. Adora would sit silently and take her head into her lap, gently scratching her scalp and stroking her hair, rubbing her back if it was safe to do so. It always calmed Catra down, and it was soothing for Adora too. It helped keep her hands busy and her mind off of what she’d just heard.

Oh hello my poor little traumatized neurodivergent children, stim to your hearts’ content. (And yes, Catra is also neurodivergent in this fic. It’s only been hinted at so far but later it’s revealed that Catra believes she’s ADHD but she never got a chance to get diagnosed because Weaver just saw her as a troublemaker. And because she’s brown many shrinks or social workers would tend to jump to that conclusion too instead of thinking maybe she has a disorder. It’s a little hat tip to the double standards and obstacles to diagnoses that neurodivergent women and POC have to deal with. And you all get to learn that early because you bothered to read this. :D)

Obviously the wave of nostalgia she’s hit by when she finds Catra once again hiding in a closet is not an entirely pleasant one. But she can’t help a small smile either, both at her victory and at seeing Catra’s face. It’s a natural side effect.

“Hey look, I won,” Adora brags when she spies Catra flattened against the wall on one side

Catra shakes her head slightly, amused. “Of course you did.”

Oh wow, I really didn’t hold back on Catra’s subtle resentment, did I?

Pulling the door shut behind her, Adora steps through the thick curtain of garments. Catra actually picked a pretty good spot - there’s a bunch of coats on that side of the closet that obscure her legs, and with how full the closet is it would be easy for someone peeking past the clothes to miss her.

The positioning may be different, the two of them on more or less equal footing and nursing no physical wounds, but Adora can’t shake the sense of awkwardness, her fear that their previous closet rendezvous are all Catra can think about too. (...Out of context this sounds a little bit like they’ve engaged in BDSM in a closet lmao but no, wrong fic.) And the idea of that is unbearable, especially if Catra’s already upset about Scorpia, so Adora takes it upon herself to break the tension.

“Look at us, back in the closet together,” she cracks, poking Catra in the ribs. “Who woulda thought, after all those Pride parades?”

This joke is stupid and I love it.

Catra brushes her hand away with a scoff. “Speak for yourself, I was never in any closet.” Despite her words of protest, she’s smiling a little. Eyeing Adora up and down, she adds, “And you were always like the ultimate sports dyke, so it’s not like people didn’t know about you either. Even if you didn’t figure it out until we met everyone’s favorite MILF.”

I will never let the Huntadora crush die. Tbh this is a little sad though because Catra doesn’t realize it’s always been her for Adora. She doesn’t let it show but she is kinda sad that from her perspective Huntara was Adora’s gay awakening, not her.

Oh, that definitely went a direction Adora didn’t expect. Brow furrowing, she purses her lips as she weighs the cost of the truth, how much she can divulge before it becomes incriminating. Her voice is quiet and eyes are down when she says, “No, I knew.”

It takes a second for Catra to respond. “What, really?”

Slowly lifting her head, Adora raises her eyebrows as she meets Catra’s confused gaze. “Just because I didn’t talk about it doesn’t mean I didn’t know.”

This is such a pivotal moment, just an understated one because it’s from Adora’s POV.  Catra thinks she knows Adora so well, and the idea that Adora not only intentionally kept something (her awareness of her sexuality) from her but was able to fool her is a shot to the ego.

A tiny scoff escapes Catra’s throat, eyes flicking away as her arms fold over her chest. “Never thought you were that good at keeping secrets,” she remarks. Finally she looks back at Adora, gesturing expectantly. “Well? How long have you known?”

Adora frowns in thought. Not because she doesn’t know the answer, but because there’s no casual way to tell your best friend ‘I’ve wanted to marry you since I knew what marriage was.’

I don’t remember what exactly possessed me to write this line, but once it did I knew it was going to murder you all in cold blood. I really enjoyed all the comments about this one. :D

“Always,” is what she says instead. “I mean I didn’t know what it was, but I was always drawn to other girls, always wanted their attention, wanted to be close to them.”

This is such a mood.

Nodding pensively, Catra stares into the darkness. After a moment she murmurs, “Yeah, me too.”

If only she was saying that to what Adora was thinking, not what she said. Because there’s no way Catra could know, right? She’s smart, but she’s not a mindreader. If she was she probably would have kicked Adora out of her room years ago for being a pervert.

Adora she means the exact same thing as you you fucking walnut!

The crack of the bedroom door opening jolts Adora from her thoughts, making her flinch.

“Shit,” she mutters, pushing forward and flattening against the wall, against Catra. In her haste she bounces off the wall slightly and starts to tip backwards, but a pair of quick hands steadies her hips, pulling her closer. Adora’s eyes flick down to find Catra’s already on her, widened in a clear order to be quiet. Adora can barely bring herself to nod apologetically, dazed by the sight. And their proximity. And the scent of sour candies on Catra’s breath.

Because being stuck in a closet together wasn’t taking advantage of the sardines gag enough, I threw this in here. And Adora’s clumsiness provided a great opportunity for Catra to touch her in an intimate way :D. And idk why but the described experience of the smell of the sour candies on top of the close up of Catra’s eyes and them being pressed together is just overwhelming. That sour candies thing gets me every time I read it.

Suppressing the urge to groan, Adora adjusts her positioning and tips her head down so her forehead is resting against the wall, removing that temptation before it can take hold. (Oh right, that’s why it gets me every time.) She breathes deeply, as quietly as possible, praying to god that Catra will interpret her pounding heartbeat as excitement purely from the game. She can feel Catra’s heart hammering against her rib cage too, can hear it echoing in Catra’s jugular mere inches from her ear. Catra’s hands are sweaty where they’ve wound into Adora’s shirt, trembling slightly in anticipation of being caught. Catra may act like she doesn’t care that much about winning and losing, but Adora knows better than anyone just how competitive she is, how wound up she gets.

Oh for fuck’s sakes Adora. I’m glad people asked for Catra’s perspective of this scene because I think confirming in the next chapter that her body was reacting to the exact same thing Adora’s was is valuable. At least a few readers bought into the ‘Catra is competitive/traumatized about hiding in closets’ thing I had going with Adora as an unreliable narrator, so it was probably best to clear it up.

The closet door opens and they both tense, not daring to breathe. The metal hanger hooks screech along the rod as the seeker parts the sea of garments, the sound making Adora wince. The light suddenly flooding their dark space doesn’t help in that regard either. She squeezes her eyes shut with the tiniest little whimper and one of Catra’s hands taps gently against her waist, acknowledging her discomfort and offering solace.

Idk how many people have noticed but I have this running theme of Adora being especially averse to sounds as a sensory sensitivity thing. And the fact that Catra knows and consistently acknowledges it in small ways just makes my heart happy.

In seconds it’s over and the person is closing the closet door, then the bedroom door on their way out. Adora expels as heavy a breath as she dares and whispers, “Phew, that was close.” She starts to pull away and lower her arms from where she’s braced them against the wall, bracketing Catra’s head. (That visual *eyes emoji*) But she doesn’t get very far.

Catra’s arms are locked in place, fingers still clinging to Adora’s shirt. Resting her elbows on Catra’s shoulders, Adora pulls her head back to get a good look at her face. She arches her eyebrows questioningly but Catra’s eyes are fixed firmly on the opposite wall of the closet, refusing to meet hers. Frowning in concern, Adora brushes a thumb over the baby hairs on the back of Catra’s neck. “Catra?”

Still Catra doesn’t respond. Not with words anyway. It’s just a tiny movement, but when her shoulders curl forward into Adora just a little bit, Adora clues in. Sometimes you just need a hug when you’re sad. She gets it.

God damnit. Catra doesn’t want to let go because she’s yearning, not because she’s sad. Why you gotta be like this, Adora? (She says as though she didn’t write it.)

Slowly leaning back in, Adora wraps her arms around Catra’s shoulders. She sighs in relief when she feels Catra respond, relaxing in her grip and slumping slightly to rest her chin on her shoulder. Squeezing a little tighter, she nuzzles into the curve of Catra’s shoulder in response, breathing her in. Catra smells… like Catra. It’s a scent Adora could never quite put a finger on, something uniquely her, but it’s the most comforting smell she knows. It smells like safety, and tenderness, and just a little bit of mischief.

Adora could fall asleep in these arms, in the peace they bring her mind. She has, many times. When they were kids Catra ended up sleeping on her bed more often than not, sprawled half on top of Adora with her head on her chest. Though technically she was usually the one holding Catra, and Catra was often the one seeking comfort, it made Adora feel safer too. It felt a little like Catra was guarding her in the night, and the pressure pinning her to the mattress felt so good. So… secure. They’ve always been better together, perfectly suited to each other’s needs. Adora can't even imagine a life without Catra as her closest companion, and she doesn't want to.

Is that a reference to the torment of canon? Yes, yes it is. Is it also foreshadowing of how agonizing it would be for Adora if she and Catra ever had a falling out? ...maybe.

Absentmindedly brushing her fingers through Catra’s hair, Adora’s pulled out of her head by Catra’s low hum next to her ear. The long lost sound makes her lips turn up. She always used to tease Catra about how she purrs like an actual cat. Not quite, but… it’s nice. It’s soothing.

Rubbing her cheek against Catra’s ear in a similarly feline fashion, Adora chuckles, “Yeah, I miss this too.”

A quiet snort is muffled in her shoulder, Catra’s back puffing out against the arm still slung across her shoulders. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Okay,” says Adora. So she holds her close, and doesn’t say another word.

Maybe this is all she’ll ever get from Catra, holding and comforting her after others have hurt her. But it’s enough. It has to be.

Adora, NO, shut up! She loves you!

Ughhhh well this scene is super cute and super frustrating, both of which want to make me throw things. But that’s very on brand for this fic.

[marvinswriting]

scary damian scary damian scary damian scary d-

prompt: the title speaks for itself lmaooo thank you bear for dealing with me sending you every other paragraph to make sure i got the energy of the fic right orignal g/t mg

I shoved my phone into my pocket, approaching the tiny pick up zone. I felt bad pulling Damian out of class but I'd feel worse if I passed the fuck out from exhaustion and got him worried.

Nothing telling my teacher I'm going to the nurse won't fix. 

I walked through the tiny halls, the unfinished ceilings and led beams hanging down. The occasional light flicker really setting in the horror genre feel. I tried not to concentrate on the hallway decor too much, it hurt more than anything. The half-assed drywall with bulletin boards hung occasionally. There were tiny lockers that went largely unused and some vending machines that haven't been refilled since I was a freshman. 

I yawn, approaching the tiny pick up zone. 

As expected, the hallways are quiet. The occasional student walks past but nobody pays me mind. I liked it better that way anyway.

I slumped against the wall, letting my head fall forward. I was exhausted. Don't know why. I actually got sleep last night. Can too much sleep make you more tired? Oh well. Gonna get more.

More footsteps pass the tiny pick up zone, but these ones pause before backtracking. I look up to see Shane Omen. 

Because who else?

I lower my head again, too tired to deal with this. 

"Yo, space dyke." Shane doesn't seem to happy to not get a reaction out of me. "I'm talking to you."

"Sure you are." I feel like I should be running, but my brain is sluggish and I don't feel any fight or flight kicking in. When I would normally be up on my feet, creating as much distance between us as possible, I'm just trying not to fall asleep.

I have enough energy left in my brain to know being unconscious around a giant, especially Shane Omen, isn't the smartest idea.

"Space Dyke." There's a hand reaching for me.

That makes me flinch backward but- its too late at this point. 

Is it bad to call this interaction familiar at this point?

Because it was.

I made a noise of surprise as Shane grabbed me off the platform roughly. My hands weren't pinned at my side this time, as I fruitlessly tried to push his fingers off of.

They wrapped around my entire body even pinning my legs together. 

"Shane, please!"

"Are all tinies as rude as you? Never respond when they're being talked to?"

"Shane-" 

I was not in the mood. My body felt as though it would shut down at any second and this interaction was frankly sending me into overdrive. My brain was panicking, trying to stay awake, trying to find the strength to fight back, trying to find energy where there was none. 

"I always find it amusing. You tinies are so big and bad with giants. But when you're alone- look what happens." Shane's fist tightens.

"Where's you giant, huh? Isn't that something you freaks do? You try and twist our words positively? Embrace it? Hate to break it to you, it doesn't seem to be working. You're still a pathetic annoyance."

Shane's right. Where is Damian?

"I could drop you right now," Shane says, and my blood runs cold. "It'd be ruled as an accident. They don't check the cameras about these things. You're just a tiny. You freaks fall off ledges all the time. Your name would be in the school newspaper this month and then never spoken about again."

Shane's grip loosens and while it's normally a welcoming sign, I struggle to find purchase, grabbing at his fingers, not wanting to fall.

"Shane, please."

"Please what?"

“Please, get your hands off my tiny."

Both Shane and I turn to the new voice. I could cry in relief. There stood Damian walking down the halls. He looked pissed but I knew him long enough to see he was as scared as I felt. 

Damian never said 'my tiny'. I called him my giant, sure, and he knew I was his tiny, but he always said despite it being embraced among tinies, he felt like he was taking ownership of a valuable life. Which was totally valid and I understood, but to hear him say it now put a smile on my face, despite the situation I was in.

The smile didn't last long as Shane's fingers once again tightened painfully around my body.

"And why should I?"

Damian was in front of us now. Shane wasn't short, but he wasn't tall. Damian was tall. He glared down at Shane. 

Holy shit.

None of my giant friends were fighters. Yeah, Cady has verbally chewed out some people, Gretchen has paid jocks to beat up others, but none of our giants were physical. But right now? Damian looked fully ready to throw hands.  

"Please hand me Janis." He held out his hand expectantly and for a second I thought Shane was just gonna comply. His grip loosens and his hand moved forward slightly before pausing. "No."

Shane said it with the authority of the girls on TikTok who bully people in the comments, saying no and throwing a heart emoji after.

"I'm sorry?" Damian's voice was low. Like the night Cady threw the part, but this time he wasn't trying to hide his anger or keep calm. "I heard what you said. About dropping her? Yeah, I think it's clear I'm not gonna let you do that. What you said counts as a threat by the way. If Janis wanted to report you, they'd check the cameras and you'd get into some serious trouble."

Shane seems metaphorically cornered for a second. Only a second.

God, I'm so fucking tired. I just want to be in Damian's pocket, where it's warm and safe and I can sleep, god damnit.

I can't tell if it's the total exhaustion or Shane's tight grip on me but my vision feels like its fogging up-

Oh my god, I can't breathe. 

How fucking tired do you have to be to notice you're not breathing?!

I let out a very incoherent plea and both giants look down at me.

"You're hurting her."

"Am I?"

"Knock it off dude. Let her go that's not funny."

"Let her go you say?"

The fingers wrapped around me are suddenly gone as I let out a gasp of surprise and for air. Shane Omen fucking dropped me. Wow.

I didn't fall far before landing on another hand. I knew it was coming but that didn't make me any more prepared as I land with an ungracious thump.

I'm not held by Damian for long as he gently places me on the tiny pick up zone. As much as I love Damian, I'm grateful to be back on solid ground as I stumble backwards leaning against the wall. 

"What the fuck is your problem, Shane." Damian isn't bothering to hide his anger at this point. 

Shane takes a step back, his hands going up in defense. "Chill dude. It's just a tiny. I don't understand why you get so upset. You're like the only one who gives a shit about space d-"

Shane didn't get to finish his sentence as Damian suddenly swings his arm, fist connecting with jaw.

I jump back, out of surprise more than anything.

Holy fuck.

I suddenly felt a lot more awake and in tune with the situation going on in front of me.

Damian never got violent. He was always the teddy bear friend. But this teddy bear had one good right hook. Where did he fucking learn that?

My illusion of big scary Shane Omen is broken as Damian towers over him, Shane bending over, hand on jaw. If anything, it's Damian who looks scary right now.

That's something I never thought I'd say. 

Damian shakes his fist out like he's trying to flick away the pain. "Don't ever talk about Janis like that again. If you or any of your friends use that nickname again, I'll-"

"We won't!" Shane is quick to reassure. "Swear on it, dude. Uh- Damian. We- we won't."

Damian doesn't seem convinced at this as he continues to glare at Shane. Shane turns to me and I instinctively flinch back. He raises his hand in defense. 

"Sorry- Janis."

 I don't think I've ever heard Shane call me Janis before? It's always been space dyke. Woah.

"I'm," Shane points behind him, skittishly. "I'm gonna go now, so-" He doesn't finish his sentence, just turns and speed walks down the halls. 

The second he's out of slight, the pressed lips and stiff posture fade and Damian looks a lot more- well, Damian.

"Are you okay?" His voice is back to a hushed concern. I jump regardless.

"I'm fine. Now." I say slowly. My brain feels like it's rebooting from what I've witnessed. It needs time to let the files load.

Damian punched somebody. 

Damian punched Shane Omen.

Shane Omen was scared of Damian.

Damian Hubbard the dude who wouldn't hurt a fly if he was paid to, punched Shane. Omen. 

And it was equally a mix of badass and scary.

I never thought I would call Damian scary. He hates being viewed as scary. And for the most part, he's not. But that? That was scary even if it wasn't directed to me.

"Janis?" 

My head snaps up. Damian looks nothing like he did thirty seconds ago. Now he stood timidly, like he was afraid to move and set me off. "I know you don't like yelling. I'm sorry."

I nod. "Thank you for coming when you did."

I pushed down all uneasiness I had. It frankly made me feel guilty. It was just Damian. He wouldn't hurt me. I didn't think he'd hurt Shane Omen either but-

No.

It's Damian.

"You really had Shane ready to piss his pants," I say lightheartedly. "It was tits, dude."

Damian chuckled nervously. "I just saw him holding you and I got so nervous and I-"

"Hey hey hey-" I rush to the edge of the platform. "I'm here right now. I'm okay."

Yeah, it was pretty scary watching Damian tower over his peers aggressively. But it was also badass. And if Cady did the same I'd be gay. But the Damian I'm seeing right now? That's my best friend who would never hurt me. That's my platonic soulmate who goes out of his way to keep me safe. 

Which he was doing earlier, just in a new way. 

Damian scoops me up, holding me to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat slightly faster than normal. 

He was as worried as I was.

Just being held by Damian and the familiarity of being safe was all I needed for the exhaustion to set in again.

"I'm gonna fall asleep." I mumble. 

Damian laughs. "That is why you called me to pick you up, right?"

"Yeah," I say sleepily.

Damian shifts me into the familiar chest pocket and there's some rustling as I assume he puts on the whit pin before we're off. 

There's a couple of things we should talk about. Like him punching Shane Omen for starts. Or Damian calling me his tiny for the first time. But right now it's nap time.

Back to Damian's English where I can fall asleep without worry of Shane. Not that I think I'll be worrying about Shane for a while.

bear told me i write shane omen well and i guess that just means i make a good fucking villain lmao- also was damian at least a little in character? i tried. @realmisspolarbear @musicallygt @smallsoysauce

[urlocalkpoptrash]

Misguided Ghosts| Im Jaebeom

Jaebeom x Reader | Jackson x Reader.

Genre: Angst/Fluff.

Concept: After a terrible accident, Jae is left in a coma. Five months of hoping for the best, but expecting the worst, you get a mysterious guest.

Warning: Talk of grief, death, and car accidents.

A/N: WOW I AM SAD. I wrote this for @listlessmaenads birthday gift, and I’m sorry it’s late. This story kind of (really) fucked a bitch up. Jaebeom out here making me feel things, rude ass.

- - - - -

“How was work today, Y/N?” Jaebeoms nurse set down a tray of food for you.

In most cases it was the patients that were getting the food, but seeing as the patient had been in a coma for five months, you were the one who received the food. You had become accustomed to the taste of the Luke warm chicken nuggets and corn. It was almost comforting when you had a hard day at work.

“It’s been the same,” and by same, you meant the same sympathetic glances, the gentle pats on the shoulder. People acted like he had already died, that you should be mourning the loss of your fiancé. He was still alive, even if it was with the help of some machines.

“Just keep your head up,” she offered an encouraging flash of her teeth, “when people don’t understand what’s happening, they resort to being overly sympathetic. They think those little gestures will help.”

“I know their intentions are nothing but pure. It doesn’t make it any better, though.” The tip of your spoon scarped against the bottom of your jello container, the red dyed juice splashed over the rim when you dropped the empty plastic onto your table.

The conversation seemed to evaporate into the air as she moved around Jae’s bed. It was quite the elegant dance of checking his vitals, reading over the chart to make sure the day nurse hadn’t left any notes, and adjusting his bedding to make sure his body temperature didn’t drop for any reason.

“He’s all comfortable, and set up for the night. I’ll be back to check in a few hours. If you need anything —,” she stopped mid-sentence when you gave her a knowing smile. It was the same, well rehearsed, script that all nurses told you. Except she actually meant it, “Tell Jacks I said hi,” she teased, all to knowledgeable of the goings on in your life.

You watched as she shut the door behind her, leaving you in the room with Jae. You sat for moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart monitor, and the machine that helped him to breathe. You looked over his face, all the outward wounds had healed, if it wasn’t for his life support, he would have looked like he was just sleeping. Some days, you imagined that he was, you pretended that in a few hours he would wake up, like he had been napping. You knew better though, and make believing only made things worse when he didn’t actually wake up.

You wouldn’t allow yourself to dwell too much on it, or else you’d send yourself into a spiral, so instead you took the doctors suggestion. You reached into your bag, digging around to find the poetry book that sat at the bottom of your purse. “Where were we,” you said softly, flipping the pages till you found your bookmark - a picture of Jae smiling at you from across the table at your favorite restaurant.

You held the book in one hand, your thumb expanding over the middle of the spine, stopping the the pages from folding over on to one another. Your other hand was occupied by your chin resting against your palm, being propped up by the chair you were sitting in, “Okay,” you breathed, peeking over the edge of your book, secretly wishing that one time you did that, his eyes would be open.

“For Katrina’s Sun Dial, by Henry Van Dyke -

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is Eternity.” The words held no meaning pressed into the paper of your book, but as they hung in the air, you felt the weight of them all to heavy on your chest.

You shook you head, swallowing the lump that had started to build in your throat. It was a sob that you refused to let surface, it was the cry you reserved for the very worst possible outcome, a cry you never hoped to feel. You closed the book, you couldn’t read anymore, afraid that another poem would set you over the edge.

After shoving the book back into your blackhole of a bag, you pulled your legs on to the chair, curling into yourself, wishing you could fill the hole in your chest, the way you crammed your personal belongings into your purse. Your eyelids suddenly felt like they were being dragged down by anchors, and you gladly fell into the welcoming arms of sleep.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep, but you knew it had been awhile, because you could no longer see the sun sinking below the mountains, but you could see the silver sliver of moonlight reflecting off of Jae’s heart monitor. Your eyes surveyed the room, catch a glimpse of Jackson sitting in the corner, the light from his phone illuminating the tip of his nose, and whites of his eyes.

“How long have you been here?” The hoarse sound of your voice shocked you, but even more so it scared the living daylights out of Jackson. His hands fumbling with his phone, almost dropping it on the floor, but he was quick to snap his thighs shut, catching his phone in the crack of his legs.

“Couldn’t you have made a stretching noise like a normal person, letting me know you had woken up,” the breathiness in his voice made you release a sleepy laugh.

“Sorry, next time I’ll make sure to make some noise when I wake up,” he looked over at you with a thankful smile, “Wuss,” you tried to whisper under your breath.

“Hey! I heard that,” he reached back, grabbing the pillow he was using behind his back, chucking it across the room to hit you square in the chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” you tried to lie, but Jackson heard you, and knew you far too well to be able to lie to him.

He snorted, setting his phone on the windowsill. You watched as he pushed himself off the chair, making his way over to you. You knew what he wanted, and to be honest, you needed it.

“Come on, up,” he hooked his hand around your elbow, pulling you up - your bones popping in protest of the new movement.

Once you were standing, not very sturdy, but standing nonetheless, he wrapped you in his arms. His chin rested on the top of your head, and your nose pressing into his chest, taking a deep breath. He did this every time he saw you, at first it drove you crazy, but now it was something you looked forward to.

“Anything new?” He mumbled, moving his chin so he could bury his face in your hair, taking a deep breath. To him, you were the literal meaning of ‘a breath of fresh air.’

“No, nothing…” the same answer for the last five months, and you feared it would always be the only answer.

Since you were so close to his chest, you could hear the faint beating for his heart, and when you responded, his heart rate slowed. His grip on you only tightening, as if he was trying to protect you from the pain.

“You should go home for a little bit. I’ve only been here for about an hour. I’ll be here the rest of the night. If anything happens, you know I’ll call you,” pressing a kiss on to the crown of your head.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to just leave you here alone,” you brought your face up, looking at him.

“I’m not alone. I have lots to tell JB about,” and he was being honest. You had walked into the room many times, to find Jackson at Jae’s bed, one hand on Jae’s arm, talking about his day. You’d even caught him talking about a girl - Jackson always used to tell jae about his girl problems. It turns out he still did.

“I’ll have my phone on loud, don’t hesitate to call me at any time,” you reluctantly pulled away, and he reluctantly lets you go.

You gathered your belongings, Jackson standing at the door with your jacket, “Don’t forget this… again,” he teased, helping you slip it on arm by arm.

“Thank you jacks, for everything.” You pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, walking out of the room.

Jae’s nurse waved at you from the nurses station, giving you a sweet smile. As you entered the elevator, you waved back. You looked up to the red numbers above your head, watching them get lower until you reached the ground floor. You had questioned whether or not you were ready to drive again, but Uber’s would take too long to get to you and then to the hospital if anything were to happen, so you were forced to drive again.

You were lucky, the roads were basically a ghost town. The normal thirty minute drive it took you to get home, was only a cool twenty tonight. When you opened the door, Nora was already at your feet, weaving in and out of your legs, meowing loudly for some attention. You bent down, “Well hello,” you cooed, and she purred in response, pushing her nose against your face.

You always made sure she had plenty of food and water every morning before you left, and your sweet fifteen year old neighbor would come over to give her some much needed attention. You rounded the living room, walking over to the answering machine. You had two new messages, they were both from medical bill collectors, you didn’t pay much attention to them, letting them play out till they were done.

“What should I eat Nora?” You glanced at her, and she nudged your cheek with one of her paws, “Hmm, I don’t know if I want that,” you answered her as if she had responded to you.

Your feet carried you to the kitchen, the second message on the machine was playing in the background as you pulled open the fridge. You’re not sure what you expected, you hadn’t done any grocery shopping in weeks - hell, months. You sighed looking at the carry out containers, and half drank bottled water.

“Looks like I’ll be having sleep for dinner again,” you set Nora down, letting the fridge door close on its own. You pressed the delete button as you walked by the answering machine again, not even bothering to look and make sure you didn’t have any other messages.

The house felt cold without Jae, and no matter how high you turned the heat up or how many blankets you flung around yourself, none of them could ever mimick the warmth that Jaebeom radiated. Maybe it was because it wasn’t his skin that was warm; it was his heart, it was his smile, or the way he laughed at the variety show he had watched a million times, it was in the way he whispered sweetly to Nora. His warmth came from his love.

You leaned against the wall, only inches away from your bedroom, but you weren’t ready to go In there yet. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in there since he had been in the hospital, but it was just too much of him, without him actually being there. You sank to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. You were fine all day, you were fine at the hospital, but when you were really and truly alone, you were anything but okay.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, brokenly. You couldn’t recognize your own voice, because you were just a fragment of yourself without him. “It should have been me,” the air was starting to feel thicker, harder to fill your lungs with. Your eyes were burning, the tears that spilled over onto your cheek gave you no warning, neither did the choked gasp for air that passed through your lips.

You hid your face in the space of your knees, crying freely, letting the hole in your heart spread throughout your body, swallowing you into an ocean of despair. Your cries coming in waves, pulling you deeper into the current, making it near impossible to find the surface, and you were fine to just sink and never come up for air again. You didn’t want to be in a world where he didn’t exist.

After what seemed like an eternity, your tears started to dry up for the night, you began to believe there wasn’t enough water in your body to support the amount of crying you had done in the last five months. You knew if jae would have seen you this torn up over him, he’d start to hate himself, and for once you thanked god that he wasn’t around to see you like this.

You were barely able to push yourself back up from the floor, little black spots started to plague your vision, which meant you really needed some sleep. Your limbs dragged from the spot you were in, all the way to your bedroom. You didn’t bother to change, or shower. You were exhausted, and the sweet call of sleep was singing your name. You let yourself collapse on the bed, your feet hanging off the edge, but the moment your face met the pillow, you were out.

Another dreamless night - you had stopped dreaming of the accident a couple weeks ago, which gave the opportunity to sleep, and actually find some peace in the darkness behind your eyelids.

You were awake, but you weren’t all that excited to open your eyes and face another day. So you just stayed there, listening to the constant hum of the ceiling fan above, or the water moving through the pipes of your house.

“I know you’re awake, baby.” You froze, every muscle in your body tensing, and your blood running cold. There was someone else in your bed with you, but you swore you would have felt the bed dip. You always did, any time Jae moved, you felt it. There was no way in hell that you would have missed your bed moving.

You thought that maybe if you sat still, and kept pretending to sleep, that it would go away. Possibly you were just having sleep paralysis, it had been years since you had an episode, but it could have been the stress of everything building up.

There was silence again, not even the sound of someone breathing. You tried your hardest to crack you eyelid open in a way that didn’t give away that you were looking around. It was difficult to see, but what you could make out was just your empty room. You took a deep breath, allowing your eyes to finally break open.

Nothing. No one. All alone. You rolled over to your back, you were set on staring at the ceiling for another hour before you were to get up, but out of the corner of your eye you saw a figure laying beside you. You practically flung yourself to the floor with a loud scream. You were ready to run out of your house as fast as possible, escaping whoever this intruder was.

“Oh my god!” The voice called out, before you could see their feet from under the bed. You were frantic, looking for something to protect yourself with.

The foot steps got louder and closer, you were out of idea’s, and without a weapon, so you did what any normal person would do. You curled up in a ball, shielding your face with your hand.

“Take anything you want, just please, don’t hurt me,” your body was trembling with fear, fully expecting your last minutes to be you in the fetal position.

“Hurt you? Y/N…” the voice was smooth, calming. If this was a murderer, they were by far the most comforting murderer out there, “Wait… you can see me? Can you hear me? Y/N, baby, look at me.”

Baby.

You recognized the inflection of the voice, and the way the first B was harsher than the second. You gradually spread your index and middle finger apart. There he was, the tall figure who was standing beside you, kneeled down.

“C-can you see me?” Jaebeoms words stuttered over his tongue.

“Jae?” Your body started to relax. Your knees pulling away from your chest, and your legs extending towards the wall opposite of your head.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, falling on his butt across from you, “I don’t understand,” he was talking to himself.

You still couldn’t believe what you were seeing. You had to be dreaming, there was no way in hell that he was in here with you, that he was talking to you. You rubbed your eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again. You fully expected him to be gone, but he was still there, lost in his own thoughts.

“If you’re here… does that mean you’re dead?” The realization started to flood your system with panic. Your cheeks began to heat up, and your eyes burning with the familiar sting of tears.

Your words brought him back to the moment, and he quickly shook his head, “no, baby. I’m not dead. Im just, I don’t know, I’m stuck between here and there.”

“There?” The tears you tried to stop had already started, and now there was no way for you to stop them, they had a mind of their own.

He reached out to touch you, to cup your cheeks and take away the tears, but all you felt was a very minuscule tingle on your cheek, that was gone as fast as it was there. A strangled gasp leaving his mouth agape.

“You can hear me, see me, but we can’t touch,” he looked down at his hand as if it had betrayed him.

You still sat on the floor, wordlessly staring at this version of Jae. You must be going crazy, there was no other explanation. Although you could see the way his lashes brushed over his cheek, or the way his cheeks made his eyes disappear when his nose scrunched. He must have felt you staring at him, because he looked up from his hands.

“Hi…” his voice almost inaudible, and in that moment your felt warm. The constant chill of being alone had diminished, and you figured out that he was really there, he brought the sun back into your dark world.

“Hey,” he watched as you scooted closer to him, the small affectionate action was enough to make him smile.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” His shoulders bounced slightly when he laughed. The sound almost brought you back to tears.

“It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting you to be there.”

“In all honestly, I wasn’t expecting you to see me. I’ve been here since the third week of being in a coma.”

“So… you’ve just been watching me?” And all at once, you remembered all the times you had broken down, how many times you cursed gods name - because you had to blame someone for this, Jae didn’t deserve this.

As if he was reading your mind, he turned his head to watch you go through all the sleepless nights, the tears, the fits of anger, “I-I felt so useless. I had to sit here, watching you suffer. The nights you would call out my name, as if you were asking me to come home,” his voice broke off, the quietest of crippled gasps left his chest.

You hadn’t even recognized that tears had started to wash over your cheeks, till one lonely drop stopped at your top lip. While you were stuck in that hospital room, watching him, he was stuck in limbo watching you hurt.

“It’s not your fault, you know that. None of this is your fault.” You gestured between the two of you.

“It’s no ones fault,” a lie. It was your fault, and you knew that.

You sat silently, staring at him. What a beautiful man he was. It was never lost on you, just how lucky you were to have him, but since the accident, you’d really realized how much you needed him in your life. You could remember the life you had before him, and it was a life that you never wanted to have to live again.

“Let’s go somewhere,” he piped up, reeling you back into reality, and out of your own thoughts.

“Go somewhere?” The back of your hand dragged across your cheek, wiping away the stray tears.

“Yeah. There’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to take you, but never have. When’s a better time than now?”

“Oh, I don’t know, when you’re not just an apparition of yourself. I think that would probably be peak time to go.”

He snorted loudly, shaking his head. “Only you would complain about the way I spent time with you,” he teased.

“Uh, no. I think most people would find it ridiculous to go somewhere with their fiancés restless soul,” a laugh bubbled from your chest.

“Soul schmoul,” he flicked his hand, dismissing your very logical response.

That’s how you ended up in the car with Jae in your passenger seat, singing along to the radio, while his body was motionless in a hospital bed. Every so often you would have to remind yourself that it wasn’t really him, it wasn’t someone you could hug or kiss.

“Are you paying attention? I don’t want to get lost,” you pout, turning down the radio.

“I know exactly where we are, just keep driving,” and so you did, you just kept driving - silently watching him from the corner of your eye.

You could see his fingers twitch on his thigh, pulling into a fist and extending to smooth out his pants. He was itching for something, like an addict on the search for his next high. It wasn’t until he placed his arm in between the two seats, that you realized what he wanted to do. He wanted to reach out and touch your leg, to feel your skin under his finger tips. He couldn’t though, he couldn’t because he wasn’t really there. It was just another harsh reminder of the reality of the situation.

You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t hurt you. No, it didn’t hurt you, it killed you. Having the man you loved with all your heart, sitting in the passenger seat, and not being able to touch him.

“Your next right,” He jeered his head towards the window, indicating where he wanted you to go.

The trees were heavy, the tops of the branches on each side of the path, reached out touching one another. A sick joke from a god that couldn’t be real. You could catch glimpses of the sky between the crowded greenery. It was less than mile before you hit an opening in the woods.

“Stop. Right here,” he leaned forward, placing his hands on the dashboard.

The car came to a slow stop, the dirt beneath your tires crunched, and your breaks gave out the softest of cries.

“What is this place?” You asked, as you stepped out of the car, using your hip to shut the door.

“It was where I was going to suggest we got married,” you didn’t know, or hear how he got out of the car, you just felt him behind you, “Walk closer to the edge,” he had leaned forward, whispering in your ear.

It was always so stranger to feel chills run down your spine, while a warm breeze wafted over your body, hiding your face behind the tufts of hair that moved in the wind. Your feet carried you closer to the edge of the cliff. The walk way just cut off, and below you was a quiet and still creek, the sun cascading over the land like a blanket.

“Y/N,” he came up beside you, “I brought you up here, because it’s one of my favorite places in this world, a close second to your arms. You’re the only other person I’ve brought here.” His feet shuffled as he sat down, legs dangling over the edge from the knee down.

“You’re my person. I showed you the version of me that wasn’t always happy, I showed you the version of me that no one else gets to see. I showed you the bones in my closet, and instead of running, you grabbed the shovel. You’ve loved me through the days I couldn’t get out of bed, you loved me through the nights that I felt like I had hands around my neck - you filled my lungs with air, you helped me breathe. I will never be able to explain exactly what you’ve done for me, and I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. This was the only time I could say this.”

Wordlessly, you sat beside him. You didn’t know what else you could do, you didn’t know how you could make this better for him. You had so many words, and thoughts in your head, swimming around around your mouth. Your tongue pressing against the back of your teeth, as if they were some form of confinement.

“But I am not your person. I will be gone far sooner than you. You’ll be left without me… I can’t even imagine a world without you, so the thought of leaving you here without me, is torture. But, you will need to move on one day. You’ll fall in love again. Fuck, you might already be falling in love with someone else, and I’m okay with that. I want you to be happy, because you deserve it.” You could hear his voice crumbling. He sounded exactly the way you felt; defeated, broken, and accepting.

“I’m not in love with anyone but you, Jaebeom. There is no one else. There will never be anyone else.” How could he even think this? Even worse, how could he believe it so much so that he was saying it out loud.

“You don’t see it now. I understand why, but you know there is someone else. He’s always loved you, maybe just as much as me. He’s watched you fall apart, all that was left of you was jagged pieces, and he still held you. He took your broken pieces, and held them in his hand - even though they pushed into his skin. He put you together with bandages on his hands.”

Jackson. He was talking about Jackson. Of course, it’s was Jacks. How could you be so oblivious to it? Were you that obtuse to the world around you.

“He talks about you a lot. I can hear him. He tells me all the things about you that he thinks I miss, or things he think I should know. He sees you the same way I do, and that’s how I know he’ll always take care of you. He’ll protect you and keep you safe, even if you never accept him the way you accepted me.”

It was crazy to think, because you know that Jacks never expected anything from you. The thought of asking you to more than friends, never even crossed his mind, because you weren’t his. He’d rather be insufferably in love with you, and deal with it, than not have you in his life.

Hour and hours passed by, you two sat on the ledge, watching the sunset together. Having him sitting there was like having all your memories playing on a constant loop. His smiles reminded you of all the mornings you woke before him to wake him with kisses all over his face. The way the lowering sun caught the tip of his nose reminded you of all the times you would put whipped cream, or frosting on his nose. He could never stay out the kitchen when you baked. His laughter reminded you of the days in the park, dancing to the music of random street musicians. Occasionally, he’d walk over to them and sit beside them, singing along. He looked so in his element. His raw vocals and an acoustic guitar.

“It’s time to go,” he looked up at you, his eyes focusing on your face for some time. He must have been living in the memories of your smile.

“Are you sure?” You knew he wasn’t talking about leaving this place, he meant it was time for him to leave. He was ready to be set free.

“I am.. but can we stop one more place?”

“Of course, Jaebeommie.”

The familiar nickname made his heart squeeze. You called him that often, and now he was regretting all the times he never appreciated it. When he would ignore you when he was in the studio. All the stupid hours of working in songs, when you were in the living room reading, or playing with Nora. All the time he wasted.

The car ride towards the spot of the accident was silent. You tried to stomp your foot, throw a fit. You didn’t want to go there. You only had fleeting minutes with him, and he wanted to take you to the place that was ultimately his demise.

The street lights would move from his knees, over his face as you drove. You could see his chest rise and fall, like there was a heart inside of him. It made him seem so much more realistic. Having you forgetting that he wasn’t actually in the seat next to you.

The closer you got to your destination, the harder you gripped your steering wheel. You were glad that it wasn’t your heart hooked up to a monitor because it felt like it was about to leap out of your chest, and land in his lap.

Your headlight stopped at the tunnel. There was still a large scrap along the concrete from where your car had flipped and slid across the road.

“Why… why couldn’t you have just put on your seatbelt, Jae?” You whispered, head hanging between the arms.

“I asked myself that every time I’ve seen your cry,” he gulped, resting his head against his seat.

You tried to stop them, but your tears had more control over you, than you did of them, “But that wouldn’t have mattered if I would have been paying attention. You’d still be here, and I mean actually here.”

If you closed your eyes tight enough, you could still see the glass of your front windshield shatter, and you hear the sound of your car sliding. God, it was such a terrible sound. Just remembering it made you want you throw up.

“Baby. I need you to open your eyes and look at me,” he shifted in his seat to face you.

Hesitantly you did as he requested. You could taste the tears dripping off your lip and into your mouth. This was really it, and this was the place that took everything from you. There was nothing he could do or say to make you feel any better about it.

“This isn’t your fault,” he began, and you immediately grabbed your car door, pulling it open. You weren’t going to stick around to hear him try and justify what happened.

“You can’t run from me,” he was standing in front of you, before you could even blink your eyes.

“Not fair, you cant use your ghost powers to cut me off,” You sulked.

“I think I just did,” he did what he had set out to do, he stopped you in your tracks, “Look down.”

Without question you did so, and by your foot was a dirty, but still very shiny locket. You had lost your necklace that night, whether it was when the paramedics had to cut your clothes off, or in the middle of the crash. You knelt down, hooking your finger in the chain, letting it hang off down. He had gotten that for you on your second anniversary.

“This isn’t your fault. This was no ones fault. It was an accident, and that’s all. no one could have foreseen the events of that night. You need to stop blaming yourself, because it’ll take you to your grave if you don’t.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Y/N,” he hissed between clenched teeth, “Don’t fucking say that.”

“I���m sorry… I didn’t mean it, I’m just… I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.” The admittance that he was leaving soon, was almost too much to bare.

“You’ll never be without me, baby.” His hand moved across the necklace, letting it swing back and forth, “I’m always going to be right next to your heart.”

“Don’t… Don’t go, please don’t go.” You were thankful that you were already kneeling down, or falling to your knees like you just did would have hurt a lot more.

“I have to. I don’t need to be here anymore. Letting you go was my unfinished business.”

He was now on his knees, face only mere inches away from yours.

“But I’ll never be able to let you go… What about me? Don’t I get a say in this?”

“I love you so much, Y/N. You will always be the love of my life,” you could already feel the warmth that he carried with him, started to slip away.

No, no, no. Here it was, the end of it all. The end of all the ‘I love you’s.’ There would be no more early morning drives to get coffee, there would be no more moon lit dances on your roof, there would be no more him, there would be no more you.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead. You only knew he did that, because you felt the softest of tingles. He lingered there for a moment, reliving his life in seconds that felt like hours.

Finally he was gone. You couldn’t feel him anymore. All that was left was the necklace in your hand, and the air taken out of your lungs. Your body trembled, as if it was riding itself of the dead weight. A flame flashed over your skin, as if it burned off any remaining pieces of him, turning all his touches to dust.

Your cell phone continued to buzz in your cup holder, Jackson’s name popping up over and over. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. A scream of pure pain filled the night time air. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Begs and pleads to the man you cursed to angrily. Buzz. Bu— Silence.

Two Years Later

You rolled away from Jackson’s grasp to curl into your pillow, eyes heavy with sleep. You loved cuddling with Jacks, but man, that boy could really start to feel like a furnace. Every night you did this, roll away, and yet still manage to wake up with your body tangled with his. He was a magnet.

Jackson must have believed you were asleep, because most nights when you left his side, you were asleep. Not this time though, you were on the brink of sleep and being wide awake.

“Hyung?” Jackson voice was hushed. You could hear the pillow crinkle under his head as he turned to glance over his shoulder, making sure you were still ‘asleep.’

“It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you… and I’m sorry for that. Life has just been so hectic. I just wanted to say I miss you, and I know that y/n misses you too. She still says your name in her sleep, not as much anymore, but on bad days, she’ll call out for you. There’s not much I can do except to hold her.”

You had to use every fiber in your being not to turn around and wrap yourself around Jackson. You wanted to tell him that just because you still called out for Jae some times, didn’t mean that you didn’t love him. It broke your heart thinking that you still said Jae’s names in front of him.

“I don’t mind it though. I know she still loves you, and I would never ever think of taking that away from her. You were everything to her, you still are. I know she loves me too, she shows it all the time, but I’m afraid that I’m not enough for her sometimes. You know? She’s just so incredible. She is kind to everyone on the street, the smiles at little kids, and my parents love her. She’s extraordinary, and I feel way out of her league… but she still loves me. How lucky are we to be loved by someone like that?”

Lucky? You were the lucky one. Most people don’t even have one great love in their life, but you’ve had two - Jaebeom and now Jackson. You’ve been loved unconditionally, and without fear by two men, who could have the world, but decided to make you their world.

“I know you still love her too, and I hope that I can let that live through me, so she never forgets that we love her. I won’t let you down, Jae. I promise.”

A promise he did keep

[faveficarchive]

Love and Death in a Trailer Park

Part 1 of Vivian Darkbloom’s White Trash Series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Academy of Bards: Life in a trailer park takes a on new meaning when a going-nowhere factory worker, Gabrielle, meets a dark and enigmatic firefighter Zina.

Gabrielle held the phone—the old beige one they stole from their mom—away from her ear in disbelief. The perky male voice on the line had asked for her, and when she said "Yup, I'm Gabrielle Hockenberry," the cheerful young man went on to explain that she was being asked to participate in the Jerry Springer Show, more specifically, the show tentatively entitled, "My Sister's Boyfriend Made Me Pregnant!" At which point she screamed, "No fuckin' way!" into the receiver and slammed it down.

She stomped through their apartment in search of Lila, who was on the recliner—the one that Uncle Pat gave him that had been sitting in his garage for two years—eating cold pizza and watching Geraldo. In fact, a half-eaten slice was balanced precariously on her swollen stomach.

Gabrielle snatched the remote out of her sister's limp, greasy grip and Geraldo's face, taut with concern, dwindled into darkness. "What'd ya do that for?" Lila bellowed, as if her sister had stabbed her.

"You know goddamn well, Lila! Some jerk from Jerry Springer just called me!"

Lila's wounded look metamorphosed into surprise and hope. "Yeah?"

"How could you, my own sister! I don't want our dirty laundry aired all over national TV!"

"But Gab," Lila whined, "it would be fun. They put you up in a hotel, you get to ride in a fuckin' limo—"

"Forget it, Lila! If you and Purdy want to embarrass yourselves, go right ahead! But I'm not gonna do it!"

"Come on, Gab—I promise you I'll go easy on you in the fight. After all, you're the wronged party, everyone'll be rooting for you."

The wronged party. Gabrielle clenched her teeth, remembering the night Lila and Purdy sat down with her and told her that they were "in love" and Lila was having his baby. After assaulting Purdy with an old copy of Cosmo, she promptly called up Effie, her best friend, and the two of them went down to the Saddle and got wasted. She had six Rolling Rocks, two pina coladas, and threw up in the bathroom.

Now Lila was five months pregnant. She'd grown accustomed to it all; in fact, when she got right down to it, she hardly missed Purdy at all. She actually saw the bastard even more so now than when they were dating—it seemed like he was over at the apartment constantly, fawning over Lila and the "demon spawn" (as Gabrielle secretly called it) inside her. Still, it all hurt. Being dumped, especially for your own sister, wasn't easy. Purdy had said mean things to her—she was cold, she was too wrapped up in her dreams of writing poetry and going back to school, they didn't have sex enough, blah blah blah....But she didn't blame Lila all that much—after all, Purdy was attractive, that's how he got the nickname, from the bullies in school who said he was "purdy as a flower." The name stuck, but as he grew even more handsome, it took on a favorable aspect.

Gabrielle put hands on hips and glared at her sister. "I could beat you with one hand tied behind my back, even if you weren't knocked up. I've been workin' out, ya know." With that, she stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door.

Once inside her sanctuary, Gabrielle flopped down on her bed and cried a little. To calm herself she clutched her stuffed sheep and stared at her old David Bowie poster. I need something in my life...I need love, I need to get outta here, I need to stop working in that freakin' factory...she chanted this over and over in her mind as the silvery gray of the diminishing day deepened into darkness. She'd had no idea how long she had been lying in bed when she heard the phone ring, and Lila's voice answering it. Then a shout: "GAB-RI-ELLE!!!"

She touched her face—her tears had dried, and she hoped that her eyes didn't look too puffy; she didn't want Lila to know she had been crying. She got up and went out into the living room. Lila stood, watching a rerun of Home Improvement, holding the phone. Her eyes didn't flicker from the screen as she thrust it at Gabrielle, who eyed it suspiciously. Lila did not break her gaze at the TV when she muttered, "It's Effie."

"Thank God it's not Jerry Springer." Gabrielle couldn't resist the jibe as she swiped the receiver from her sister.

"What's this about Jerry Springer?" Effie's voice crackled on the line.

"Nothin', Eff. What's up?"

"Hey, you gonna be there tonight?"

"Huh?" Gabrielle muttered. Then she remembered: Effie and her band, the Amazin' Amazons, were playing down at the Saddle Bar & Grill. "Oh, I guess Eff....although I'm not really in the mood."

"Don't worry. It'll be a short set. Pony hurt her arm at softball the other day, so she's not swingin' the drumsticks as good as usual. "

"Okay, I'll be there. What time you go on?"

"At ten. We'll be done by eleven." A pause. "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah...you know, just the usual bullshit," Gabrielle mumbled so that Lila would not hear. But Effie, of course, did hear her.

"Well, sounds like you need to get the hell out of there for a while. I wish you'd move in with us. We got plenty of room." Effie shared a big farmhouse with her son and her bandmates, Pony and Sally. They were frequently the talk of the town; everyone wondered what went on at "the Farmhouse." Rumors ran amok, of everything from crack houses and homosexual recruitment to orgies involving any number of species and genders. Gabrielle knew none of it was true.

"Come down early, we'll have a beer before the set," Effie said.

"Okay, Eff. I'll be there around nine. How's that?"

"Great! See ya then, honey. Bye." Gabrielle hung up the receiver and headed toward the bedroom. Idly she flipped through the blouses in her closet. Oh what the hell, she sighed, peeling off the old Guns and Roses t-shirt she was wearing, I'll wear what I always wear. She selected the green polo shirt (puke green, everyone said—nonetheless it was her favorite top) and went into the bathroom. She washed her face, dusted her armpits with a fresh layer of Dial deodorant, added a little dab of perfume, washed her face with Noxema, and donned her shirt. She was brushing her flame-colored hair when she noticed Lila leaning in the bathroom doorway. "Goin' out?" her sister asked, noncommittal.

"Yeah," Gabrielle replied with equal neutrality. "Effie's band is playin' down at the Saddle."

Lila scrunched her face with disapproval. "I still don't know about Effie, Gab."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Lila, Effie is not a lezzie, okay? I mean, she had a kid!" Although Gabrielle knew that Effie was open to the possibility, as once declared under the influence of several bottles of Miller Lite and shots of Jagermeister.

"Well, she lives with Pony and Sally, and those two..."

"So goddamn what, Lila. So they're dykes. So what." Gabrielle slammed the brush down.

"Well, I mean, I really don't care...what they do is their own business, just as long as I don't have to see it." Lila tried in vain to sound as liberal as her sister.

"I guess I'll have to tell them not to come over and perform for you tonight, then," Gabrielle growled sarcastically, walking toward the door.

"You're just impossible sometimes," Lila shouted after her. "No wonder Purdy didn't want to be with you anymore!"

Gabrielle picked her car keys out of the candy dish on the kitchen table and slammed the door behind her.

*****

She had been nursing a Miller Lite the entire time Effie and the band were on stage; the set actually ran a little longer than Effie had told her—it was after eleven, and they were finally winding down, singing a version of "Layla." They were an odd group, Gabrielle thought, regarding her friends on stage: Pony at the drums, Sally on bass, Effie with her guitar, singing. Pony liked strictly country music, Sally liked classic rock stuff, and Effie, like Gabrielle, went for mushy love songs, although she was unsuccessful in her campaign to get the group to cover Celine Dion. At last, they launched into the final song of the evening, "Angel of the Morning," much to Sally's consternation; the willowy bassist rolled her eyes as Pony gently yet firmly launched into the melodramatic beats and Effie began to sing. Gabrielle smiled as Effie's voice washed over the inattentive crowd.

Out of the corner of her eye Gabrielle saw an interesting trio enter the bar: A large, burly man with long, sandy brown hair and a short, muscular fellow with curly blond hair were accompanied by a tall, beautiful woman with flowing black hair. They ordered beers at the bar, and while the large man engaged his smaller friend in conversation, the tall woman leaned back against the bar and watched the band. Her jeans, t-shirt, and work boots were as dark as her hair. She stood arms folded, drinking a Heineken. Gabrielle found herself staring at the striking woman, until the woman finally returned her frank, inquisitive stare. With a shudder—of what, she didn't quite know—she turned away and once again focused her attention on Effie. But, half a minute later, when she let her eyes roam once again to the stranger at the bar, she found those sparkling intense eyes still on her.

Half-hearted applause rose as the song ended; Gabrielle, in a nervous burst of energy, led the cheers and clapping. As Effie wished the crowd a good-night and exhorted them to sign a mailing list, Gabrielle climbed on the stage to help the group put their equipment away.

"Hey roadie," Sally greeted her with a grin.

"Hi Sal. How's it going?"

"Pretty good, although dumb-ass over there didn't listen to me!" She threw a glare at Pony, who was slowly dismantling her drum kit. "I heard that," the burly drummer retorted. "I'm fine, Sally, stop bugging me!"

"You're hurt, Pony, you need to rest that arm!" Sally shouted at her lover.

"Knock it off!" Pony yelled back.

"Christ, you two," Gabrielle moaned. Effie came over and gave her a hug. "Well?" she demanded. She always asked Gabrielle's opinion of a performance, because she knew her friend was always honest, yet gentle.

"'Angel' was good, Eff. 'Layla' was a little sluggish though."

"Thought so. Pony was getting tired."

"Shut up!" Pony roared.

"I wish you'd lay off 'Achy Breaky Heart' though..."

"Well, we gotta keep you-know-who happy," Sally growled as she watched Pony stalk off the stage.

"Oh Jesus, Sally, don't let her get tanked!" Effie said to the bassist.

"Don't worry, Eff." Sally leaned into her friends conspiratorially. "Eff—did ya see who's here?"

Effie nodded slowly.

"Who?" Gabrielle asked.

"Zina," Effie nodded over at the bar.

"The woman? With black hair?" Gabrielle said breathlessly. "You know her?"

"Yeah," Effie drawled mysteriously. "We go back a ways."

"I've never seen her in here before," Gabrielle remarked.

"She lives in Chakram Creek. She's a fireman over there."

"Fireperson," Gabrielle corrected.

"Whatever. I'd heard she went straight after getting out of prison."

"No!" Sally cried, horrified.

"Not that kinda straight, Sally," Effie smirked. "I mean, she's not a con anymore. No more dope, no stealin'..."

"What was she in for?" Gabrielle interrupted nervously.

"Oh, she was in and out a lot. Minor stuff at first, like grand theft auto, dealin' weed, then breaking and entering, burglary...she did two and a half years altogether." Effie regarded the dark, dangerous woman who was quietly talking with her large friend. "Some say she even set fire to that old house in Cirra, but they never proved that."

"It's kinda funny she's a fireman then, isn't it?" Sally said. She and Effie cracked up.

"Wow," Gabrielle whispered. She permitted herself to take in the woman unabashedly. Sally and Effie exchanged a look.

"What're you so interested in, Miss Gabrielle?" Sally asked, smirking.

"Nothin'!" Gabrielle cried defensively. "It's just...she sounds real interesting. I'd like to meet her sometime."

Effie raised an eyebrow. "No time like the present, then!" She grabbed Gabrielle's arm and proceeded to drag her friend over to the bar.

"Effie!" Gabrielle squealed in protest. She hoped her hair looked okay.

The three friends at the bar turned their attention to the two women who approached them. "Zina!" Effie said effusively.

" 'lo, Eff," murmured Zina. She hoisted the Heineken to her lips and let her eyes roam over Gabrielle, who felt a strangle tingling sensation travel up her spine. They must have the air conditioning on too strong again, she thought, even though she was sweating a little. Zina, however, looked cool as a cucumber.

"Long time no see. How the hell are you?" Effie said.

"Pretty good."

"Heard you're living over in the Creek now."

"Yup."

"Workin' for the fire department, huh?"

"Yup."

"Like it?"

"Uh huh."

Gabrielle let a dint of exasperation cloud her face. She's about as interesting as that bottle of Heineken, thought the budding poet.

"So what's up, Eff?"

"I wanted to introduce you to my best friend, Gabrielle."

"Hiya." Zina enfolded Gabrielle's smaller hand with her large, warm one. She nodded toward the large man on her left. "This here's Hank." Then a nod to the shorter fellow on her right. "An' this is Ed."

Hank's smile was warm; he too shook Gabrielle’s hand. Ed wore a John Deere cap, from which his mass of curly gold hair tried to escape. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Gabrielle liked him immediately. "Hi!" he said enthusiastically. "Wanna dance?" he asked.

She looked at the dance floor near the jukebox. No one was on the floor except Margie Peckerwood, who was, as usual, drunk and dancing with herself. "Uh, maybe later," Gabrielle said, with an apologetic smile.

"Well, maybe you’d like to go outside an’ look at my new truck..." Ed leered.

Gabrielle looked surprised. Hank shook his head sadly. "Some other time," she suggested. Now she wasn’t sure if she liked him as much.

"Smooth move, Ex-Lax," Hank drawled, playfully swatting Ed’s head and causing his hat to fall to the floor.

"Watch the hat, goddammit!" Ed cried.

"Come on, let’s go play pool. Table’s free." Hank turned to Zina. "You comin’, Z?"

"Not right now," replied Zina with another pull on the Heineken.

As the men sauntered away, Effie announced, "Well, I need to go help Sal load up the van. I’ll see ya later, honey," she gave Gabrielle a quick hug.

"Effie! Don’t leave me with her!" Gabrielle hissed in her friend’s ear.

"Too late!" Effie whispered back, gleefully. She smiled and waved goodbye at Zina, who nodded.

Gabrielle turned to the laconic firefighter. It was then noticed the intense blue of the woman’s eyes. "So, uh, how’d you get such an unusual name?" she asked.

"Mom was a hippie," Zina replied.

"Huh? I don’t get it."

Zina sighed; she hated making the effort to formulate a longer sentence. "Well, uh, you know how tree-huggers are. They’re a little funny, always gotta do things differently. Mom did say it was an old family name, but I don’t know...I mean, she named our dog Moonchild, for Christ’s sake."

Gabrielle giggled. Then stopped, hoping that Zina would not take offense. But a lop-sided grin lit up the tall woman’s handsome face. And Gabrielle felt herself return the smile. Maybe Zina wasn’t as bad as she thought—she did appear to have a sense of humor. "Is, uh, Hank your boyfriend?"

Zina chuckled. "Nope. He was, a long time ago, but not no more. He is my best bud, though. He helped me get on the fire department."

Eventually Zina went over to play pool with Hank. Gabrielle watched and talked with Ed a little, who kept telling her silly jokes.

"Hey, how come little girls don’t fart?"

"I dunno. Why?"

"’Cause they don’t get an asshole until they get married!"

She laughed so hard she spilled her beer. "That’s pretty funny—hey, it’s cool that you told that joke, since you’re a guy and all."

"I’m an equal opportunity bullshitter," Ed replied, swigging a Rolling Rock.

When Gabrielle left the Saddle it was a little after midnight. She climbed into her Ford Escort, inserted the key into the ignition, and heard the car give its old familiar sputter. But this time it would not turn over. She tried for fifteen minutes. Finally she got out of the car, and kicked a tire rather furiously. "Piece of shit!" she yelled at it.

"Not startin’?" said a smooth, sexy voice near her ear.

"Aaaaagh!!!" Gabrielle screamed. She jumped around and saw Zina grinning down at her.

"Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya."

"S’okay," Gabrielle panted. "Uh no, my goddamn car isn’t starting." She kicked the Ford again.

"An Escort," Zina stated flatly. She tch’ed.

"I know, I know, everybody says it’s a piece of crap." She looked at Zina hopefully. "Know anything about cars?"

The firefighter nodded. "Open the hood," she said. Gabrielle reached in and did so. The tall woman ducked her head under the hood. "Battery looks bad," Zina said. "Might be dead."

"Shit!" Gabrielle cried.

Zina slammed the hood down. "Lock it up, call a tow service tomorrow," she suggested. "I’ll give you a ride home on my bike."

"Bike?" bleated the small woman fearfully.

"Yeah." She followed Zina over to a big sleek motorcycle. A Harley.

"Wow," Gabrielle said, awestruck. Zina handed her a helmet. "What about you? Don’t you have a helmet?" she asked, strapping the dark thing on her head.

Zina smiled at her and tapped the helmet. "You’re wearin’ it, kid. Hop on. Where d’ya live?"

"Potadeia Road. The yellow house just past the church."

"Gotcha."

"Uh, Zina?" "Yeah?"

"I’m a little scared—I’ve never ridden on a cycle before."

"It’ll be okay, Gabrielle," Zina replied soothingly. Her simple words, spoken in that rich, clear voice, put Gabrielle at ease. For some inexplicable reason she trusted this woman. "Just hang on to me tight, okay?"

"Okay." Gabrielle climbed on the bike behind the tall woman and gently wrapped her arms around the t-shirt-clad torso. Her grasp tightened as the Harley exploded into sound and motion. The taut, rippling muscles of Zina’s stomach were a pleasant distraction to Gabrielle as they flowed across the parking lot and onto the road.

Zina was a careful driver, Gabrielle noticed—she was confident, yet she did not drive the bike too fast—probably ‘cause she doesn’t want to scare me, thought the young woman. It pleased her that her new friend was so considerate. She sighed happily as they moved through the night. The wind was cool, and Zina’s dark hair whipped behind her, the strands tickling and touching Gabrielle’s face.

*****

The next morning at work, Gabrielle sought out Effie during their 10:15 coffee break.

"So you had car trouble?" Effie said. They didn’t have time to talk before punching in earlier; Gabrielle only had a moment to mention that her car was dead.

"My car broke down outside the Saddle last night. I had to get a ride to work with Purdy," she scowled. Purdy had stayed over last night, and this morning, upon hearing of her dilemma, offered to drive her to work, the big suck-up. Reluctantly she had accepted, since she knew it would be out of Eff’s way to come and give her a ride.

Effie smirked. "Hmmm...you gonna get Purdy to fix it, too?"

Gabrielle sighed in defeat. "Yeah, he’s gonna get Bob to tow it over to the garage this afternoon, and he said he’ll get Bob to give me a discount." Purdy worked at Bob’s garage. I might as well take advantage of the bastard’s guilt, Gabrielle had thought.

"How’d you get home last night?" Effie took a drag off her Marlboro Light.

"Zina gave me a ride." Gabrielle struggled to sound casual, and fought the happy grin that tugged at her mouth at the mere mention of Zina’s name.

"Oooooh," Effie giggled. "You two got kinda chummy there..."

"Eff, stop. It’s not what you think."

"Yeah, right. Pony and Sally think you have it in you."

"No!" cried Gabrielle. A blush traveled across her face.

"Yes. Speakin’ of which, we’re having a birthday party for Pony this weekend, remember? Saturday night."

"Oh yeah...damn, what am I gonna get her?" Gabrielle was relieved at the change of subject.

"Hey, if you just bring her a six-pack she’ll be happier than a pig in swill."

*****

When she woke up on Saturday morning, Lila was gone—she was probably off somewhere with Purdy. Gabrielle poured herself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and sat down to a leisurely breakfast in front of the TV. As she waited for the Cocoa Puffs to get mushy, she noticed a videotape sitting atop the coffee table. It was label-less. Ever curious, she popped the tape into the VCR; the old machine heaved and clicked and whirred, and a picture came into view. It was the Jerry Springer Show. Gabrielle always thought that Jerry—with his messy blond hair and tiny eyes hiding behind those glasses—looked like a Muppet. The title of the show floated by: "Why Did You Knock Up That Slut?" Impatiently Gabrielle started in on the Cocoa Puffs—they still weren’t mushy enough, but she was hungry.

Thus spake Jerry: "On today’s show, we have people who disapprove of their family’s behavior..." The camera swung onto a young man, who looked vaguely familiar: he was thin and scrungy, with hollowed-out eyes, stringy hair, and patchy facial hair. "This is Gary, who is unhappy with his brother’s choice of a girlfriend."

Gabrielle spat out a mouthful of cereal. It was Gary. Purdy’s brother.

"Yeah, Jerry, my brother’s girlfriend is a total skank." She was outraged. That fucker, she thought. How dare he call my sister skank!

"Why do you say that, Gary?"

Gary rolled his druggy eyes. "’Cause she is!"

"Well, er, how about we meet your brother, Peter"—Purdy’s real name—"and his girlfriend, Lila."

Purdy swaggered out onto the set, resplendent in his best flannel shirt. Lila trailed behind him, looking grossly pregnant. Gabrielle felt like putting her foot through the TV, although she was comforted by the fact that Lila looked so huge in the tent-like maternity dress which said "BABY ON BOARD!"

"So, Peter, what do you say about your brother’s claims?"

"Man, he’s so *bleep* up on crack, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about!" Purdy drawled.

"Bull *bleep* !" said Gary. "You got no taste in wimmin whatsoever. Your last girlfriend was a stone cold bitch, and this one’s a slut!"

Purdy hurled himself toward his brother and the set erupted in chaos. Shakily, Gabrielle turned off the TV. She stared into her cereal bowl. He called me a bitch...and they didn’t even defend me. Not Purdy. Not Lila. No one. And they left the tape out in plain sight. Like they wanted me to see it. Why? Why doesn’t anyone ever take my side? She tried to fight it, but tears came to her eyes and she slumped into the recliner, surrendering to the sadness.

*****

Pony eagerly peeled away the wrapping paper. "Bubble bath?" she said, puzzled. "Uh, thanks, Gabrielle." She sat it alongside her other gifts: a whoopie cushion and fake blood (from Hank and Ed), a bottle of Jack Daniel’s (from Effie) and a new softball glove (her most treasured gift, from Sally).

Gabrielle shrugged. Everyone at the party could not help but notice her downcast mood; she felt lousy about it, but couldn’t help herself. Ed tried to cheer her up with some bad jokes, but even that didn’t work for long. So she sat morosely on the couch beside Effie, who every now and then would give her friend a concerned glance.

"I think it’s nice," Effie said. She gave Gabrielle’s leg a squeeze.

"Let’s have cake!" Sally announced. She and Effie moved into the kitchen. Hank, who appeared to have a crush on Effie, followed. Ed took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, and Pony got up to put on a new tape.

"No more Randy Travis, Pony!" Sally shouted from the kitchen.

"Hey, it’s my goddamn birthday!" Pony yelled back. The doorbell rang. "Gab, would you get that?" Pony called.

Mechanically Gabrielle got up and skulked to the door. She opened it. Zina, dressed in a Metallica t-shirt and Levi’s, mirrored sunglasses masking her brilliant eyes, grinned at her. "Am I too late?"

Gabrielle stood speechless. A sense of relief, of warmth, washed over her, and she didn’t know why. Why was she so damned happy to see this woman? "Oh...no," she said quietly. "You’re...right on time." She did not move, but continued to stand in the doorway and stare at the woman before her.

Zina pulled off the sunglasses. Her deep blue eyes showed concern. "Hey, you okay?" she asked gently.

"Uh, yeah. I am now." Gabrielle broke into a grin.

"Can I...come in?"

"Huh? Oh...duh!" Gabrielle stepped aside. "You’re just in time for cake."

"Cool. Where’s the birthday girl?"

"Hogging the stereo," Gabrielle replied.

As Zina moved gracefully into the house, Gabrielle trailed behind her, like a puppy.

*****

It was not lost on Effie that Gabrielle’s mood improved after Zina’s arrival—although she was concerned with how much her little friend was drinking. Her fears were realized when she saw Gabrielle lurch into the bathroom, and heard the tell-tale retching sounds.

Effie surveyed the little party. Ed was passed out. Sally and Pony had "retired" for the evening (thank God for thick walls, she thought)...she wanted to be alone with Hank, who was, remarkably, still sober. She knew that Zina would take off if Gabrielle left, and she hoped the vomiting was the beginning of the end of the party.

She hovered outside the bathroom door with Zina. She knocked lightly. "Gab, honey, you okay?" she called.

"Uh...yeah," Gabrielle moaned.

"Can we come in?"

"What...all of ya?"

"No, just me and Zina."

There was a lengthy pause.

"How about I just send in Zina, okay?" Effie suggested. Zina shot her a panicky look. Sometimes I’m just too smart for ‘em all, Effie thought proudly.

Another pause. "Okay."

Effie turned to Zina. "You’re on your own, Buster Brown." Before the befuddled firefighter could reply, Effie was back on the couch with Hank.

Slowly, Zina opened the bathroom door, expecting the worst. She was much relieved to see that Gabrielle had indeed hit her target, the toilet bowl. The small woman sat on the floor in front of it.

"How ya feelin’?" she asked Gabrielle.

"Better. I’m sorry...I guess I just...had a lousy day."

"Yeah?" Zina asked. "What happened?"

Gabrielle proceeded to tell her about the whole thing: Lila, Purdy, Jerry Springer.

"That sucks," Zina said.

"Thanks. I just felt like shit. Like no one likes me."

"That’s not true, Gabrielle. I...like you." Zina mumbled, nervously rubbing the back of her neck.

"Really?" Zina nodded. "Yeah, well..." Gabrielle giggled.

"What?"

"You don’t want to...you know."

"What?"

"I mean, you don’t like me that way...you wouldn’t want to kiss me or..." Her green eyes met Zina’s. Or would you?

"Uh, no I wouldn’t..."

Gabrielle felt as if she would throw up her heart.

"Cause your breath would smell like puke." Zina smiled. "But if you brushed your teeth..." she added, hoping it sounded enough like a joke so she wouldn’t alarm the girl.

"Get me my purse!" The redhead barked imperiously.

Zina opened the door and yelled to Effie: "Effie! Bring Gabrielle’s purse!" The firefighter saw Effie look up from her position on the couch: stretched out, with her feet in Hank’s lap. The big man was gently massaging her dainty feet. "Oh Christ," Effie moaned. Reluctantly she rose, and did as she was told. Zina smiled gratefully as Effie handed her the huge shoulder bag. "Jesus, what you got in here?" she said, closing the door and giving the purse to Gabrielle.

Gabrielle ignored her and began to ransack the bag with admirable focus. Several objects flew out onto the floor: Tic Tacs, tampons, pens, a tattered-looking notebook, a library card, sunglasses, and birth control pills. Gabrielle stopped for a second and stared at the pills. Then she tossed them into the trash. Then she stuck her arm inside the bag again. "Ah!" Gabrielle cried in triumph, holding aloft a toothbrush. She grinned devilishly at Zina, whose blue eyes went wide in shock.

"Whatsamatter, Zina? You all talk and no action?" She stood up and rinsed the brush, then squeezed some Crest out of the tube.

"Uh..."

Gabrielle glared. "You don’t want to kiss me?" She stuck the brush in her mouth, scrubbing her teeth in a furious lather.

"Uh..."

"Let me tell you somethin’, Dorito-breath, you’re getting the better end of this deal!" she said through a mouth of foam. She rinsed, and flashed her teeth at Zina. Then, for good measure, she took a swig of Effie’s Listerine and gargled.

"Gabrielle, are you sure..."

Gabrielle spat out the blue fluid. "Look, Zina, do you like me or not?" she cried petulantly.

The tall woman, leaning against the tub, smiled her mysterious smile—which turned Gabrielle’s insides out. She reached out and snared Gabrielle by the waist. The short woman was pressed against the muscular firefighter; her hands went flat against the strong shoulders and then glided instinctively around Zina’s neck. "Judge for yourself," Zina said, and lowered on her lips softly onto Gabrielle’s.

They were locked in a kiss when a voice shouted outside the bathroom door: "Comin’ through!" The door burst open and Ed hurled by, crouched over the toilet, and proceeded to throw up. The two women were oblivious to this burst of unpleasant activity. Effie and Hank, who had followed Ed, stood outside the door and stared at the sight of Gabrielle and Zina all over each other.

"Holy hell, Z," Hank muttered in shock.

"Woo-HOO!" Effie chortled.

The noise had roused the birthday girl from a sound, sex-induced slumber. Effie and Hank stood aside, affording Pony a view of the busy bathroom. "This was a pretty fuckin’ awesome party," she observed thoughtfully.

*****

Two weeks passed.

"You’ve been goin’ out an awful lot," Lila commented to her sister one evening, as she watched Gabrielle apply strawberry-kiwi-banana lip gloss in the bathroom.

"Well, I don’t want to be in your way, Lila."

"Bullshit." Lila paused. "It’s not like you were in my way before, Gabrielle." Another pause.

I swear she’s jealous, Gabrielle thought, and let a smug smile cross her face.

"Are you seein’ someone?"

"What if I was?" she retorted in a sing-song voice.

"Who is it?" Lila asked eagerly. She loved gossip, and she was hopeful that Gabrielle would finally get involved with someone, so she could stop feeling guilty.

"You don’t know...this person."

"Well, what does he do?"

"Firefighter," Gabrielle supplied.

"Ooooh," Lila cooed in approval. She conjured up a vision of a tall, dark handsome fireman. Aside from gender, she was not far off the mark at all. "That’s great, Gab. I can’t wait to meet him. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner or somethin’?"

"Uh, maybe sometime soon." She glanced at her Tasmanian Devil watch. "I gotta go. Say, are you and Purdy going to the fair on Friday night?"

"Yeah. You...wanna come?"

"Actually, I was gonna invite Effie and the gang over to watch videos. Their VCR is busted," Gabrielle lied. Her real plan was to invite Zina over for dinner.

"That’s cool. We’ll probably stay over at Purdy’s place that night...so you guys can party all night long."

Perfect, thought Gabrielle with a grin.

*****

There was something about firefighting gear, Zina thought pleasantly: the metal hat and visor, the glossy black and yellow coat, the boots...young children looked at her with awe, adults with admiration and respect, and Gabrielle leaped on her like a tick on a dog as soon as she came home. She sat happily on the couch in her mobile home (she hated to call it a trailer), allowing her lithe companion to crawl all over her like a jungle gym, smother her with kisses, caress her body, nibble her ear and moan throatily: "Ooooh firefighter, save my child...."

The world was perfect, until she heard the screen door slam. "Honey!!!" A shrill voice called. "I got your echinacea tea!"

"Oh shit," Zina moaned.

Gabrielle stopped her assault and turned around. A pleasant middle-aged woman, with a paisley scarf around her head, wearing a flowered skirt and lots of dangling jewelry, stood grinning at them. "Hey honey, who’s your sauce?" she addressed Zina.

Zina sighed. "Gabrielle...this is my mother. Mom, this is Gabrielle."

"Hi, Gabrielle!" Zina’s mother said brightly. "It’s nice to meet you...sorry to interrupt." She winked.

"Hi, Mrs. Zina," Gabrielle blurted, blushing furiously.

The woman laughed heartily. "Honey, you just call me Cyrene. I was never ‘Mrs.’ Anybody." She sashayed past them into the kitchen, carrying a small bag. "So I got you the tea, and some tempeh, a different brand though, I hope you like it..." She opened the refrigerator. "OH MY GOD!" she shrieked.

Gabrielle jumped off Zina’s lap. "What? What’s wrong?"

"There’s something from BURGER KING in here!"

"Mom, chill out, they’re just fries..." Zina mumbled.

"So you say!" Cyrene retorted. "You could’ve had a burger for all I know...and it’s not like fries are any better for you."

Gabrielle looked at Zina in confusion. Just last night she witnessed Zina wolf down a burger from Roy’s. Zina shook her head at Gabrielle and pressed a finger to her lips. Gabrielle nodded in complicity.

"Looks like I got here just in time," Cyrene sighed. "Go get the rest of the groceries out of my car, honey." Grumbling, Zina got up, shed her coat, and lumbered out to the car.

"Now tell me the truth...she’s been eating meat, hasn’t she?" Cyrene asked Gabrielle.

Gabrielle paused. She hated to lie, and she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Zina’s mom. "Yes," she admitted.

"Oh, hell," Cyrene said. "I might as well give up. I’m never going to make her a vegetarian." She shook her head, causing a chain reaction of clinking from her earrings down to her bracelets. "So tell me about yourself, Gabrielle. What do you do?"

"Well, I work at the cannery right now, but I’m hoping to take some night classes at Olympus Community College this fall..."

"Groovy! What kinda classes?"

"Uh, well, I wanna be a writer," she said shyly.

"Wow! That’s so cool! Did Zina tell you that I knew Bob Dylan?"

"No, really?" Gabrielle breathed with awe.

"Yeah, I dated him...right around the time I was dating Zina’s dad...I always wondered if Bobby was Zina’s real father..." she twirled a necklace and contemplated her monosyllabic child. "Nah!" She laughed. "Anyway, I think Dylan is a true poet. He is this century’s Shakespeare, man."

Gabrielle nodded vigorously, even though she had to admit to herself she never understood a goddamn thing that Dylan sang.

"Hey!" Cyrene pulled a joint out of her skirt pocket. "Care to partake?"

The budding poet opened her mouth to eagerly consent, only to hear Zina shout from the doorway, "Goddammit, Mom, put that away!!! D’ya want me to get arrested again?"

"I don’t see any cops, honey," Cyrene grumbled. Nonetheless she put away the joint for later. "Man, busted by my own kid!"

*****

"I’m glad you eat meat, ‘cause I made a meatloaf," Gabrielle said proudly.

It was Friday night. Wearing her best Levi’s, Zina had showed up at the apartment...with flowers, no less. Damn, she’s smooth! thought Gabrielle, sniffing the roses. Purdy never bought me flowers!

"Uh, nice place," Zina awkwardly, sitting on the plaid couch. Then she added: "I do like meatloaf. In fact, I haven’t had a home-made one in a real long time." Like try never, you moron, Zina thought, recalling the endless parade of beans and rice and tofu and tempeh in her childhood.

"Good," responded Gabrielle, who bustled in the kitchen. "You like potatoes?"

"Yup."

"Mashed potatoes?"

"Yup."

"Hey Zina, just what were you in jail for?"

"What?"

Gabrielle poked her head out of the kitchen. "Sorry, I’m just curious...Effie told me you were in prison for two and a half years."

Zina sighed. "Yeah...I had all sorts of priors, and, um, when they caught me breaking and entering, I had a gram of coke on me, and uh, the getaway car was stolen..." Well, so much for romance, the tall firefighter thought.

"Wow," Gabrielle said.

"It’s not somethin’ to be impressed with, Gabrielle."

"I’m not...impressed."

"Scared, then?" The firefighter’s blue eyes issued a dangerous challenge.

Gabrielle met it. "No...hell no, I’m not scared. Why should I be?"

Zina said nothing. Gabrielle crossed the room and sat beside her and linked her arm with Zina’s. "Hey, that’s all in the past. I know that. You’re a different person now...you got a good job, you’re doing right." Gabrielle paused. "You’re trying to make up for what you did, right?"

"I...I’m tryin’, but it’s hard." Zina sighed again, and stared down at the orange shag rug. "You don’t know the worst of what I did." A gentle hand touched her chin and guided her gaze back to Gabrielle’s face.

"Tell me, Zina," she requested softly.

"I guess Eff told you...about the house. In Cirra." Zina’s voice was tight.

"It’s true, then?"

Zina nodded. "No one got hurt, but the whole family...they were homeless. They lost everything. They had no insurance neither." She breathed deeply, for the courage to tell Gabrielle the rest of it. "It was my girlfriend’s house, Gabrielle. She lived there with her parents and sister. One day we had fought somethin’ awful, she said she never wanted to see me again, and I just went nuts. Later that night me and a buddy of mine, Artie...we went by the place...I just meant to like, throw eggs or something, but he lit a newspaper on the porch...an’ it just spread..." Another deep breath. "Callie knew, of course. She knew it was me. I even admitted it to her. But the cops could never prove anything, and since she’s always been mad as a hatter anyway, they just never really believed her." She closed her eyes. She thought Gabrielle would jump up, demand that she leave...call the cops, the state troopers....

Instead, she felt the warm sensation of arms wrapping around her, squeezing tightly. And, for the first time in years, since she was a kid, she let herself cry.

*****

After the fair, Lila and Purdy had gone to his place, but much to their dismay they found Gary crashing there—his cash had run out, and he had no place to go. Feelings were still a little raw from the Springer show—not to mention Purdy was understandably scared of his psycho brother—so Lila and Purdy opted to go to Lila’s.

Purdy woke up Saturday morning around 6:30—he had to be in at the garage by 7, so he had just enough time to wash up and grab breakfast from Dunkin’ Donuts. Lila, of course, was out like a light as he climbed out of bed and wandered down the still-dark hallway. To his dismay he noticed that the bathroom was occupied—what the hell was Gabrielle doing up at this hour? He knew that the woman never voluntarily rose before 10am on a weekend. Well, he thought, I’ve seen her on the can before—and he opened the door to find a tall, strange nude woman with damp hair, glaring at him with irritation. "You might try knockin’ next time," she growled. In a panic he slammed the door shut and stood there in the hallway, puzzled as all hell. "Hey!" he shouted through the door. "Who’re you?"

"Shoosh!" hissed Gabrielle, who was suddenly standing behind him. He yelped loudly in surprise. Gabrielle wore a long black t-shirt which hung down to her knees. It’s not like her to dress in black, he thought. "Gabrielle, what the fuck is going on? I hafta get ready for work!" he yelled.

"Quiet! You’ll wake up Lila," she whispered.

"Who is that in the bathroom?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"Her name’s Zina. She’s a...friend."

"We didn’t see anyone on the couch when we came in last night."

"She was sleeping in my room, Purdy."

He frowned, confused. "Where?"

"In my bed, you idiot."

"Where did you sleep?"

She glared at him.

The faint dawn of understanding crossed his dopey features. "Oh...man. Jesus!" He spun on his heel and ran back into Lila’s bedroom.

*****

"You’ve gone queer on me!" Lila wailed.

"Oh for Christ’s sake, Lila..." Gabrielle groaned.

"I knew I shouldn’t have taken Purdy away from you," she blubbered.

"What are you talking about?"

"You’re too sensitive Gab, you always were. Obviously, the shock of it—losing Purdy to me—was too much, and it made you gay."

"Lila, you can’t make people gay. The therapist on Jenny Jones last week said so."

"That’s just crap!" Lila cried. "What’re you gonna tell Ma and Pa?"

Gabrielle shrugged. "The truth, I guess. That I’m happy. That I’m in love. That I’m going back to school and I’m gonna make something out of my life."

*****

Gabrielle recalled how, when she was little, her parents always told her that the lowest of the low lived in trailer parks. And, she had to admit, trailers in general were pretty ugly...although Zina’s was nicely kept and simple. She smiled. I don’t care if we have to live in a tent, as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.

They had decided to move in together. Zina had said, with her salary, she could support them both while Gabrielle went to school full time. At first Gabrielle had resisted—she didn’t want to be a charity case—but later reconsidered. She knew she would get a better job with a college degree, or so she hoped. And she could do the same for Zina someday, like if she wanted to retire early...in the meantime she was happy to return to school, cook, clean, and wash Zina’s seemingly endless supply of black t-shirts.

Things got better and better. One day, not long after they had moved in together, Effie showed up after work, in a state of excitement that Gabrielle had never seen her in. "Guess what!" she shrieked.

"What??" Gabrielle squealed in return; the emotion intensified the shrillness factor.

"We got a record deal!!" screamed Effie.

"Oh my GOD you’re kiddin’!!!" They clasped arms and jumped wildly about the trailer so much that Gabrielle was half-afraid the thing would fall off its foundation.

"It’s true, Gab! It’s all ‘cause of Hank, too!" Effie said proudly. "He made a tape of us one night when we were performing at the Saddle, and he sent it to this record company in Memphis!! The dude who owns it—Colonel Tom Artemis, I think his name was—says he wants us to come down and make a record!"

They collapsed on the couch together. "Wow, Eff, that is so cool! I’m so happy! I’ll be your number one fan, always."

Effie turned serious. "Look, honey, I got a favor to ask..."

"Anything, girl. You know that."

"I want you an’ Zina to stay at the farmhouse while we’re gone."

Gabrielle’s jaw dropped.

"Look, you know that house has been in my family for a long time. Well, we’re not gonna be there, at least maybe for a long time...we really want this thing in Memphis to work...and I want someone there, to watch over the place, to take care of it. And I can’t think of anyone better than you two, ‘cause you really are family to me."

"Oh, Effie!"

Together they cried so much that they went through an entire box of Puffs.

*****

They stood outside the trailer. Or rather, Gabrielle stood and Zina paced. "I hope this idea of yours works," the firefighter muttered.

Gabrielle smiled confidently. She had a feeling it would.

A red Camaro swung in the trailer park from the highway. As it careened down the road, the driver’s wild blond hair became visible and the car seemed to gain speed as it approached them. Gabrielle panicked for a moment and thought the driver might kill them. But Zina seemed undisturbed, so she figured it must be okay.

The wild Camaro abruptly stopped a mere three feet in front of the stoic Zina. It had happened so fast Gabrielle didn’t even have time to be afraid. But Zina’s face betrayed nothing as the driver exited gracefully from the car.

She was tall, although not as tall as Zina, thin, wearing a yellow halter top and the shortest pair of cutoffs that Gabrielle had ever seen. "Hello, Zina," she sneered sarcastically.

"Callie," Zina returned the greeting in a hostile, bored tone.

Callie turned her attentions to Gabrielle. "What is this, Little House on the Prairie?"

"Callie..." Zina growled.

"What is it you wanted to see me about, Zina? Or did you want to try to set me on fire this time?"

"I want to give you something, Callie. I know I can never repay you..."

"I’ll say, you firemen don’t make that much...I thought it was pretty funny, Zina, when I heard you became one...I thought, boy, they must be pretty desperate."

"I wanna give you my home, Callie." Zina jerked her thumb toward the trailer. "As payment. For you to do with whatever you want. You can live here. Your parents can live here. Hell, you can set the thing on fire if you want." Zine held up a thick envelope. "I signed it all over to you."

Callie stared at her in disbelief. Then she stared at the trailer and, walking around it, made a slow circular inspection. Then she opened the door of the trailer, and peeked inside at its immaculate emptiness. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she looked at Zina, her sneer firmly back in place.

"So you think," Callie began in a low, menacing voice, "that if you give me this piece of crap, that it’ll make up for everything you’ve done to me, that it’ll equal the loss of my HOME?" she screamed out the last word, which echoed over the park.

Gabrielle winced. Man, she’s even shriller than Eff & I put together.

Zina raised a sculpted dark eyebrow. She held out the envelope to Callie. The crazed brown eyes met the cool blue ones.

Callie blinked, then shrugged. "Okay. What the hell." She snatched the envelope from Zina. Hands on hips, she regarded her new trailer. "Ah...things I could do with this place..." she murmured in delusion.

God, she’s even crazier than Zina said, thought Gabrielle.

"Well, it’s been real, Callie, an’ it’s been fun...but it hasn’t been real fun." Zina started to walk toward her Harley, followed by Gabrielle.

Callie ignored her and idly twirled a strand of her wild hair. She was picturing the exterior of her trailer in day-glo orange.

"That worked out pretty well," Zina commented as she straddled the Harley and started it with a kick. "Thanks, Gabrielle. How’d you come up with that idea anyway?"

Gabrielle tucked her red-gold hair under her helmet and then flung her arms around her companion’s waist. "Oh honey, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it."

Laughing, they tore of out the trailer park together.

THE END

[workmaninprogress]

Last month I volunteered to read at a service for Transgender Day of Remembrance. What I didn’t realize is that I would end up speaking for the closing remarks. My responsibility went from reading off of a paper to trying to come up with something worthy of the occasion.

There was something that I had written a few months ago that I didn’t get as involved in as I wanted to because I didn’t have the words for it yet. I used it as a caption for a photo several posts ago so it’ll sound familiar. I combined that with what I had written last year for TDOR. Then, of course, finished with a quote from ABBA.

I don’t necessarily ~have~ to share my speech more publicly than I already have, but I felt it important to document it as part of my transition.

For time, I ended up reading only the names of the transgender individuals from the US at the service. But there were 347 names I did not read. Meaning there were 369 deaths total within the past year.

Here’s the speech (not sorry for length):

“I remember being little and standing on the metal step stool in front of the bathroom mirror.

I remember “shaving” my face using popsicle sticks as my razor.

I remember hours in front of that mirror, tucking my hair behind my ears, moving my bangs to the side so that all I saw was short hair.

I remember playing outside with a childhood friend. We were playing with water balloons, he took his shirt off, I wanted to but couldn’t, and didn’t know why.

I remember wanting boy shoes but getting the same pair of white keds with flowers several times in a row instead.

I remember being a double agent for the boys so I could steal dolls and teddy bears from girls on the playground.

I remember the exact day, the exact moment, and the exact red and black striped shirt that I realized I had boobs.

I remember the embarrassment of my first period.

I remember the peer pressure and teasing from my classmates until I shaved my legs.

I remember the time spent pretending to like a boy just to have something to talk about with girls.

I remember wanting to hold hands with all of the girls, that I realized later, I had crushes on.

I remember needing to hide in bathroom stalls while changing in the locker room and feeling the overwhelming desire cover every inch of my skin when it came for swimsuit season.

I remember being called a dyke in the high school cafeteria.

I remember just how little I remember of 13 years of mennonite school after repressing most of it.

I remember cutting my hair short for the first time.

I remember the several hairstylists that said “oh you don’t want that, that’ll be too masculine.” every time I went in to get it cut shorter.

I remember coming out as bi on Facebook and my aunt immediately accusing me that all I wanted was sex.

I remember my math professor splitting the class up between girls and guys as an example of percentages.

I remember her counting wrong 3 times before she realized I wasn’t a boy.

I remember verbally expressing my interest in transitioning for the first time.

I remember my best friend not believing me.

I remember when it finally clicked in her brain, and she became one of my first supporters.

I remember telling another so called best friend.

I remember the night she told me that there was no room for a sick person like me in her life.

I remember telling my sister and her reaction of pure disappointment and fear of tearing the family apart.

I remember telling my brother and his not so eloquent way of telling me he will always support and love me.

I remember getting stuck in my first binder.

I remember the summer morning that my father tried to kick me out of the house and said he wanted nothing to do with me because of a binder.

I remember the feeling of relief after my breast reduction.

I remember the disappointment of waking up, knowing I’d still be wearing a binder every day.

I remember the mother of my first girlfriend who said I was insane to try to make someone else go along with my lies.

I remember getting dumped over the phone. Listening to her voice almost laughingly say “I just think I’m a lesbian.” as she blamed my gender identity for the breakup.

I remember the nurse being late to my appointment for my first shot of testosterone.

I remember learning how to do my own shots.

I remember the anticipation for it to be shot day again.

I remember that anticipation dwindling and becoming a mundane, often forgotten, task.

I remember every moment spent arguing with the pharmacist so that I can get the correct needles to do my injections.

I remember my voice starting to crack, counting my chin hairs in the mirror, and wanting to eat everything in sight.

I remember shaving my face for the first time with a real razor instead of pretending with popsicle sticks.

I remember my coworker at the deli thinking it was outrageous that customers called me “sir.”

I remember a nurse at a hospital telling me “you had me fooled as a man, and you should take that as a compliment,” meaning I passed well as a cisgender male.

I remember opening up for the first to a room full of strangers during group therapy.

I remember the 71 year old man shaking my hand, giving me a hug, and telling me what an inspiration I was to him.

I remember my mother standing in the kitchen as she fumbled her words saying “you’re a good girl. Er. Boy. Thing. Person. You’re a good person.”

I remember the feeling of receiving a standing ovation, just two weeks ago, from another (much larger room) full of strangers after I told my story in hopes to help bring awareness to educators.

Soon I will be able to look back and remember this moment. File it away as another step in my transition.

I remember how far I’ve come. I remember the little girl with long red hair wearing dirt covered overalls. She’s still in me and I work hard every day to try to make her proud. But we’re not here for me and my memories. Because I’m just the one reading a list of names.

A list of names of the children and adults that have died within the past year. Transgender and gender non-conforming people. I read maybe twenty or so names. Twentyish names out of the three hundred and sixty nine documented people that have lost their lives within the year.

369.

That number is hard to swallow, but we shouldn’t forget about them. We should mourn their loss. We should become activists for those that have been silenced. More importantly we should offer love, hope, and support for those that can’t speak up.

I’m able to stand here reading this after injecting my 71st shot of testosterone into my thigh last night. I’m able to stand here because I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by loving and supportive people. With every name added to that list, I’m reminded of how incredibly difficult this journey is and how incredibly blessed I am to be able to live an open life. I choose to be open and vulnerable for those that don’t have that ability.

I don’t really know what words to string together to make this moment seem ~okay~ so I suppose I’ll just stop talking. I’ll leave you with some words from my all time favorite band, abba:

“People need hope, people need lovin'

People need trust from a fellow man

People need love to make a good livin'

People need faith in a helping hand”

369. Remember them.”

[iamnotoriginalphil]

The Art of Love - Chapter 5 (Carol x Reader)

This chapter took a bit of a turn, and as such there is some blatant homophobia. This is your warning 

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

The whole thing was getting ridiculous. No matter what you did, Carol was refusing to talk to you in a one on one conversation. In fact, it felt as if she was pointedly ignoring you, leaving you to your own devices. How were you meant to work under these conditions? It was impossible.

You’d taken to walking amongst the students, glancing over their work, waiting for questions. Before raising their hands the students always glanced at Carol, as if expecting her to snap at them, but if you couldn’t answer their question Carol always knew the answer, surprisingly patient with her students. Each time you smiled, not expecting her to have a soft side. She’d sometimes catch you smiling, glaring at you until the smile slipped from your face.

Your favourite part of any class had become the moments when Carol was at the front, actually teaching. In those moments you were able to study her, try and figure out what made her tick, if that were even possible. You weren’t sure it was. She seemed such an enigma. From her 80s glasses, to her insanely teased hair, to the soft flannels she seemed to have in every colour of the rainbow. You did not understand her at all.

And then there were these moments when he bell would ring and the students would begin to leave when she’d look at you with that piercing gaze of hers, your skin would flush, and you’d have to turn away to get your heart back under control. You needed her to stop doing this to you, to stop having this effect on you.

All this had added up to you sitting in your local bar, nursing a beer while your friend, Maddy, tried to distract you with stories about the horrible customers in the shop she managed. You were only half listening, your eyes scanning the crowd.

“You know what your problem is?” Maddy asked.

“No, but I get the feeling you’re about to all me,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“You need to get laid,” she said, “all these feeling will go away once you get some.”

You laughed, tipping your bottle at her.

“You may be right,” you said, “it’s been too long.”

“Wasn’t the last one that girl with the flower crown and the misspelled tattoo?” she asked, shaking her head at the memory.

“Yeah, great with her tongue as long as she wasn’t talking,” you said, “she was planning on moving so South America because she liked alpacas.”

“Tragic,” Maddy said.

You laughed together. The door swung open, letting in a large group of people, immediately making their way to the bar. A lone figure trailed behind them. Your eyes flickered over her and you sighed, resting your head on your arms.

“No fucking way,” you muttered, “not tonight.”

Maddy looked over at the woman sitting at the end of the bar.

“Is that her?” she asked, “is that really the infamous Carol?”

For her part, Carol had noticed you the moment she’d walked in. You were at a table with a pretty young woman, your long legs on display in a short dress, and a laugh easily coming from your mouth. She’d wanted to strangle you. She’d wanted to kiss you.

This was her bar, the place she frequented almost every Friday night, and you had the audacity to show up, flaunting yourself for all the world to see while she was trying to drown you from her thoughts. Who the fuck did you think you were? And who the fuck was that with you?

Carol wasn’t jealous. She didn’t do jealousy. No one was worth getting that worked up over, certainly not you. She didn’t care you were there with another woman, probably smiling and laughing, not noticing her there at all. She made sure to put her back to you, deciding not to give you a second glance.

Maddy was scrutinising her, her eyes narrowed as she watched her order a drink. You looked over your shoulder at her, your heart thumping.

“Why did you bring me to this bar?” you asked her.

“Dave took me here, it was cheap,” she said, craning her neck to get a better look at Carol.

“Can you fucking stop?” you asked, “you’re not exactly being subtle.”

She sat back in her seat, taking a long pull from her beer. You rolled your eyes and tried not to shoot another glance over your shoulder. If you just ignored her it would be like she wasn’t even there. You could pick up a pretty young thing, fuck her until whatever this was disappeared, and then continue on with the prickly art teacher.

“Is that your type now?” Maddy asked, raising an eyebrow at you, “middle aged hardass?”

“Fuck off,” you said and drained your beer.

You slammed the bottle back on the table and stood up.

“Next round?” you asked her. She nodded, draining her own bottle.

You strode up to the bar, huffing when you saw the only empty space was uncomfortably close to Carol. You did your best to ignore her, flicking your hair over your shoulder to create a curtain between the two of you. You smiled at the bartender, getting his attention. You ordered two of the same, leaning against the bar, waiting for them.

“Fucking dyke,” the man next to you spat.

You turned to look at him, wondering if he was talking to you. It wouldn’t be the first time. His body was turned towards the woman at the end of the bar, the woman you were trying not to look at. You noticed the way her eyes were flashing behind her glasses and you shivered. The barman put your bottles down in front of you. You thanked him, handing over the money.

���Go back to your fucking dyke bar,” the man said. The barman raised his eyebrow at you but turned away to help some people at the other end of the bar.

“Hey,” you said, getting the asshole’s attention.

He turned to you and you suddenly realised what a bad idea that had been. He towered over you, his body mass at least twice yours. You looked over his shoulder at Carol who was sneering at you and you were overcome with the knowledge this was not going to end well.

“Is this your girlfriend?” he asked Carol, condescension dripping from every syllable.

“This is an idiot,” she said, levelling her glare at you.

She wanted to strangle you. You shouldn’t be getting involved with this asshole. She’d always dealt with these things, attracting these kind of dicks. But you were so small, and so nice. You should know better than get involved. She wanted you to give up, just walk back over to your companion, and not return.

“You can’t speak to her that way,” you interjected before either could say anything else.

“Beckett, take a hint and fuck off,” she said, turning away from you.

“He can’t fucking get away with that kind of language,” you said, the anger that had been sitting at the bottom of your stomach all week finally beginning to rear it’s ugly head, “this is the fucking 21st century.”

“Beckett, listen to me,” she said, “turn around and walk away like a good girl. No one wants you here.”

“No, let her stay,” the man said, reaching out to grasp your arm. You tried to flinch back but his hold was too strong for you to break, “she might enjoy the company of a real man.”

Without thinking about it you drew your free arm back, formed a fist, and punched him in the nose. He reeled back from you, letting you go, blood beginning to drip from his nose. Carol was looking at you, her eyebrows raised. You stepped back, grabbing her by the arm and steering her back towards your table, the man bellowing after you.

“You really are a fucking idiot,” she said.

You shrugged and sat on your stool again. Carol stood beside your table, eyeing up Maddy who was looking back at her, interest in her face.

“Was he being threatening?” Maddy asked, jerking her chin at the guy who was eyeing your table, his body visibly shaking with rage.

“And homophobic,” you said.

“Should we get out of here?” she asked.

“Probably a good idea,” you said and stood again.

Maddy stood with you, shooting another glance at Carol. You sighed and turned to her, already knowing Monday was going to be hell. There’s no way she’d let you live any of this down.

“If you have any survival instinct, you’d get out of here too,” you said to her, “or that guy may come back for another round.”

You turned on your heels and stomped out, Maddy by your side.  She watched you walk out, an odd combination of bemusement and anger boiling in her stomach. Part of her wanted to follow you, to shout at you for being such a fucking idiot. Another part of her wanted to hide away and replay the moment you’d punched that asshole in face on repeat for the next two days. She hadn’t realised how attractive physical violence could be. Her heart was thumping wildly.

She glanced over her shoulder at the asshole at the bar and decided you were probably right. She exited the bar, ignoring the new rowdy group of people just inside the door, and set off down the block. If she turned back she could see you, walking with your friend, laughing about something. She clenched her jaw and turned back around. She was not jealous.

“You okay?” Maddy asked once you’d slowed down about half a block from the bar.

“Yeah,” you said, “didn’t want to admit it back there but that fucking hurt.”

You looked down at your hand, your knuckles flecked with the guy’s blood. Bruises would soon be forming there but at least you could tell your father something he taught you had come in useful.

“C’mon, Rocky, let’s get you cleaned up,” Maddy said, dragging you down the street.

“Monday is going to be awful,” you told her.

Tags: @girlhomosonly @gayvaanburen @prettysureimgayxo @gaycaroldenning @hennyxrussell @darlingcherries @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @nocturnal---mistress @marla-black @marvelismylifffe @georgie-porgie-pies @myluromance @whymecarol @villxneve @your-prison-daddy @keisha-deann @stylebydesignxo @timebeckons @eclipses77 @lovingcaroldenning @badassheda @novellaqueen @babysaints @thecaroldenning @androdad @aquilasaurus @tab-i-laugh @sociosapphic @caroldenningg

(If you want to be tagged in future Carol fics drop me a message)

[hellotheretraveler]

A Story

I was three years old when I memorized the sounds the symbols on the page meant and realized that, together, they made the words that I spoke. I began to read every story I could get my hands on. I had a pile of books I had read next to my bed that was nearly as tall as I was. I loved the fairy tales and their happy endings, but my mother always told me that I would never be a princess, Prince Charming was never real, and that endings are rarely ever happy.

I was five years old when I learned firsthand what my mother meant. My mother cried at night when she thought I was asleep and she told me that she and my dad didn’t love each other anymore. I met a new lady who was supposed to be my new mom, and a man who I hid from under the kitchen table. I learned that my dad liked my new mom better than my real mom, and had decided to choose her over my mom, my baby brother, and me. My happy family and the world in which I lived was destroyed.

I was seven years old when I cried every day at school. The teachers were worried at first, but by the third day it had gotten old and they waved me off as attention-seeking. When they asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t begin to explain, and instead used the first excuse that popped into my head. I wanted my family back together. I was bullied by my classmates and shamed into hiding my face inside my lunchbox when the tears would come. They always came. I wrote happy stories where no one cried, and there were no bullies, and people helped one another when things were bad.

I was eight years old when I finally learned that crying was weak and I bottled up all of those feelings until I was alone. I met my new mom’s friend Carlos who enjoyed looking at me and touching me here and there. Most of that I couldn’t remember clearly, but I did remember the white powder on their noses. I wrote more and more stories, revolving around my stuffed animals. They were all friends, and loved one another. That was enough, I decided.

I was nine years old when my teacher discovered one of my stories and brought it to the principal’s attention. She said that it was evidence that I wanted to die. I was brought to the nurse’s office and eventually taken to my doctor. I was asked too many questions, but my mother answered them all for me. I didn’t understand what the word “abuse” meant, but it was said a lot. I was given a prescription for Strattera, which they told me would help me focus and keep me from writing my stupid stories.

I was ten years old when my classmates were all asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. They all wanted to play various sports or be doctors. I knew that none of them would ever do those things, because my mother had always insisted I remain realistic and keep my stupid story fantasies to myself. A doctor costs too much money and has to be really smart, she said. Someone who plays sports has more chance of winning the lottery than being drafted, she said. So when it came my turn to say what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly said I wanted to be an author. I was met with laughter from my peers. My teacher frowned at me and asked me to pick something more realistic.

I was twelve years old when I asked my mother for new jeans because my old ones didn’t fit anymore. She told me they were fine, and that clothes cost money. I told her I was being bullied at school because my clothes didn’t fit. I demanded she take me shopping for new clothes, and she chased me up the stairs beating me with a shoe before throwing me across my bedroom and pinning me down, attempting me to force on the jeans that didn’t fit. Not long after, the man I had his from all those years ago threatened to hit me again. I assured him I would go to school with the shortest shorts and the tiniest shirt and tell everyone just where I got my bruises from. They never hit me again, but instead used their words to hurt me in ways that couldn’t be seen. My stories began to start with the main character’s entire family dying.

I was thirteen years old when I learned I wasn’t alone. I met someone, a boy, who was also bullied for being weird. We instantly became friends, and I found I liked him a lot more than I liked the rest of my friends. The merciless bullying continued, but it didn’t matter anymore. I thought to myself that I would never be alone again, until he moved away at the end of the year. I thought that it had been my fault. I thought that maybe if I had said something about how I felt, we would still be friends. I looked at the stars every night and took comfort in the fact that he could see the stars, too. He could be staring up at that very same constellation, and maybe he would think of me. My stories began to feature boys. Handsome ones, kind ones, the kind that my mother had promised didn’t exist. The kind that made you smile when you cried and made the voices in your head stop. The kind you were best friends with since you were little and grew up to marry. That was the love story I wrote over and over.

I was fifteen years old when I was told I was beautiful. I had waited for two years to find my boy, but he had never come, and I hadn’t found him. I was afraid. I said no again and again, but it fell on deaf ears. He persisted. I believed he loved me. I believed the nice things he said and turned a blind eye to the way he touched me, the way he had no respect for my feelings or my body. I believed that, after being told I was unlovable, I had finally found the love story I had searched for.

I was seventeen years old when I found the drugs. I brought pictures to school and fell apart in tears in front of my favorite teacher. He sat and listened to me recount my whole life, and said that the way I had been treated was horrible. I told him I deserved it. He told me there was nothing I could have done to be betrayed by those who were meant to love me, to deserve the treatment I had gotten. He sent me to a social worker, and I told her everything, too. It really seemed that perhaps there would be a happy ending to my story after all. Perhaps heroes were real. But the social worker told me there was nothing they could do to help me, and I was left in my tower, alone. I had an internship at the elementary school where my tears were dismissed and my schoolwork was more important than my suicidal thoughts. I saw the same thing happening to another little girl. I saw the bruises on a little boy’s arms and I heard the children bully each other. All I had to do was care, and the little boy smiled. He wrote stories about his stuffed animals because it made him feel better. All I had to do was care, and the little girl stopped putting pins in her arms. I told her all the things I needed to hear when I was nine years old, and her dark eyes lit up with the hope that things did get better. I thought that perhaps I was the hero.

I was eighteen years old when he left me, angry that I had caught him cheating on me just as my mother had caught my father thirteen years before. He claimed I was controlling, and he tore me down and made me hate myself. I didn’t value myself at all. All I wanted was to die. I thought maybe if I got better, he would love me again. I tricked my mother into taking me to see the doctor, and ended up with a prescription for Prozac. I saw him for what he was, and vowed never to allow that to happen to me again. When my stepfather assaulted my little brother, I called my father as my brother begged me to. I called the police like my father said. My mother was enraged, blaming me and claiming that I didn’t know what the word “abuse” meant. I wasn’t nine years old anymore. She demanded I apologize to my stepfather for calling him abusive, and I refused. I was kicked out of the house, but not before making sure my brother knew I was there for him. Yes, I was the hero.

I was nineteen years old when I lived with my father. I sat on a sum of money and took care of the house and my little brothers while his body died. He preached ignorance to my brothers and called me a dyke when I cut my bangs. I visited my grandparents nearly every other weekend, and saw the way they interacted with one another. Yes, that’s true love. That’s a love story, and it was enough. I went to therapy and talked about the boy I hadn’t seen for seven years. I continued to lay out under the stars, like I had for seven years. I looked up and hoped against hope that he saw the stars too. I hoped he still thought of me. My brothers urged me to search, and I found his mother. I sent her a message on Facebook and nearly threw up from the anxiety. I had responses from her and from my boy in minutes, and began talking to him every day for months. We would stay up until the wee hours of the night talking on Skype and eventually we both admitted we loved each other. I bought a plane ticket without my family knowing and ended up across the country to see my boy. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder, afraid of who was lurking there. I saw his family as my own, and desperately wished to have something so wonderful in my life. Everything would fall apart only to be saved at the last moment, just like in the stories I loved. Just before his grandparents left, we got our own home. For the first time in my life, I was home.

I was twenty years old when I began to see cracks in the perfect veneer. My boy was in pain, and my boy had issues, but I promised that I would always be there. I wanted to be there for him, just like I had been for the kids at the elementary school. I wanted to do that for a living. It had become my dream. All of the stars were dimmed and I forgot what it felt like to cry for home when I was scared, because I was already there. I took home for granted, and I took him for granted. I had grown afraid of his issues, and I began to ask people I thought were my friends for help. None of them understood what home meant, or what a love story was to me. I was childish and foolish. Perhaps I was. But when my boy needed me most, I ran away. He destroyed himself and had to go back to where he had been a year before, and I thought I had saved myself.

I am twenty years old. I sit here and tell you that I am not the hero I thought I was. I want so badly to help children, to save them from my own fate. And yet, when faced with someone I care about and love more than anything, I fail. I sit here and I tell you that the love story is real, because I can assure you with absolute certainty that soulmates really do exist. I just gave up on mine, because I was weak and selfish. I promised that I would give up everything, but never him. But that was what I did. I want you to believe that love stories are real, that soulmates are real, that heroes or real. But none of these things were meant for me.

I am twenty years old, and I tore the pages out of my book because I was afraid I wouldn’t like the ending. I gave up on the story, and I have been lost between the lines of words that were never written. There isn’t a way to fix the book, to put it back together. The story was never about a hero, but about a coward. The moral of the story is to never, ever, give up on people that you love, no matter the cost.

I learned that lesson too late. I am twenty years old, and my story is over.

[rhetoricandlogic]

Ally

by NALO HOPKINSON

PUBLISHED IN MAY 2018 (ISSUE 68) | 3100 WORDS 

© 2018 by Nalo Hopkinson.

It’d been a warm, sunny spring afternoon. The grass in the cemetery was green, the roses and lavender in the wreaths fragrant. Iqbal’s funeral had been a quiet affair, all things considered.

Our circle was getting too old for the type of soap opera drama that had marked our younger years. We’d lived for enough decades that my friends and I had settled into some kind of rhythm, had dared to allow some of our sharp edges to be burnished smooth.

So by the time of Iqbal’s funeral, Joachim had long since given up staging drunken screaming matches in parking lots with Jésus for stealing Joachim’s boyfriend Steve, lo these many years ago. After all, soon after Steve had left him, Joachim had met and bottomed to Randall at a play party, and they’d been together ever since. Randall had ceased lamenting the flawless beauty of his youth to anyone who would (or wouldn’t) listen. He’d started dating a couple of eager smooth-skinned houseboys, vetted by Joachim. The young men kept Joachim’s and Randall’s boots spit-polished. Randall had let his hair grow in grey, waxed his mustachios, and relaxed into his daddy role.

Munroe had become an actual daddy as a result of a drunken evening with his dyke friend Alice. He ended up sharing custody of the little girl with her—mostly amicably, with some glaring exceptions. “Baby” Tina was twenty-two years old now. She’d attended the service with hugs for all her uncles and me, her aunty. Almost everyone had remembered to call me Sally. After all, it’d been seven years. Pete did slip up and call me “Jack . . . er, Sal,” but I didn’t bite his head off; he was, after all, burying his husband. But it’s been seven fucking years, dude, and you’re still making that mistake?

When I transitioned, Pete’s awkwardness about it had cooled our friendship down quite a bit. So as I stood beside the grave site with the others, watching the coffin being lowered mechanically into the hole and longing to get out of the black pumps that were crushing my toes in two very stylish vises, I was surprised when my phone buzzed with a text from Pete: The bar in an hour? Just you and me?

Well. It’d been years since he and I had hung out like that, but I knew exactly which bar he meant. I texted back, Make it an hour and a half. To underline that I wasn’t going to let him “Jack” me again, I added, Momma needs to slip into something more comfortable.

I only stopped at home long enough to switch my heels for flats and give the hubby a squeeze, but Pete was already waiting when I got to the bar. He was nursing a virgin Manhattan, extra maraschino cherries. Nowadays, sugar was his drug of choice. He looked glumly up at me and kicked out the chair opposite his. The haunted look in his eyes made my heart ache. I sat. He said, “Rye and soda?” I didn’t even need to nod. He knew what I liked, and was already signalling the waitress.

Two women sitting together at the bar gave me the side-eye. They leaned their heads together to talk, scowling at me the whole time. Easy to figure what they had their panties in a twist about. “You okay?” I asked Pete. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

His eyes met mine. “Something happened the other day.”

“With Iqbal?”

He frowned. “Yes. No. I’m not sure.”

I sighed. “Tell me.”

He tried on an ill-fitting smile. “I dunno. It’s dumb. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“‘But you must be mad,’” I quoted. “‘We’re all mad here.’”

Unlike the Cheshire Cat’s, his smile became a little more real as he quoted back: “‘There’s no use trying. One can’t believe impossible things.’” His smiled cracked. “Maybe it was just the stress. Of everything. Of Iqbal . . .”

My drink had arrived. I took a sip, let the bite and chill of it roll around on my tongue, swallowed. “Pete, I’m listening. You know I always will, no matter how crazy the thing you have to tell me.” No matter how hurt I was that we weren’t really friends any more.

His eyes were wet. “You remember Mrs. Richardson.”

It wasn’t a question. Pete and I had known each other since we were teenagers in high school. He was the first person I told outright that I wasn’t a boy. He’d laughed it off, quite gently. But I’d never mentioned it to him again.

And of course I remembered that cunt. She shouldn’t have been allowed near kids, much less allowed to foster young Pete. Meeting a foster kid had been quite the eye-opener for me. Meeting the spinning ball of hatred that was Mrs. Richardson made the skin on my arms crawl, made me almost grateful for my passive-aggressive mother and my transphobic dad.

I said, “One minute she’d be sweet as pie, the next she’d be raging.”

“She wasn’t always like that, though. At some point, she changed.”

I hadn’t known that. “Really? What turned her evil, then?”

“The other way round, Sal.”

Good. I was back to being Sally, or as close as Pete would get to it. “Wait—you mean she used to be worse?”

He nodded. “When I was first placed with her, she’d come at me night and day. She said I was a lost cause, but she would whip me into shape. Once I laid the table with the knives and forks on the wrong side of the plates. She sent me to bed without dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“She made me do all kinds of evening and weekend chores till I was so tired, I fell asleep on top of my homework. Then she punished me for getting bad grades. Took my socks away that fall and winter. Couple of my toes never recovered from the frostbite.”

It felt like the bottom had dropped out of my belly. “We were friends! Why didn’t you tell me?” The Mrs. Richardson I’d met mostly yelled a lot. Vile things, usually variants of “dumbass.” And she’d refused to give permission for Pete to go on any school trips.

“I’d only just met you. It started happening in summer, when you were away at camp. And anyway, it didn’t last long.”

“Lasted long enough for you to get frostbite that winter.”

He shrugged. “What good would telling you have done?”

“We could have told my folks, or the school! Someone would have gotten you out of there!” I was nearly shouting. People near us glanced at us then looked away.

“You’ve never been a foster kid. More likely, no one would have believed us and the investigation would just have made her hate me even more.”

All that time, he’d been suffering. And all this time, he’d kept his secret from me.

“She was careful to only hit me in places the bruises wouldn’t be seen.”

“Jesus.” I sucked back more of my drink and waited for him to continue. But he stayed silent. I prompted him: “What made her get nicer? Or at least, made her stop physically hurting you?”

“I’ve told you about my dad, right?”

Clearly he needed to change the subject. “Yeah, a bit.” Pete’s dad had raised him alone. Got hit by a car and killed when Pete was thirteen. That’s how Pete had ended up in foster care.

“Dad used to let me read Alice in Wonderland to him. He took me fishing, worked on my science fair projects with me. He never raised a hand to me.

“I saw the accident, rode with Dad in the ambulance. He was bleeding, semi-conscious, but he held my hand till he couldn’t any more. He kept saying, ‘I’ll come back to you, Petey. I have to look after you.’ And then of course he didn’t come back. He died. And I was sent to Mrs. Richardson.” Pete clamped his hands around his drink. They were trembling a little. I wondered whether he’d even told Iqbal about Mrs. Richardson.

My drink had gone right through me, and I desperately needed to pee. I knew from past experience this place had segregated washrooms. That’s why—or one of the reasons why—I’d stopped coming to this bar. I crossed my legs and leaned forward in my chair, as Pete clearly had more to say about that bloody bitch.

“One day, she was hitting me—on my legs—and I was trying to act like it wasn’t hurting. She was pissed because of some damned thing she thought I’d done, I don’t even remember what. I do remember I was trying to tell her that I hadn’t done it, and she was shouting, ‘Children should be seen and not heard!’”

I stared at Pete, my mouth open in shock.

“Suddenly she stopped mid-swing, with her hand pulled up, like someone had grabbed her by the wrist. She opened her eyes wide and said, ‘Petey.’ And . . . she stopped hitting me. She dropped to her knees to look at the bruises that were coming up on my thighs. And then she said the strangest thing.”

“What?” I was trying hard to forget my twinging bladder. One of the two TERFy dykes had just gone to the washroom. The other was watching me, her lip curled in disgust.

“She said, ‘What did she do to you?’ You know, talking about herself in the third person? Then she went to hug me! That freaked me the fuck out. I pushed her away. She stood up, looked confused. She asked me where the kitchen was.”

“In her own house? Was she having a stroke, or something?”

“Yeah, maybe. Iqbal was confused too, when he had his first stroke . . .”

“Hey,” I said, “Do you want to get out of here, just go home? Or come back to our place? We have a guest room, you could spend the night.”

But Pete was looking off into the memory distance. He continued, “I pointed to where the kitchen was. She came back with cold water and paper towel. She dabbed my bruises and said she was sorry, that it was such a long way back and she’d brought the water as quickly as she could.”

“Bitch was seriously crazy.”

Pete had the waiter bring us refills. I hoped I could hold my water. In a pinch, I could dash back home, use the toilet there, be back in twenty, thirty minutes tops, and not risk being attacked for the unforgiveable crime of peeing in a public toilet.

“After that,” said Pete, “I never knew whether I was going to get evil Mrs. Richardson or good Mrs. Richardson. It messed with my head. Sometimes she’d just sit in her armchair in front of the TV and mutter, like she was arguing with herself. And sometimes she’d just look scared out of her wits. I was so glad when I was legal to leave.”

I smiled. “I was bigtime envious of you, getting to be on your own when you were sixteen.”

“You were an idiot, then.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“That was no picnic, either.” He sipped his drink, then looked up. “I just remembered something. The day I left, I was just heading out the door when she put her hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. She said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t look after you the whole time. It’s such a long way round.’ Then her hand fell away, and her face just changed. She stepped back. She watched me leave, and the look on her face was the most hatred I’ve ever had directed at me. And that’s saying something. I scrambled down the driveway like the Devil was at my heels.”

I shuddered. “Did you ever see her again?”

“Not her, no. Heard she’d jumped in front of a car, or something. Didn’t care.”

“Pete,” I said gently, “You were telling me about Iqbal?”

He stared into his glass, spoke with his head still down. “We used to fight. Like, knockdown fistfights.”

“Oh, no.”

“’Fraid so. Blood was shed, there were trips to Emergency, the police were called.”

“Police? To a fight between two brown men?”

“Yeah. It’s a miracle we survived.”

When one lives in a world in which large portions of it want one dead, every minute is a triumph, every breath a defiance, and, if one’s jib is cut that way, every statement a manifesto. The everyday vagaries of life and love are just writ that much larger, because they mean that much more. The game of “he said/he said” is raised to a level of artistry rivalled only by the sport of kings. Every breakup is forever, because love may never find one ever again. Every new lover becomes one’s whole life, because one is stealing love from the jaws of hatred. What t-shirt to wear with the perfect jeans to go clubbing is almost as brutally important as what words to write on one’s placard to attend that demonstration against legalizing faith-based homophobia. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It stopped, all the violence between us. One day, Iqbal took his hands from around my throat—”

“Pete!”

“—and he looked at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. He said, ‘No more. I’m not going to fight you anymore.’ I mean, it didn’t end right away. For one thing, I wasn’t ready to stop. Didn’t know how, really. But Iqbal really meant it. He’d changed. Eventually he got me to go to counselling with him. And bit by bit, we figured shit out. Figured out how to be good to each other.” Pete sobbed, once, so loudly that people three tables over stopped to look our way. “God, Sally, I miss him so much.”

“I know, honey.” I took his hand in mine. He jumped at my touch. I tried not to feel hurt.

“You know the last thing he said to me?”

I shook my head.

“He said, “I found my way home to you, Petey. I looked after you. I got better at it, so that I could be with you all the time.” He went unconscious after that, and was gone by the next morning.”

“He loved you very much. That wasn’t strange at all.”

He nodded absently, then pulled his hand away to pick his glass up. He had a sip. “Okay,” he said. “I suppose. But here’s the thing; only my dad ever called me Petey.”

I tried to concentrate through the yammering of my bladder. “No, that’s not right. Didn’t you say that Mrs. Richardson did?”

“Once. The day she stopped hitting me.”

“And Iqbal?”

“Once. The last time he was conscious.” Pete’s hands started shaking so badly that he had to set the glass down. He put his hands in his lap. “So what I’m really asking myself is: who was I married to all those years?”

Something squirmed in the pit of my belly. How could he even think—? “Pete . . .” I whispered.

He jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry, Sal. It’s just been so hard the last couple of days. Losing Iqbal, the funeral, all those people to be polite to while . . .” He stopped, his face pulled into the lineaments of grief. “My head’s just been full of all these weird thoughts.”

“I understand,” I murmured. But I didn’t. “You need to be gentle with yourself this next little while.”

“Let me get the check.” He put some bills on the table.

“Okay, thanks, but first I just need to . . .” I stood, clamping down hard on my aching bladder. Another reason to be thankful I’d diligently done all those post-surgery kegels.

Pete sighed, as one does when one is about to say something difficult for others to hear. “It’s just that . . . well, Mrs. Richardson, Iqbal; people around me keep turning into someone else. You used to be Jack; now you’re Sally.”

The cold burn of betrayal and erasure was just about to tsunami over me, scouring me from skin to bone, when he got a strange look in his eye. In a clear voice, he said, “But Jack is just what people called you. I finally figured it out. You were always Sally. You have always been exactly who you are right now.”

I can be an emo bitch sometimes. When I started weeping, he pulled me into his arms. “Sally, I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick.” For the first time in years, my friend and I held each other like the close companions we used to be.

And then I really, really had to go. I waited, hot-footing, till I was as sure as I could be that there was no one in the Women’s. Pete stood outside the door painted with the stick figure lady in a triangle skirt until I exited safely. He walked me home, hugged me again on the street outside my apartment building. I told him I’d check in on him tomorrow, waved goodbye as he headed off in the direction of the subway station.

Age and a track record of survival can bring poise to a life lived cheek by jowl with the possibility of danger. You might say that one’s trigger becomes less hairy. Nevertheless, one is always watchful for that slight shift, the moment when a situation turns.

That new look in Pete’s eye, the complete change of demeanour. And wasn’t that the first time, he’d called me Sally? Not Jack-er-Sal. Not Sal. Sally.

In the long elevator ride up to my twenty-first floor apartment, I tried not to ask myself whether Pete’s sudden change of heart had been all him. As I kissed my sleeping husband and got ready for bed, I tried not to feel guilty that I didn’t care who had been behind Pete’s eyes. Whoever it was, they were my friend.

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Nalo Hopkinson

Nalo Hopkinson lives in a home filled with books, art supplies, tools, art projects at various stages of unfinished, more books, and brown-skinned mermaids. She has aches, pains, chronic fatigue, and a quirky brain. She has far too much to do, and nowhere near enough time to marathon watch annoying but addictive science fiction TV. She loves dance. She’s working on a novel about a monster carried by a girl who turns into a woman. The girl does, not the monster. She cooks great food (mostly) and mismanages her schedule. She doesn’t answer her phone or check her voice mail messages.

[unplacedpodcast]

Chapter Eight: Vindication (Transcript)

Sorry for the delayed transcript again! I had houseguests visiting and boy howdy having friends over for six days straight while also constantly doing things is exhausting and will fry your brain! 

Here’s the transcript! We will be returning for season two but I’m not sure when - I would like to think March or April but it’s very likely that that is my characteristic overambitiousness showing through. In the meantime, I’ll keep you posted on progress, and if you have any questions (whether about the story/world or any of our processes behind the scenes), feel free to send them in - Cole, Brendan, and I are gonna do a Q&A episode during the hiatus! 

Anyways okay without further ado here we go, spoilers ahead: 

(CW for self-harm [not suicidal/depressed self-harm, but intentionally cutting a hand] and homophobic slurs)

(audio dings on, narrator sounds tired but wired - think sleep deprived meets way too much espresso)

I think it’s showtime, y’all.

I’ve been up for almost a day straight…I hope I’m not forgetting anything. I just - I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid if I went to sleep…I don’t know what I was afraid of. That I would lose my nerve, or that I’d have more nightmares about that woman, about not being able to help her.

At any rate, as soon as I finished doing my research, I went out and got supplies. I had to go all over town…I tell you, it’s harder finding iron nails than you’d think. (wry chuckle) Apparently there’s some kind of a market for artisanal blacksmithery, though, so I did find some eventually.

After all the research, my supply list wasn’t that long. Two or three things, really. I think it’s more of a matter of…well, just hoping it’ll work, than anything else. If it doesn’t…I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away. But I also don’t think that I’ll wind up a suicidal husk like that other woman. I could be wrong - but I think if they wanted to do that to me, or could do that to me, that probably would have been their game plan from day one. When I sucker-punched that thing with my hematite-knuckles, I feel like that would have been it for me, if sucking me dry was an option. Granted, given the burns still covering my hand, I’m not sure what the alternative is - but at least it’ll probably be quicker than that.

If this is gonna be it for me, then it’s gonna be it, and I…I’m not really fine with that, but it’s better than continuing to exist like this, not knowing what’s going on, not knowing how long it will last, just…having to watch these things eat people from the inside out and being the only one that knows it’s happening. I can’t do that.

(sound of things rustling in background, metal clinking on glass)

Enough of that talk, though. Like I said, I’ve got my supplies, and I’m setting them up as we speak. I’m on the edge of a park, close to downtown…it’s not a huge park, by any means, but I needed a tree, and this was the best way to have one near a populated area. I need to be able to make it back here quickly once I find someone with a leech, after all.

The trap itself…not that hard to set. I did have to do a whole lot of googling on macrame art, which was not where I expected this journey to take me. Also, the blood was a little difficult. Getting more than a drop or two of blood without seriously injuring yourself is a lot harder than they make it look in the movies. Oh, if only I’d listened to my mom and gone to nursing school.

Anyways…I think that’s it. The trap is set. Obviously, I’m the bait. Now, it’s time to find the prey.

(sounds of movement and walking in background, her breathing pattern changes as she’s walking until otherwise noted)

It’s funny, the stuff that comes to you when you’re sleep deprived and possibly on a suicide mission. I remembered this story - I had completely forgotten it, until something reminded me of it earlier - from when I was young…probably like, eleven or twelve. In that awkward early-middle-school just-hitting puberty stage of life, that spot where you feel like you don’t really know what’s going on with you or with anyone else, but you have this sneaking suspicion that everyone else knows, and they’re never going to let you in on the secret…

There was this girl that was my friend. We weren’t close, but we hung out sometimes. She wasn’t super popular, but she wasn’t unpopular, either. Our lockers were right by each other, though, so we said hi on a pretty regular basis.

I had to make a pit stop at my locker between classes, and she was standing there, but something was off - there were three or four girls standing around her, blocking her in. I didn’t like the way they were looking at her — I knew that at least one of the girls wasn’t very nice. As I walked up, I heard the conversation - they were making fun of her for the holes in her jeans.

This girl - Leanne - her family didn’t have a ton of money, and these other girls had decided to remind her of that. I tried to ignore the conversation for a minute - I didn’t want to get into a whole thing, and I wasn’t super close with her, like I said. Also, I had books to get and a class to go to. But after a minute or two of “seriously, how old are those jeans?” and tittering, I couldn’t hold back any more.

“Weren’t you wearing jeans with huge holes in them the other day, Emily?,” I said, poking my face around my locker door.

She turned to look at me. “Yeah, but they were Hollister jeans, okay? That’s different from miss head to toe Goodwill over here.”

“So…it’s cool to spend tons of money on jeans that are already missing half their fabric, but not okay to spend $10 on the same pair of jeans?”

Emily scrunched her nose up, clearly not having thought this through. “Well, when was the last time you saw her wear anything other than store brand, then?,” she said, jerking her thumb at Leanne, who was standing with her back against the lockers, silent and staring at the floor.

“You know that when you buy something with a huge logo on the front, you’re paying the brand to advertise for them, right? That doesn’t make any sense to me. But as my mom always says, money can buy you everything except for common sense.”

I shrugged and turned back around to my locker to finish getting my books. Behind me, Emily, the mean ringleader, kind of stuttured. It was pretty obvious that she hadn’t been expecting a response at all. Trying to save face, she muttered “whatever” and turned around to stomp off, with her friends following her.

I was so proud - I got rid of a bully with logic! I didn’t have to fight, or even raise my voice. But when I looked at Leanne, the pride evaporated. Her face was bright red and she looked ragingly pissed off. She took a step towards me, getting uncomfortably close, and said, loud enough for everyone around me to hear, “Stay out of my business. I don’t need your help, you fucking dyke.”

I didn’t know what that word meant then, but I knew it was something bad and dirty from the way she said it. My face went hot and I got that pricking sensation in my eyes, the one you get when you can feel the tears coming, but you’re trying hard to fight them off. I barely made it to the bathroom before I burst into tears, and when I got to my next class, it was obvious I’d been crying. I got to hear about that later, of course, from the mean girl and her friends, along with some other choice insults - a little birdie must have told them what it was that made me run to the bathroom crying.

(narrator stops moving for a moment, breathing starts to return to normal)

I’m here, I think. No convenient stairs around this time, but I have a decent vantage spot from this bench…I’m not that far from the park, either. Now, I just have to wait however long it takes to find a person with a hitchhiker, and then…goad it into chasing me, I guess.

(brief pause)

I told the story to my mom later that day, after I got home from school. I just wanted to know why, you know? I was so upset, because all I wanted was to do and say the right thing. I wanted to help…and I thought that was what I had been doing. But maybe I didn’t know what doing the right thing meant, or maybe I did it wrong.

I told her all of this, and she hugged me, and she said, “Rashida, you didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes, the world is just a cruel place. And when it’s like that - when people are like that - the best thing we can do is try to help, and try to do what’s right, the best we know how. And that’s what you did. I’m proud of you.”

And then she kissed me on the head, and told me to go work on my homework, and I did.

I haven’t thought of that story in years. It’s funny - the stuff we do when we’re kids, before the world makes us forget who we can be.

I hope she’d be proud of me now.

(pause, deep breath in and slow exhale)

It’s probably…five in the morning now. Five thirty?

(sound of movement - she’s checking her phone)

Five thirty, exactly. The sun isn’t up yet…sunrise should be at 6:02. Can you imagine what people 200 years ago would say, if you told them that we’d be able to carry around tiny devices in our pockets that could tell us exactly what time the sun will rise and set?

The early morning commute crowd is starting to come out. My thinking was that someone here will have to be…yep. I see one. He’s across the road and half a block down.

(sound of movement)

Definitely showtime now. The only thing I need is… (sound of knife clicking) …more blood, because of course that’s what it takes. After all, why would we want to make it easy on me?

(sharp intake of breath, sound of movement)

I’m a few feet behind him now, with a bloody hand. I’ll tell you what’s going on as it happens - I set it up on my phone so that if I don’t edit and upload these files within a few days, they’ll be automatically uploaded and published anyways. Someone will know what happened, assuming people can even find and listen to this, and they’ll be better able to fight these guys in the future. So I gotta keep talking, keep telling you what’s going on, for the good of science and humanity, or something.

I’m right behind him. I’m going to see if I can flick some blood at the - yeah, that got its attention. It’s rearing up…I have to make it follow me.

(talking like you’d talk to a cat or wild animal) C’mere c’mere c’mere, you awful…

(starts running, you can hear the sound of movement/her breathing) Okay, that worked. It’s in pursuit - it’s following the blood I’m dripping on the sidewalk - I just have to make it back to the park - damn these suckers can move!

(sound of panting and running for a second or two, running sound changes from pavement to dirt, she trips and hits the ground)

Fuck, come on, get up, you can do this

(noises of her getting up and running/fast footsteps again)

Whew. I beat it to the tree, just barely. Now, for more blood, have to trick it… (sound of her fumbling with something, glass and metal clinking together again, then moving and brushing up against the tree)

(whispering) Okay, it followed me - it’s fifteen or twenty feet away. I was worried it would lose interest and go back to the host, but I guess fresh blood…these things must track by smell. I don’t think it can hear me, at any rate. I’m hiding behind the tree, and I set the trap.

I did all that reading on spirit bindings, right? You fill a blue bottle with something to throw it off your scent - hair and blood - and iron nails, I think to damage it.

I don’t know if it will work, it’s still following the blood trail - it’s moving a little slower, maybe because the blood isn’t as fresh. (whispering drops even lower) It’s checking out the bottle. It’s - yes, it’s going inside!

(muffled sound of movement, metal clanging on the ground, hissing in background)

(still whispering, but not as quietly) I think - it’s hard to tell, I think that did it? It went into the bottle - it started to come back out but I think it’s really trapped now.

After doing all that reading, I remembered I’d seen some really cheesy home decor made with iron horseshoes, which apparently has magical origins…when I was looking for the other supplies I hit up every tchotchke shop in town until I found one. I just dropped a circle of iron horseshoes on it - it was starting to climb out of the bottle but I think that extra iron did it in. It drove it back inside the bottle and…

(sound of movement again, sound of glass hitting metal and rattling noises)

THAT BITCH IS CORKED! Take that, you slimy asshole!

Okay, it’s still fighting, but I think it’s in there for good. Now for the bad macrame - a bottle holder made with twine, without any knots in it. That might not have been necessary, but seemed like a good extra step. Better safe than sorry, right?

And now, we hang it on the tree and wait for sunrise. It shouldn’t be long.

That wasn’t…I don’t want to say that wasn’t so bad…but once I knew how to do it, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Except that I didn’t know for sure whether it would work and thought I might wind up being evil-leech food.

I’m definitely a little worse for the wear. My hand that was finally healing from the burns has cuts all over it for this stupid blood sacrifice decoy, I bang up my other hand pretty good in that fall, and I’ve got some bruises…but…I’m alive. I didn’t - I honestly didn’t know if I’d get to see this sunrise.

Speaking of, here it comes. The sun is coming up, I can see it peeking over the horizon. It’s hitting the bottle…

(sound in background of rattling/glass on metal, animal shrieking/hissing noise that gets incredibly loud and then dies off after a few seconds)

Well, that definitely worked. The bottle… (sound of movement as she moves closer to the bottle and takes it off the tree) it’s empty now. Completely empty. No blood, no iron, no hair, no monster…in fact, it looks good as new.

I’ll be taking this with me…my lucky spirit trap. And now…now, aside from killing as many of these things as I can, I’m going to get some answers. I’m going to find her - the one who could see me. I’ll let you know how that goes.

(sound of audio clicking off) 

[mumsles-blog]

Seven Sisters, blisters on blisters and a misty dawn…

Tuesday 29th August and I’m currently sitting with my feet up nursing some very sore blisters after my most recent 100km walk along the South Coast. Two days later and I can barely shuffle from room to room, what a difference a day or two makes. I’m happy though that I completed this one in just under 23 hours, my fastest time. Thames Path took me 19 hours but that is all flat ground, a very different walk to these hilly ones.

Taping and padding my feet is a priority and I had covered heels, toes and balls of my feet but I hadn’t banked on the massive amount of rough flint paths we would be covering and it’s really tough on your feet. Consequently I’ve ended up with my worst blisters yet and boy do they hurt. It is amazing though how the power of adrenaline, with the help of Nurofen,  gets you through pain, I must have walked over 20km with my feet on fire but I was so determined to get to the end that I just kept going, putting one sore foot in front of the other.

I wonder if this has any correlation to the inner strength that comes to the fore when people are dealing with cancer and other awful diseases. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make out what I do is anything like that but it does seem like the body and the mind can cope with far more than we sometimes realise and I have been astounded how sufferers of cancer and other dreadful illnesses can rally round and often be the strongest person dealing with it all. To a lesser degree you see people on these challenges who are battling along with all sorts of physical pain and often mental anguish too but a huge majority of them still cover massive distances, another testament to human resilience.

So back to the title and the Seven Sisters…for anyone not aware, these are a series of cliffs between Eastbourne and Seaford. From the beach they appear to be gently undulating hills but trust me when you are walking over them they are anything but gentle, each one is a steep ascent followed by an equally steep slope down. What’s more, I’m sure there are more than seven of them, it felt more like twelve!

But before we even got to these though we had set out from Eastbourne along the seafront, “we” being myself, Alex, the daughter of my best friend Pat who is a large part of my motivation for these walks, and a lady called Stella who we had met up with at the start and who was walking alone. From there we were almost immediately heading up the first hill towards the sadly, infamous Beachy Head. It should just be another clifftop with a stunning view but unfortunately it is where many people have chosen to end their lives and consequently there is an eerie feeling especially where the small wooden crosses and flowers have been placed.  Many of the walkers are raising funds for suicide related charities and I sincerely hope they all manage to get their targets and beyond to save too many more of these being put here.

Coming down from here we reach the first rest stop at Birling Gap. Here the sea is fighting back against the land and taking huge bites out of the cliffs, spitting out chalk and even houses and gardens onto the beach below. Apparently the erosion averages around 1 metre a year, I can certainly remember taking my girls there back in the 90’s when you parked your car near the cliffs and walked back to the café. Today the café is at the cliff edge and the car park level with it and what was a row of seven or eight terraced coastguard cottages are now down to just two. Thankfully the rest stop marquee was a way back from the cliffs so no worries there!

After a quick top up of water and use of the facilities…we called it “water in and water out”, we were off over the aforementioned Seven Sisters and then on to the Cuckmere river, a welcome long walk along flat paths.

Initially we were all pretty evenly matched for pace but I found that all my hill training really paid off again as I was managing to stride up the hills fairly easily. They made me out of breath but the legs were good, no burning calves or tight thigh muscles which I was really pleased about. Alex and Stella found them a bit tougher though, not helped by them having considerably shorter legs than me to be fair. By the time I had used my new found sidestepping down the last hill I could no longer see them behind me so I messaged Alex to say I would carry on and wait at the next stop.

Following the Cuckmere meanders as they are known it was nice to be alongside the river but very hot and absolutely no shade for several miles. As one side of my face and arm got warmer and warmer I did contemplate walking backwards to cook the other side but decided that would no doubt only lead to a spectacular fall. Anyway, I managed to save that until I was almost at the stop when somehow I tripped over in a gateway and ended up on my hands and knees in some mud. Dry as a bone in most places but I managed to find a small stodgy patch to fall in. Thankfully I could clean up shortly after while I waited for the others to join me and pretend it never happened.

Soon we were all off together on the next sector and back up more hills to Firle Beacon, one of the higher points on the South Downs. From here you can see across to Lewes, the County town and another hill, Mount Caburn,  which was surrounded by paragliders, a popular spot for the sport. After a lovely trek across the downs we could see the Amex stadium which meant Brighton and halfway was coming closer. A mini stop at Woodingdean was a chance to patch up Alex’s blistered feet which were quickly becoming more plasters than skin and turning out to be very tough to walk on.  Stella and I were still ok and keeping up our pace which Alex said she couldn’t manage so we ended up heading into Brighton separately.

Somehow we missed the sign for the side street to the seafront which wasn’t a problem as we headed down the next parallel one. It did mean however that we missed the 50km marker which is always a good psychological boost, silly women! Brighton alternated between very quiet residential streets and a real buzz of nightlife on the seafront, together with the lights on the pier, promenade and the stunning new i360 observation tower which was slowly rising up above the seafront like a giant doughnut on a stick.

Into the neighbouring town of Hove and the much anticipated halfway point, although actually at 55km but who cares, it was a chance to remove the boots for a while and have dinner. This was probably an absolute highlight for Stella as she was tucking away the snacks and food at every rest stop. It became a joke that she made a beeline for the food each time leaving others in her wake and restocking her backpack with snacks. She’s right though as you do need to keep fuelling up so you have enough energy to keep going, especially through the night.

Sadly Alex arrived here in a very desolate state having endured extremely painful feet and a panic attack and she knew she could not continue any further particularly as it was toughest bit coming up. We got her sorted with some food and spoke to the organisers to make sure she would be helped to get home, fortunately she lives in Hove so not too far to go to the comforts of her flat. For Stella and me though  it was boots back on, the glamorous head torches out and joining a group to leave on the second half.

Now we came to a very interesting part of the route… back onto the downs and Devils Dyke, a deep valley which is a popular beauty spot. It’s also popular with a particular group of people who like to gather in a car park there for dogging sessions. Anyone who doesn’t know what that means can Google it, I’m not explaining it here!  Suffice it to say that I’m not sure who decided it was a good idea to send us right through the middle of this particular car park but that’s exactly where we went and I think it probably added enormously to the participant’s pleasure to have several hundred potential voyeurs striding past, in our case quite quickly.  As Stella commented as we got to the other side, we weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or a little offended that we didn’t get propositioned. Anyway it seemed fitting that the very next point on the downs route was Fulking Hill….my thoughts exactly!!!

After all that excitement the next couple of stops were fairly uneventful apart from being two of the steepest and highest climbs and the start of the unrelenting flint and chalk paths. They are awful to walk on, hard and unforgiving and great knuckles of flint sticking up all over the place. Absolutely perfect for stubbing toes, rolling ankles and generally making your feet hurt, hence the hideous blisters.  A lot of the time you can’t even walk on the verges as they are sloping and at night with the dew on them the grass was pretty slippery.

The first night stop was north of Shoreham where my friend Pat lived and the second was near the A24, directly south of my home. As always the night stops are a much quieter affair, a lot less people as walkers become more spread out and several people withdraw at each stage. Everyone is drained from the concentration of walking with a limited field of vision as well as obviously being tired from lack of sleep. It’s important to eat and drink still though and keep those reserves topped up…I didn’t need to remind Stella, she managed to find something to eat ok! Black coffee, as ever, is my friend here.

Once again though I hit my wall at 75 to 80km, my nemesis, it never fails to be the harshest part for me, the bit where I do actually wonder why I’m putting myself through it and I retreat inside my own head, full of thoughts of mum and Pat and I keep telling myself it’s nearly done. I even told myself I would never do another challenge…hmmm, I have said that before! The last stop however, was in a stunning location and that helped lift my spirits again. Heading down the last hill to the River Arun at dawn it was all shrouded in a low mist, absolutely beautiful and very atmospheric. Crossing the river on a footbridge with the mist swirling around our feet and on the river below us was one of the sights I won’t forget.

We hadn’t intended to stop here other than the water in and water out bit but we both felt so exhausted from the hard paths that we did take a bit more time. It was sad to see a couple of people having to withdraw at this stage with injuries. I cannot imagine having to give up when you only have 8 km to go, they looked gutted, poor guys.  Once we left here I was relieved to find that we were walking through woods on fairly flat dry mud paths. Unusually this was the only woods we walked through on the whole route. It wasn’t quite so straight forward though as there were loads of large tree roots to negotiate, not easy on tired drunk legs that want to go in a different direction to the rest of your body. You end up looking like you are doing some sort of demented Irish jig trying to negotiate them!

On one small downhill section I felt two blisters burst which is far more painful than if they are manually popped. At least I thought I would get a bit of relief once the initial pain subsided but it wasn’t to be. I discovered later that I had secondary deep blisters under the top ones…I don’t recommend them, they’re not pleasant, every step of the last few kilometres hurt. Another short stretch along the river though and we were soon passing the majestic Arundel castle and heading into the football grounds where the finish was.

Despite our tiredness and extremely sore feet, Stella and I held hands and managed a short and painful jog across the finish line at 2 minutes to 8am Sunday 27th August, 22 hours and 59 minutes after we had set off from Eastbourne.

Prosecco in hand, medals round our necks and with congratulations all round we posed for the obligatory finishers photos and then collapsed into chairs for the recuperation to start. Mark and Amy came down to meet me with Brodie and after a brief chat it was time to give another new walking friend a hug and head home…leaving Stella to wait for her next train home. She didn’t waste her waiting time though, I left her tucking into breakfast, bless her!

So now I’m done for another year, it’s been different again, not all in a good way as I don’t much like this foot pain but it will soon heal and I’ll be back out walking the hills round here with my woof. Aside from that though, it was a stunning walk and through a lot of my home county so it was nice to be reunited with it for a while and I was lucky again with walking buddies, thanks ladies. Stella was great through the night and we managed to laugh a fair bit as well as keep each other’s spirits up.

South Coast was definitely challenging but I did it and most importantly the fundraising has gone up a bit more… Macmillan have now received over £5300 and the overall total for all charities is £6800…I’m chuffed with that. Thanks again to everyone for the donations and also for the ever present support, it really does help me get through it.

[starlettemagnechalastor]

Mun’s history

I grew up in good ol’ Texas, despite being born in Virginia. My mom divorced my biological dad and move to Texas when I was 2, so I really have no memory or connection with my biological dad.

She married my stepdad when I was 5. We moved into his house, and for many years, I always thought I had a normal childhood...

Until I started therapy MANY years later.

Being coerced into thinking back made me realize how fucked the marriage was.

The fighting, the emotional and verbal abuse, the religious indoctrination..

The bullshit gender norms my stepdad tried to force on me.

Example: Women cannot wear hats. 

So my mom and I wore caps and whatever hats we liked cause fuck him.

She was miserable in the relationship, they ALWAYS fought. Once, my mom told me he wanted a divorce because I was “too smart.”

I was 6.

And unconsciously, all the abuse of my dad (He often called my younger brother and I names, and would make us paranoid by scaring the shit out of us whenever he could. Once or twice? Fine. But don’t hide behind the walls all the time and jump out at us.), the worthlessness I felt because my religion taught me I was broken and filthy without Jesus (thanks grandma).

I admit, I attempted to take my life when I was 7. I tried to swallow a bottle of pills. We had a whole medicine cabinet and I was easily able to access the medicine. My brother caught on when I gave him my prized snow globe music box and told him I didn’t need it anymore. 

My mom burst into my room as I opened the bottle. 

She hid all medications and all sharp objects for months. But I wasn’t taken to a therapist.

No professional to help me.

10 years of age:  One day, my mom snapped and attempted suicide by shooting herself with my dad’s gun. He tried to grab the gun, and a bullet fired. It hit her side and broke their bathroom sink. Police woke me up in the middle of the night, and my grandmother was there in tears.

Middle school: I was forced into a christian school, my mom was paranoid over gossip of the public middle school. And of course, when the ENTIRE class was questioned about their faith...I hesitated. Which made me an instant target for severe bullying. From people pretending to have romantic interest in me, to physically assaulting me. I kept it to myself for my entire middle school life, until the day they busted my bike, which was how I got home. And despite the school saying the damages would be covered and I’d get an apology letter, that never happened. 

My mom moved me to a charter school.

The only significant memories I have of THAT gem was that they tried to get me to CHEAT on a TAKS test and that I was bullied for being a virgin.

I told my parents about the TAKS, they confronted the school staff...and they held me back.

So, repeating 10th grade in a public high school. 

My mom, over the years, has been in and out of the hospital. Which meant my brother and I were in a house with a man who was emotionally constipated and constantly harassed, berated, and insulted his children.

But constantly reminded us about how he’s so great for marrying a woman with two children.

My mom, when she was home, had a lot of medical problems. She had a small spine, so they had to remove a part of her hip to normalize the length, she couldn’t breathe properly on her own, she had to have a nurse coming over to check on her often, she had a pacemaker, she ended up with diabetes, she had seizures that were mostly triggered by flashing lights, and she had to have certain medications injected.

This woman, my mother, was the one who got me into art, who ALWAYS supported me. I think she knew I was transgender before I did, she gave me my first short haircut that had my FAMILY, all except her brother, call me a dyke. She was always there for my lows, knew I had self-esteem issues, she bred my artistic side where I could be FREE. 

12 years old, my uncle (the only other light of my life) got engaged to a pediatric nurse. Her name was Stephanie. They had a kid together already, his name was Aiden. Stephanie asked us to come to a family reunion to meet her family.

I didn’t see any red flags when I got there, but things started being weird when I met a few of the would-be cousins. 

One man, who looked like he was in his 20s, was REALLY handsy with me. He even lifted my leg and SPANKED me while we were hanging out outside. REMINDER: I WAS 12 YEARS OLD AT THE TIME.

Then I met this kid named Matthew. 

A monster in the making.

He wasn’t handsy, he was a chill guy. He was even invited to our house and we sat at the dining room table to watch videos.

THEN

And ONLY THEN

did he start groping me.

He went as far as shoving his hand down my pants.

And I was so confused, so disturbed and horrified, that I could only quietly cry and plead for him to stop.

I never told my parents, my grandparents, never told an adult.

I only told my brother when he brought Matthew over one day, many years later. I told him he was NEVER allowed in our house again, and my brother wholeheartedly agreed, thankfully.

And thank fuck I never had to see that jerk because someone blew the whistle on him to my parents. Someone caught him groping girl’s butts at the next family reunion.

Fast forward to 14 years of age

At the time, I didn’t know she had a drug abuse problem.

She was crushing medications she was to be taking orally, mixing them with water, and injecting them.

And I helped her do it, because I thought I was helping her get better.

I wanted her SO BADLY to get better.

I prayed so hard, being a devout christian.

I begged and PLEADED for her to get better so I could have my mom back, so we could be TOGETHER again. To have her bright smile and shitty ass jokes (After my mom came home from the attempted suicide, she would always joke about how she should’ve shot herself while holding a toy gun. Or called gangsters wimps for limping after getting shot. She was weird :) And I loved that about her), I just wanted my mom.

I was only a young teen, and I was starting to figure out my gender identity. I couldn’t go to my dad, I didn’t trust him like I trusted her.

I visited her constantly, she tried to teach me more about coloring and encouraged me to practice singing. She was my teacher ^^ And because of her, I clung to teachers and befriended them. My art teachers LOVED me, they did all they could to protect me from bullies that would throw erasers at me, ruin my projects, and draw on my posters. I loved all my teachers, they were kind and understanding and helped me get through the years while my mom was unable to.

My mom gave me all the love and support I could ever wish for. She never required me to be one way, but told me no matter if I was an atheist, satanist, if I was gay or straight, NO MATTER THE CHANGE, she would ALWAYS love me.

And it scared me when she ended up with a staph infection in her heart.

The surgery went well, she managed to recover. Doctors removed the infected valve with a pig’s valve. She came home, and I stuck by her side. 

I’d sneak in cigarettes when she asked.

And..my dad tried to turn me against my own mom with texts that I had no context to go by.

I can’t really remember the texts, but I remember feeling devastated. But I still did ANYTHING she asked. 

...I lost her when I was 16. 

The staph infection was back. She only had a 10% chance of surviving another surgery. 

My dad had to explain that to me, so I skipped school that day, December 8 of 2011, to be with her on her last day.

She wasn’t conscious. 

I remember sitting there numbly, not really paying attention to the tv in the room. My dad was in and out, as well as some nurses.

One by one, my great aunts, my second cousins, and my grandmother came to say their goodbyes. 

I overheard the nurse tell my dad that once they unplugged the machines, she would be dead.

But I think she was dead long before that. Brain dead. Her heart was pumping, but she wasn’t there. 

I broke down once my grandma told her sister that, after the nurse had unplugged the machine and left us alone, that she was gone. 

I could hear my second cousin break down too. He only got support from my mom, turns out he was disowned for being gay and my mom still treated him like a human being when nobody else would. It made me realize how much of a positive impact she was on the family, and we lost it. 

My school offered therapy, which I accepted. My therapist was sweet, she brought me snacks and she reminded me a lot of my mom with her tone and attitude. She helped me realize it wasn’t my fault my mom died, because I completely blamed myself.

I know now that it was due to her drug abuse, that the needles she used caused the infection.

But I didn’t know fully at the time. So when I did, I figured it was my fault. I helped her inject medicine she wasn’t supposed to, helped her with her abuse.

My dad pulled me out of therapy because he said I didn’t need it.

And in that SAME MONTH, when he found out I was considering cutting myself, he said, “If you’re gunna cut, do it right.”

Father of the year anyone?

Fast forward to her funeral.

Open casket. The last time I ever saw my mom in person.

My uncle, my mother’s only brother, sang a song in her honor. He was 27, a musician, and already had a son. Unfortunately, he too was a drug abuser.

I don’t blame him or my mom for their abuse, they hardly had a good foundation. My grandmother didn’t raise them. She was a horrible, vindictive, and petty person. She ignored her children in favor of strange men. My mom had to raise her little baby brother, and my mom had to deal with a woman who burned her clothes, broke her rock cds, and slashed her tires. Because Jesus.

I grew more attached to my uncle after my mom passed, he was the only other positive influence in my life. He was an amazing artist, he was like my mom in a lot of ways. He called me Nikki Six and laughed at my shitty jokes, he cried to me when my grandmother berated and insulted him or treated him like crap.

We were open with each other. He wanted to join the military, be a role model for his one year old son, Aiden. I still have the video where he sang an original song, Thumb Sucking Blues, while my little cousin tried to play along with him :) He was a small little guy, but literally had his thumb in his mouth the whole time :P

Aiden LOVED his dad. 

But because of his fiance’s drug use, he was taken from them. My mom was still alive when that happened, and we had supervised visitation with my cousin.

My uncle went to rehab to get clean, yet my grandmother continued to berate and degrade him.I supported him. I wanted him to be back home with US. My brother and I.

During this time...I got a phone call that terrified me. 

My biological dad called me.

And I panicked; I didn’t KNOW him, he was NEVER in my life, and after a few months of talking and TRYING to get to know him, he vanished. 

Turns out he’s been hiding for years to avoid paying child support.

But I wasn’t too hurt he abandoned me again. All we did was talk about anime we liked. I probably got my love of anime from him to be honest :P

My uncle eventually returned home, and all seemed great. He was a good father to his son, he got him back after his rehab (which I later found out it did fuck all for him because it was just another fucking church)

July 4th, 2012. I got a call from my grandmother because I was too tired to do fireworks that night. 

Police had found my uncle’s body in an alley way.

He died of overdose, according to autopsy.

SIX MONTHS after losing one person who supported me, I lost the other. 

He was cremated and my grandmother kept his ashes.

I was deist at the time, but I kept his bible, guitar picks, and the crappy religious coins he got from the “rehab.”

I have both my mom’s and my uncle’s bibles. 

I..fell into a hard ass depression. I kept reliving the moment my mom died, the moment I heard about my uncle, I...saw his body after the autopsy. Of course, they covered it mostly, but it still hurt SO much to see him lifeless.

I graduated high school and immediately went to college, just trying to get through the shit. I just...didn’t care anymore. I lost the only two people that supported me. Both lights, my artistic inspirations, my TRUE FAMILY, gone.

My brother moved in with our grandmother, he was fed up with dad’s abuse. I..was too blind to see how abusive he was. 

I took computer classes, he told me I should because it pays well. I personally found it fascinating on learning how to troubleshoot desktops, but programming was NOT my thing. I hated it.

I actually wanted to go into art, be an artist like my mom.

My dad?

“It’s not a REAL JOB.”

He shot down my passion for YEARS. I started college in 2014. 

After nearly a year of computer classes, I was convinced to switch my major to education because I’m good with kids.

Because to my dad, good with kids = I want to be a teacher.

Kids just like me, I’m not sure why. My cousin loved me, and my cousin on my DAD’S side of the family loved me. I had patience and kindness to kids, they’re little beans that just need guidance. I don’t snap, I DEFINITELY don’t lay a HAND on a child as discipline.

So, I went into education like he said. I was just...a robot. Too scared to pursue what I wanted to do.

But there was a shining light; the Coalition club on my campus. A Gay/Straight alliance club! I ended up as their secretary, designed stickers, kept schedules, and I met SO many amazing people in that club. I felt welcomed, I felt SAFE, I could be OPEN about my gender with them, since I was too scared to say anything to my dad.

When he found out I was involved with the group, he got pissed. He’d constantly pick fights with me about how I’m focusing too much on the group and failing my classes.

Funny thing; I had As and Bs on ALL my courses.

Pretty sure that’s passing.

But..he kinda bred me to be unable to handle confrontation well. Whenever someone yells at me or talks in a strict tone, I start to cry. 

So he’d always make me a sobbing mess nearly every day.

I locked myself in my room constantly. 

I had to quit asking him to take me to HEB for me to buy groceries because I couldn’t STAND him. I was too scared to be alone with him for ANY reason. I felt like he’d find something to make me cry and ruin my day, so..I would walk to a corner store to buy easy mac, eggs, bacon, maybe some frozen pizza if I could afford it. Most of my meals were pasta-related, it was cheaper than most items. Corner store pricing and all that ^^; 

I got a job in the work-study program as an AVID Tutor. Which helps students with their work from other classes. The students instantly clung to me, being the youngest teacher. 

That job didn’t last long ;v; Apparently a button up shirt and a long black skirt wasn’t teacher apparel??? I wore dress pants too, I fit the “female gender role.” But I was fired for not dressing professionally.

I ended up working at a subway in a flea market, and everyone was SO SWEET! They were fine with my gender, and I was even defended by a rides worker when a customer complained about me using the restroom.

I was deadass exhausted though. 

My dad forced me to do MAX college hours

While I also balanced a job.

The stress was KILLING me, but locking myself in my room where I could draw?

Being in a group that loved and accepted me?

It made life bearable.

But my dad eventually started getting after me about my job, that he DIDN’T consider a job because it was only on the weekends that it was open.

He started getting more aggressive with his fights. I would literally just WALK IN THE DOOR from work, exhausted because I have panic attacks (I had no idea I had panic disorder at the time), and he’d start fights about something. 

Be it because I was atheist or that he was pissed I was STILL in college (He’s a college dropout so I just think “.________________________. boi.”) 

A few months into 2016, I came out to my grandmother and my dad about being transgender.

My grandmother’s response? “You’re not transgender, you’re just fat!”

My dad? He didn’t really get it. He had to learn from his girlfriend because he sure as fuck didn’t listen to me when I explained it.

And he’d constantly ask about it, which didn’t bother me too much because I figured he was still confused. 

Then he started to dead name me.

MY ENTIRE LIFE, I was ALWAYS referred to with a gender neutral nickname. NEVER my first because I never liked my name. I hated it. I used to be called Nikki, now I just go by Nick or Nicholas :) Cause I love that name. 

HE.

In front of his LGBTQ+ friendly girlfriend.

referred to me with my FULL NAME.

And he did this TWICE.

I was too afraid to confront him, but his gf sure as fuck wasn’t. She was PISSED.

She put an end to that.

But things got worse after I sought out therapy to see if I qualified for HRT, Hormone Replacement Therapy.

And I did. 

My dad only got more angry when he saw the letter from my therapist saying I had Gender Dysphoria and that he recommend I take HRT.

He would, from then on,, badger me about my clothes, claiming it’s what 12 year old boys wear.

Despite I paid the internet bill AND his cable bill, he’d get after me for unwinding by playing games.

He spent a fuck ton of money on a new mustang to tinker with to make a drag race car, but not a new air conditioning system for a 50+ year old house with no insulation. So while he was away, and the temperatures rose (It’s texas, it’s ALWAYS hot), I was sweating and trying to keep cool with ice packs and frozen towels. But none of THAT mattered, because I’m irresponsible for playing video games after all my work was completed.

I didn’t tell him I was starting a youtube channel in an attempt to bring in extra money, because I was only paid a little over 120 a week.

But he’s bitch about pretty much EVERY aspect of me.

But I kept quiet, kept food in my room because I was too scared to leave my safe space in fear of him insulting me further. 

I literally asked for help on hiding food online.

After 2 more years of college, I got my associate’s in education and moved onto university for my bachelor’s.

I still didn’t want the major. But I didn’t really feel like I had a choice.

But this class I took, Child/Adolescent development, helped me realize how HORRIBLE and  ABUSIVE my dad is. 

I learned in that class about emotional and verbal abuse, and the effects it had on children and adults.

I began to stand up for myself, I’d argue back with my dad instead of letting him verbally abuse me with no repercussions. 

Anything I said? 

“Liberal Propaganda”

“Well, I put my religion first”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I thank my government teacher to this day for giving me the backbone I needed. She is a headstrong woman, refuses to be referred to as Miss, but prefers “Professor.” She had a PHD and she was passionate about her job and about human rights. 

It became a much more hostile home after I started fighting back.

He would challenge my moral compass, “An atheist should have no problem lying.”

He’d pick on my gender identity and choice of fashion, “You’re trying too hard to be transgender.”

And anytime I went to houston to see my brother and cousin? My grandmother made it worse. She’d pick on my hair, call me a devil worshiper, insult my weight (This woman forced me to eat more when I was on a diet, but I never called her out on it), she was as bad as my dad to where my brother took me to the mall to avoid any further argument.

In late 2017, my dad tried to pick on me in front of his friend, Bobby. Bobby was a long-time family friend, I grew up with his kids. He knew me since I was a child.

And his friend was NOT impressed with my dad, and HE accepted my gender and even tried to explain what he was doing was being a dickhead.

He didn’t listen.

It went on like that until early 2018. 

He called me out of my room and, once again, picked a fight with me because I’m part of an LGBTQ+ group, still in college, same bullshit.

But this time, he told me to pack up and leave, that I had two weeks to move.

I panicked.

I didn’t have the funds to move into an apartment with my current job.

I thought I was going to be homeless.

I called one of my friends in tears, and he asked his mother if I could take refuge there.

For a bit of context: I used to date him and I’ve met his family. His family had me over for the holidays, and kept me there for christmas eve and christmas day after I told my friend my dad BANNED me from celebrating the holidays with him because I’m an atheist.

And BOY was she PISSED. And his mom? Veteran Including his dad. BOTH are hard veterans that firmly believe in families sticking together. 

So the kicking me out?

It REALLY blew their gaskets.

They told me to pack all I needed and that they’d be there in two weeks.

Later that week, my dad apologized and said it was cruel to do that, but...

I couldn’t stay.

I couldn’t do it anymore.

I was tired of living in FEAR, you shouldn’t be hiding food in your room to eat because you’re too scared to come out. 

I told him I was leaving.

And what pissed me off? He tried to play VICTIM.

I moved out, and unfortunately had to quit my job because transportation issues. Ubers didn’t reach out this far and even if they did, it’d be like 30 bucks a trip.

With my wage? WHEEZE. Nope.

But a lady at the flea market gave me boxes and duct tape when I was packing to leave, just so I had places to put my stuff in. :)

I started counseling at A&M not too long after I moved into my new temporary home (I say as I’ve been here for nearly a YEAR ;-; and I feel bad but they’ve not kicked me out soooo....yay?)

And after a few session, my counselor told me to seek long term treatment, and she was helping me break free of my fear of asking for help and it’s thanks to her that I got to pursue the major of my dreams! I’m so thankful that I went to see her, because I went as SOON as I could to a medical clinic to talk to a psychiatrist.

I was diagnosed with PTSD, Bipolar disorder, and Panic disorder.

I was prescribed medication.

And little by little, I was getting better.

I had already had my Bendice tumblr for a while and the more I drew, the better I felt.

And the artist community?

It’s been AMAZING! 

I’ve meet so many AMAZING people, from great friends to my art senpais. I’ve been getting better and better at honing my skills, and I feel like I really can be an animator someday.

Now, people are probably wondering why I dumped all this out.

Well...I know I’m not alone, but others might feel how I used to. 

Isolated

So very Hurt

Alone

And miserable.

I don’t want pity, I don’t want “there there”, I want to show people that might be feeling alone that they aren’t. That someone suffered just like them.

Be it for being gay

Transgender

Depressed

An artist

No matter the “why,’ all pain here is equal. 

It’s not insignificant.

YOU aren’t Insignificant.

All the pain and suffering we’ve all endured?

Is valid.

And we’re not pussies or wimps for feeling hurt.

And we’re not alone.

Thank you to those who read my entire shit storm ^^; I’ll admit I cried while writing this, but I feel good now! 

I hope my words and my story inspire someone out there to take the steps they need to better themselves, to escape toxic environments.

Because that shit SUCKS.