#and replace the empty space in my brain with some dignity

[squelchbug]

chillaxin’

[howtohero]

#249 The Death of Your Nemesis

(Note: This is Part Two of a three part story. Part One. Part Three.)

Uh. Ok, so your nemesis has died. The person you’ve gone head to head with for years and years. The enemy of yours who, without fail, always strives to make things as personal as possible, is gone... Good! You’ll be better off, and the world will be better off with them. You can finally dedicate your time to dealing with more systemic ills in your neighborhood. No longer will you have to alienate everyone you love because there’s always the slim chance that on any given day your nemesis could discover who you are and take vengeance on your friends and family. When your nemesis dies, that’s a reason to party. You’re free of them! Forever! Huzzah! You may not have been able to kill them due to some complicated moral code that only allows you to kill their henchmen, but that doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate their demise!

(Oooooook buddy, why don’t sit this one out. You’re going through a lot right now.)

I’m fine! Why shouldn’t I be fine! My nemesis, Dr. Brainwave, a convicted supervillain who was living, rent-free, in my basement, is dead. I’m free of him. I’m doing great!

(All right, totally. We can all see that you’re handling this with dignity and poise. Why don’t you let me deal with this one.)

Well I suppose I have been training you as my apprentice so that you could one day write blog posts on your own...

(Sure, that’s what our relationship is. So why don’t you go outside, take a breather, and let me handle today’s entry.

What the man says is true. Dr. Brainwave is dead and I guess, technically speaking, he was our nemesis. He’s threatened our lives more times than we count. {We are notoriously bad counters though.} He’s destroyed our home, our place of work, our garden filled with one-of-a-kind miracle veggies. {Immortality radishes, vampiric celery, tasty kale.} And yet, he’s always been there, and I think we kind of just assumed he always would be. You see, a nemesis is not just another supervillain that you’ve got to fight with alarming frequency. They’re a major part of your life. Oftentimes your nemesis will know you better than anybody else in your social circle. Sure, they only took the time to get to know you on this deep level so that they could inflict all manner of psychological torture upon you, but still, it’s kind of nice that they invested that time in you.

A superhero’s relationship with their nemesis is always going to be complicated. You’ll usually see them more than you see your family. You’ll see them at their highest {when they believe that they’ve killed you} and at their lowest {surprisingly enough, after they’ve succeeded in killing you and find their life to be devoid of all meaning and purpose} you’ll occasionally find yourself fighting alongside them and yeah, in some twisted way, you’re going to form a kind of meaningful relationship with them. So what are you even supposed to do when they’ve died? Granted, you’re not as fanatically dependent on them for your continued existence and purpose as they are on you. There will always be crimes to stop and evil to vanquish. But any superhero would be hard-pressed to deny that their lives would be a little bit emptier without their nemesis. Perhaps that’s the real reason why so few superheroes actually kill their nemeses.

If you feel like you need to mourn the passing of your nemesis, that’s ok. You should allow yourself to space to do that. Do something that they would’ve loved. Hold a {vacant} bridge hostage, kick a {robot, stuffed, already dead} puppy into the sun, burn yourself in effigy! If you’re worried about getting attacked by other supervillains if you attend a funeral or memorial service for your nemesis don’t worry! Supervillains usually are not friends with one another. That funeral is gonna be hella empty. You can go there with no problem. Besides, supervillain funerals have been poorly attended ever since Lady Richter used her “funeral” as an opportunity to drop many of her fellow supervillains into a bottomless chasm. Ever since then, supervillains have had a hard time believing that any of their colleagues are actually dead. If any other supervillains attend your nemesis’ funeral, they’ll be lugging around giant ladders in case a bottomless chasm opens up beneath them, and they will be too exhausted to fight you.

The whole How To Hero crew {me, Parentheses Guy, Zach, Lawyer Guy, Dr. Brainwave’s Greatest Shame, Diego A. Wayghosts, Todd The Bomb-Disposal Bot} attended Dr. Brainwave’s funeral and, lo and behold, the only other person in attendance was Dr. Brainwave’s other nemesis, Professor Brain-Scrambler. {There was also, of course, a large contingent of mutant alligators.} He actually spoke quiet beautifully about his mad scientist colleague, after which we pulled him over to the side and told him that he was a hack and that he could suck it, in line with Dr. Brainwave’s final wishes. All in all it was a very emotional 2 am-4 am. {Supervillain funerals almost exclusively take place during this time which is colloquially known as “the witching hour.”} The funeral home was a bit cold, and I would say it was definitely haunted, but overall, it was a pretty solid funeral I’d say. 

Once you’ve spent some mourning the loss of an important and ever-present figure in your life, there is some housekeeping that you need to do. Reach out to your nemesis’ loved ones and express your condolences. The last thing you want is for their loved ones to vow revenge on you and beginning the cycle anew. If you can, talk with their loved ones, estranged family members, sidekicks, or unholy creations and make them understand that you were not responsible for the death of their loved ones. The quicker you do this the better. Blaming a superhero for the death of a loved one is 17th most common supervillain origin story. {number 68 is having your coal company run out of business by windmill farms but number 33 will blow your mind.} In our case, we sat down with Dr. Brainwave’s legions of mutant alligators and several hours of teeth baring and jaw snapping, a fragile peace agreement was forged. {The alligators for their part, behaved remarkably well. Not a single bared tooth or snapped jaw among them!}

Once that is taken care of you must attend to the rest of your nemesis’ personal affects. Their goons will be directionless, and this is a great time to many of them off the board. Have your friends in law enforcement scoop them up before they can find employment under a different supervillain. Or, if you really wanna get wild, invent a new identity for yourself, pose as a new supervillain, take control of your nemesis’ cronies, and then have them perform tasks that seem like crimes, but actually good deeds. Stuff like, “this old woman is an ancient evil spirt, help her cross the street” or “this is my territory now, nobody else is allowed to commit a crime here. If you see another villain doing crimes here, stop them!” Arrange operations against your nemesis’ lairs and begin systemically dismantling their operation. Since they were your nemesis you have the unique advantage of knowing where they’re likely to have kept most of their really cool stuff. And remember, in the souvenir game, it is first come, first serve. So lead the operation against their main fortress or stronghold yourself and claim all of those spleen-discombobulators and parasite helmets for yourself! For us, that just meant going into our own basement and, honestly, reclaiming a lot of stuff we thought we’d lost! We also blew up all of Dr. Brainwave’s stuff, as per his last will and testament. [Hi, again, a hastily scrawled note scratched into a chalkboard that says “destroy all of my Earthly things in the same manner in which I died” is not a will.] Well, we did it! And it was awesome! We didn’t even need to buy any explosives, it’s astounding how much of his stuff was already made out of bombs! {You know what? It’s actually pretty alarming how many explosives there were just under our house this entire time.})

Wait, how many bombs were there?

(I thought I told you to take the day off because you were being weird!)

You’re being weird! How many bombs did you find in Dr. Brainwave’s room?

(I don’t know, probably around 660. What do you think Curly?)

{I’d say around 664, maybe 665.}

Oh you have got to be kidding me.

(See, you’re being weird again. Buhbye! Now, any real superhero can’t exactly be without a nemesis. People will start to talk. “Oh yeah, that guy? He’s not really very superheroic, he doesn’t even have one evil person whose sole purpose in life is to destroy them. Poor guy.” So you need to find a new nemesis! {We recommend reading our advice for finding your first nemesis.} Try calling up all of your old enemies and see if they’d be interested in engaging in an eternal struggle between good and evil with you. Or, just go through the supervillain phonebook and pick a name that kind of seems like an inverse of your own name. {Or, if it’s still too soon for you to even think about replacing your dear departed nemesis, just prank call about of villains until you’re all cheered up.} Without Dr. Brainwave gone, we’ve obviously needed to start looking for a new supervillain correspondent... and, well... I guess just take a look at some of the auditions we’ve received.

Al “Da Boss” Marconi: “Ayyyy, da best way to save da world is to stab a twerp right between the eyes and laugh as he bleeds out on the pavement!” {Factually incorrect.}

Dr. Python: “So this job comes with a free room right? My last roommate turned out to be Ultiman so obviously that wasn’t going to work out and I kind of very badly need a new place to live.” {Seems to believe that living with Ultiman is a bad idea because he is a superhero but living with us is fine. Which leads us to believe he either doesn’t really get who we are, or does not respect us.}

Giorgio the Evil Mime: “...” {This guy was Zach’s top choice, but he is clearly grieving and not in his right mind. He seems to have forgotten that our supervillain correspondent needs to be able to speak and make intrusive comments on our blog posts.}

As you can see, we have been having some trouble, but luckily we’ve got interviews with Jhonny McBarn-Burner, Mustard Man and the dreaded Karalaxus who is actually a very pleasant guy once you agree to give up your free will and join his horde of mindless zombies. So hopefully one of those guys pans out.)

Stop everything! We don’t need a new supervillain correspondent. (Dude, for real, you need to take a break. You’re going a bit cuckoo you know?) No, I’m serious, and your face is a bit cuckoo actually so how about you step the heck off.  (Rude.) We don’t need to replace Brainwave, because I don’t think he’s actually gone {What are you saying! Wait, did we actually all die in the explosion? Was he the only to survive? Is he mourning us? Which of us did he mourn the most? Me?} No, I believe that he’s dead. But I also believe that he died on purpose. (Well sure, we all saw him unrepentant supervillainously sacrifice himself so that we could live!) I don’t think he sacrificed himself at all actually. I think he planned on dying, and that he planned on benefitting from it in a way that none of us could have foreseen.  (Ok, you’re gonna have to walk us through that.) Ok, so remember when we went through Brainwave’s stuff, we found a grand total of 665 bombs right?  (I guess?) {We are notoriously bad at counting.} True, but I think we got it right this time. I think that there were only 665 explosive devices in Brainwave’s lair/our basement. [Only?] Yes only! What kind of fanatical supervillain builds so many explosives but stops before hitting 666! The devil’s number! I think he did have 666 bombs, until he mailed one to our office! (Wait, what? You think Brainwave sent us that bomb? That seems like a stretch.) Oh? Does it? The most evil person that we are acquainted with sent us a bomb? That seem awfully farfetched to you? (Well, when you put it like that...) And he was wearing rocket boots the whole time! We could’ve strapped the bomb to one of his rockets and launched it through the skylight without him having to carry it! {That reminds me, our landlord called and said that we definitely lost our security deposit because of that skylight.} (Ah DANG IT!!!!) I think that he waited until the timer was low to reveal that he was wearing rocket boots so he could make his sacrifice play. And hey, he knew that the time on the bomb was displaying the wrong time and yet he knew exactly when the bomb was actually going to go off. That isn’t suspicious to any of you??? (Look, if I made a big deal about everything I found suspicious our coworkers we’d never get anything done!) {Is this about my outstanding deal with the devil?} (No, actually.) And Parenthesis Guy, you even said that the funeral home seemed haunted during the funeral! What if that was Dr. Brainwave! What if he devised this whole scenario so he could die and become a ghost!  (Why would he do that? And doesn’t this all seem a little convoluted.) Yeah, dude, he’s a supervillain! Something the rest of you seemed to have lost sight of. Of course he would come up with an absurdly complicated plan to become a ghost. From a supervillain’s perspective, being a ghost would be way better than being a frail old human with the physique of a scientist.  (I don’t know man, I’m just not seeing it.) What! It makes total sense. He freaks us out with a bomb. Classic supervillain move. He puts us on an emotional rollercoaster by making us think he sacrificed himself to save us, causing us to question everything we thought we knew about the sort of person he was. All while shedding his physical form in order to commit crimes as a ghost. It’s a classic Brainwave move!  (I think maybe you should lie down buddy. You’re starting to go a bit crazy. And not in a fun way like the rest of us.) {Yeah when you make us look like the sane ones you’ve gotta throw in the towel man.} Yeah. Yeah ok, maybe you’re right. (Yeah, maybe we’re right. Let’s call it day, we’ve still gotta go feed the mutant alligators.) You guys go ahead I’ll catch up. {Ok, remember to put on your armor before you enter the alligator pen this time.} Yeah, yeah I’ll remember. All right Brainwave, the others are gone. I know you’re here.

<Uch fine. You got me.> You absolute bas- <Listen, you’re right. I’m every name you’re about to call me. But can we do this later? Right now, I need your help.>

[wellmeaningshutin]

War!

Written: 3/12/2018, by S. Sparrow

A nurse leaves the operating room to obtain a much needed item that she never found, because, when she walked out of the room, a bullet had wasted no time and created two parallel holes in her neck, which began to drain itself of blood. Trying to scream, but unable to find her voice, she slumps against the door and uses her two hands to plug the two holes, which causes blood to spill between her fingers. Weak, she is unable to keep her balance and falls into the dirt, the back of her head first, shortly followed by her back, while her legs rest there, already grounded. Lying in the dirt, she is able to use her legs to repeatedly kick the door, causing another nurse to walk out, only for the sniper to make up for his previous miss by boring a bullet into the new nurse’s skull. Writhing on the ground, the first nurse decides that the sniper is keeping her alive as a means of luring more people into his field of vision, so she decides to relax and wait for death. Coldness greets her right leg, she tries to look up, and she sees blood pooling towards her, and she vainly attempts to keep her legs out of the pool, to die with dignity.

A butcher’s boy meets a middle school math teacher in an open field, they both exchange greetings from their guns as they rush towards each other, but neither is looking down the barrel, bullets sink into dirt and wood, and both hope that the other would be intimidated and flee, so as to avoid combat. The boy is lucky enough to get a round into the teacher’s knee, dropping him, but his magazine is empty while the teacher’s still has enough rounds to celebrate a new year. His one shot, point blank, is enough to mangle the boy’s intestines, and the boy responds by mashing the side of the teacher’s head with the butt of his gun. Both dropping, they begin to crawl over each other, trying to grab each other’s knife, due to convenience. The teacher stick’s a finger into the wound of the boy who never had a chance to achieve anything more than being born into a butcher’s family, and the boy winces in pain, causing him to grab the teacher with every limb, causing the teachers arm to be stuck, his finger unable to leave the moist little hole that it had previously created by squeezing a trigger. Eventually, the boy fingers find the teacher’s knife, and uses it the way his father taught him, wildly, brutally, focused on severing, not stopping, so the teacher screams as the boy hacks an arm loose, a desperate and confused attempt to remove the finger from the wound. A mountain climber, a baker, and a coal miner stumble onto the scene, free the teacher, and send two bullets through each of the boy’s eyes.

An athlete with promise finds their hands chained to a metal bar that lies, waiting, above his head, his feet try to tap the floor, just to give his arms at least a second of relief. When a toe manages to touch, he is once again hit in the back by some flat, blunt object. It hurts like hell, and he worries that the lack of actual damage will allow them to keep beating him, but he also isn’t sure why they’re beating him, or who is beating him. Everyone speaks in what he assumes is the language of the enemy, its foreign to him, and that’s proof enough. It is unclear if they’re trying to ask him questions while they use force to make him sway, to make his cuffs jingle against the bar, to replace any natural coloring on his back with an artificial array of browns, yellows, and purples, with the occasional red. A car salesman comes into the room with a car battery and wires, and the athlete wonders if this will make him a hero.

A sculptor wonders through a forest, hoping that he can exit the forest, hoping that he’ll be able to find some sign of his people that will allow him to return to safety. Traveling at night has become the norm for him, strange men have appeared in the woods, driving their wrongly colored jeeps, better armed than he, especially since he was only armed with a 9mm pistol that was sparsely loaded, since he had to rely on it to provide him with food. The previous night involved him sinking three bullets to get one rabbit, which he ate raw, which he split open with his knife and dug into with his teeth, like a dog going at a bag of chips. Fires weren’t worth the smoke, gunfire was safe when the mortars crash around him. Sometimes he studies the road, trying to figure out if the jeeps were heading towards their own space, or are going away from their own space. Which direction had he come from? When he had first fled into the woods, when he saw the journalist get a grenade in her stomach, a perfect throw that had caused her insides to exit through her backside. He had seen the lumberjack’s brains, the severed hand of the “next Hemingway”, the crater that, only moments before, was a patch of grass where the fisherman, the salesman, and the high school class president stood. So he went into the woods, hoping to prevent a similar example being made of him. Sometimes he would fantasize about leaving the woods, only to hear that the violence was over, but he knew such fantasies were dangerous.

A delivery boy sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another delivery boy, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

A doctor listens to a construction worker explain his “first screw”, while waiting for his nurse to prepare the morphine. He was never one to stand around and soak in recollections of rape, but the man had a decorated chest, and he had earned the privilege of his last words being heard. “Girls back home, damn, that’s how you make women, not like here, not like here. Girls don’t fight here, no sir, they just stare at you with those doll eyes as they sink into wherever it is inside of them that they go to. I’d say that the soul leaves their body, but they don’t have souls, no way, not just cause of how strange their ways are, but because they don’t fight back. That’s what”, pausing to spit blood into a nearby dish, continuing with shining red lips and teeth, “what makes our girls so special, they fight. They’re pure as they come, and they wont let big beasts like me take them over so easily. Why, that’s how you can tell that a girl has value, if she fights or not, and it doesn’t matter if she screws, it matters if she doesn’t want to, that’s how you can evaluate purity. I remember”, a genuine, sunshine smile beaming across his face as the doctor waits, “the first girl that I had had managed to fuck up my back with a razor that she kept with her, who knows why, and I remember”, laughing that hollow, rattling laugh, “I stood up, put my hands on my back, and kicked the shit out of her. Oh boy, she was so fucked up that, by the time I finished, I was worried that I accidentally put her face down in, well she was bleeding badly, and I didn’t want her to drown, you can’t do that to those kinds of girls.” The nurse approached with a syringe in hand. A barber had to explain to the eagle scout that his last friend, a shoe salesman, had his body juiced by a collapsing building, and the one before that, a gambler, was currently dead or in some camp, so he wasn’t exactly in the market for having friends. Yet, the two of them were the only ones holding down the post, and the scout was determined to befriend the barber, since it was the only minor achievement available. After several days, the eagle scout had successfully been burned alive, had desperately tried to escape the flames that clung to him, had struggled as his lungs filled with smoke, as the post burned around him. So, then, the barber chose not to explain himself to the mall cop, who assumed that the barber was just a quiet type, making them the type of friends that didn’t need to talk to be close, whose company was enough. After a week of silence, the mall cop mentioned his idea of their relationship to the barber, who was immediately angry, causing him to stew in silence, leaving the mall cop, a week later, to still think that they were friends while the machete hacked and hacked, hoping to replace a segment of neck with air. The barber then ended up with the dry cleaner, who didn’t give a shit about the barber, who only wanted to go home. Naturally, the barber liked this cold companion, and eventually opened up to him, unsolicited and intoxicated, about his life before the violence, something he had never told his revolving cast of friends. The dry cleaner hardly listened, but when the barber stated his past profession, the companion had to ask why he became a soldier, instead of a barber, the barber could only make some vague statement about honor, one repeated enough times, to himself, for it to lose any sense of meaning.

A proud grandson finds himself strapped to a board, fabric over his face, water pouring over him for what feels like eternity, an unending lifetime of drowning. The water stops, he tries to catch his breath, but more comes, he body tries to spasm, is desperate to escape, but the restraints are good at what they do. Another breath, another pouring, another breath, and so on, until he has trouble remembering how he got there, what his life was like before the airless hell he is subjected to, and the only memory he can grab a hold of is the moment when he told his grandfather, a decorated veteran, that he had signed up to do his duty, and the way that his grandfather cackled at him.

A truck driver sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another truck driver, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

A historian and a street youth comb the fresh rubble of a former, thriving community. “Go through and salvage what you can, get weapons, bullets, whatever you think is valuable.” The youth digs through one spot, finds the corpse of a crossing guard, wearing the outfit of the enemy, and the historian says, “Don’t touch him, now look for something else.” When the youth scrambles away, the poet moves to the ex-person and places an IED under it. After he is commanded to move twice, the youth understands his purpose, and starts to pocket what really interests him, a burned photograph of a woman that only has her legs and slit left, an ivory comb, a small figurine that represents some folklore figure, either benevolent or a trickster, and, of course, bullets. An addict shoots that black, vinegar smelling, crap into his arm, and is able to lie back and feel good. He was worried that the violence would take away from his favored activity, especially since he was in a foreign country, but then he learned that foreigners get high too. The first time he copped, he was told that a lot of people like him usually start using to avoid their problems, to relax their consciouses, but he didn’t believe it, he was a killer with killers killing killers, what problems were there? Back home he had to worry about making it day by day, but now death is assured, so he didn’t know what there was to worry about. Death isn’t scary if you feel good when it happens, he reasoned, so he was always high. He liked to say that he had track marks for every friend that he lost, but he only said it to himself, he had nobody to say it to. He was pleased that he ended up in a beautiful country, he liked to stare at the country side. Sometimes he forgot about the violence, and that would stress him out, because it made him feel bad for being an addict.

“They got me in the stomach, didn’t they?” “Its not that bad, its fine.” “Its never fine if its the stomach, I don’t, I’m not going to make it with this one.” “We’ll be back to base soon, the doctor will-” “Oh, that fucker had his brains blown out in a whorehouse.” “What?” “The day after you left, he goes into town and gets blown twice.” “So who is the current doctor?” “What does it matter, I’m as good as-” “Fuck, okay, don’t worry, I wont drop you again.” “Fucking-” “I wont do it again, I promise.” “Look here, see this, where is it, oh, oh can you-” “Do you need me to-” “Yeah, get this button open for me, my fingers can’t get a grip, they keep slipping-” “Don’t worry, I have it-” “In the end I can’t, can’t even open a damn pocket. Okay, now reach inside, get out the photograph that’s in there.” “Here.” “No, don’t give it to me, its not for me, I want you to take it.” “Why, who is this?” “She was my steady back home, now she’s yours.” “What?” “I’m dying here, I’m going to die looking up at this fucking sky. What kind of sky is this anyways? Not like the one I grew up with, its all wrong, its too bright, its-” “You’re going to make it, we aren’t far-” “But my, fuck, my fucking, I’m ripped open, I’m cold, I need you to stop lying and listen to me. You’re a good man, I can tell that by the way that you won’t be honest to me. I know that I’m probably worse than I think I am, especially since, eh, especially since you keep looking at me that way. I can see the shock behind your eyes. Now, since your a good man, I know you’ll survive the war, and when you do I’ll need you to marry my girl. I want you to go, to, to, turn the picture over, there’s an address.” “I have to carry you, let’s just focus on getting-” “I want to say this before the pain successfully silences me, you have to listen. I need you to go to that address, explain you story, and I need you to put a good fuck into her. I need you to be her man, because I can’t guarantee that she’ll pick right. She picked me the first time and now you need to go there and fuck her brains out so that she’ll appreciate you.” “Look-” “And I’ll be watching on the other side-” “We’re almost-” “I’ll want to see you inside of her-” “I can see the gate, its-” “I just want to see her have an orgasm, I never got to see that before.” “I’m going to put you down now.” “You need to treat her right.”

A tailor sprints across a field, pushing his body to its limits, willing to break something if that means that he can keep running, if he can keep the jeep behind it. He ran over the hill knowing that there would be a forest on the other side, knowing that he could escape into there, where the murderers wouldn’t follow due to a lack of ammo, one that was made clear by their lack of gunfire, their resignation to using the car as a weapon. However, when he was over the hill, the tailor saw that craters had claimed land that had previously belonged to the forest, that he still had a long ways to go. He also discovered that the jeep, like him, had an easier time going downhill than uphill, and he decided, too late, to jump out of its way, into the safety of the mortar’s kiss, but his legs were ground under the tires of the jeep, which, after passing him, tried to circle around, and drive up the hill at him, but the driver was too bloodthirsty, and his recklessness caused him to crash into a crater. Jeep on its side, the tailor tried to crawl, but his legs screamed at him as he dragged them across the rocks and dirt, so he started to lie there, hoping that the other men were dead, that help would come. Out of a demolition ditch came one man, bleeding from an ear, but generally healthy, and the man, a carnival worker, walked uphill towards the tailor, who caused the car to flip by his pathetic will to live, who was now throwing stones at the carny, stones that were to weakly thrown to be a threat, stones that meekly rolled down the dirt after a seconds freedom from the surface. At least one of these stones was able to get the carnival worker’s nose to match his ear, and, in response, the carny’s knife removed any sense of humanity, lips, nose, ears, hair, teeth, tongue, eyes, skin, from the tailor’s face.

A washed up news anchor sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another washed up nobody, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

Two fathers share a cell, neither is from the same place, neither speaks with the same sounds. Eventually, conditions make them desperate to form a small human connection, small enough to not bring pain, so, every night, they spoon each other, not knowing that they have much more in common than a situation.

A shepherd returns to his home after several days, after the birds signal to him that all life, good or bad, is no longer present. When the wreckage is finally in his field of vision, he doesn’t cry, he is shocked by how little he feels like crying, even more so than the destruction shocks him. When he was on his own, he had pictured his home as being much worse, he had pictured blood and gore everywhere, murdered sheep, disemboweled children, babies that had been divided by bayonets, beheaded women that had blood coming out of their privates, but there was none of that, it was mostly just rubble. As he stood on top of what he assumed was the school, although it could easily be ten other buildings, due to a lack of variation in architecture, he surveyed the scene and saw nothing but rubble, ash, and dirt that had been flung around. For a minute, he wondered if he was really gone for a couple days, or if he had been gone for a lot longer, it seemed like the violence had not been around for some time, but the birds still watched as he watched, so he knew that it had to be fresh. When he was finally able to accept that, yes, this mess was in fact the place where he was born and raised, where his father lived, and his father before, and his father before, and so on. He started to think about moving on, about where he’d have to move to, but he ignored the thought, because he still had to find a way to eat, to get water, to survive, and he wasn’t sure if the violence would return, and he wasn’t sure of where the violence had already struck. Closing his eyes, he thought of himself as being in the eye of the storm. Days ago he’d been in the storm of artillery fire, gunfire, mutilation and misery, but, now, it was peaceful. Opening his eyes and looking up, he felt that the way the birds circled only cemented this imagery, felt that he as truly safe, even if only for a day or two. Hunger was finally able to move him to action, and he started to wonder around the town to find something to eat, something to fill his stomach before the next vacancy. He knew where the bakery, the grocery store, and the butcher’s store were, but not with the town like this, he didn’t know which buildings to search, they were all the same to him. Eventually, making his way over the warm stone, he saw a figure, a body. It was clear that they were dead, but he knew that he knew them, they were a neighbor, whoever they were, and he had to at least bury them, he left his town to burn, so he had to at least try to make things right. However, when he went to lift the corpse, he was suddenly blinded, deafened and knocked back. His arms were in more pain than he thought possible, and he wildly tried to rub his eyes in a desperate attempt to see, but he couldn’t feel his face at all. He tried to get up, but he could not, he just kept slipping, and when his sight returned to him, he saw his knees sliding around in blood, his blood, that was pouring from the stumps of his arms. The birds circled overhead.

[sleep-silent-angel]

For Annie

Characters: Annie (OFC), Nick (OMC), Dean Winchester

Pairing: None  

Warnings: ANGST IN THE FIRST DEGREE. There’s no joy in here. Loneliness. Alcohol. TRIGGER WARNING in tags to avoid spoilers. 

Word Count: 2580

A/N: I am so, SO sorry. It knocked around in my brain until I had to look it in the eye and conquer it. The title is taken from an old Christian song by the same title. If you know it, you may know what’s coming. Un-beta’d, all errors are mine.

For Annie

She stops inside the busy bar’s front doors to adjust her eyes to the dim light. She’s not exactly out of place in department store jeans and blue and black printed top, but she certainly wouldn’t stand out. She could be mid to late 40s, maybe breathing down fifty’s neck. It would take a few looks at her features to realize she could have at some time been pretty. She’s frail slender, and small, but not the kind of short that draws comments about it. Just, not quite average. Straight, mud brown hair falls to just short of her collarbone. She threads between the patrons to hitch herself onto a tall perch at a corner of the three-sided bar.

The bartender, early-thirties, fit, reasonably attractive enough, greets her with a bland smile which she returns with effervescent charm.

“Evening, I’ll have a rum and diet Coke please. I’m Annie, what’s your name?”

“Comin’ right up. Nick, good to meet you.”

She gets her drink, talks lightly with bartender while he dries beer glasses. “Did you grow up in town, Nick?”

“Austin. Another year, get my degree, an’ I’m gone back.”

“And what are you studying?”

“Business. Take over dad’s office.” His answers deteriorate shorter and less descriptive, until he drifts off to sweet talk the waitress leaning far over the adjoining bar top.

A couple, she recognizes as the Vice Principal of the grade school and her Pharmacist husband, take seats at the end of her counter of the bar. They’re already tapping feet and smiling loose, and easy to engage in happy gossip. Soon enough, and without taking their leave, they drift toward the dance floor, drinks in hand.

A man, a little older than herself, heavier set and tall in his tired suit, sits at the opposite corner of the bar from her. Annie smiles sweetly, plays with her hair, catches his eye and nods demurely. He takes a few glances, turns toward her, raises his drink. An exchange of pleasantries, but no names. She empties her glass, toys with the edge with delicate fingertips, nudging it imperceptibly in his direction. A flash of blue and yellow gold behind her catches his eye, and his attention slides to a point over her shoulder. A few more broken sentences, and she knows she’s already lost him.

He nods politely to Annie, gets up with a swaggering roll of his shoulders, sweeps up his drink and strides toward the coy bottle blonde a few tables away. Annie nods sagely as he takes his leave, her expression soft and accepting. She smiles wistfully at the bartender, perhaps seeking apology or sympathetic understanding. Soon enough she leaves into the deepening dusk after two hours and her third drink.

The next evening repeats the pattern. At the same seat, Annie orders the same drink from the same bartender in what just might be the same black button down shirt with sleeves rolled up.

“Evening, ma’am. What can I get ya?”

“Rum and Diet Coke. And please, I’m Annie.”

“Gotcha. Rum and Diet.”

“Thank you… sorry, did I get your name?”

“Nick. Any time, darlin’.”

Tonight, a pair of friends, either truckers or construction workers, judging from their beer bellies, drop onto stools next to Annie. They’re loud, sauced, and apparently best buds with everyone. She smiles polite and open when one bumps her shoulder repeatedly. Turns out it’s not the “oh pardon me, gee you’re pretty” introduction she had hoped for. In the end neither of them spare a look in her direction. Except of course to cop the Men’s room down the hall behind her. Annie leaves after only two drinks tonight.

The sixth night Annie lasts only as long as it takes to hop a few dances on the dance floor. She meets the watery gaze of a buzzed young man surrounded by his mates and their girls. Watery gaze jogs a song out facing her, his hip even manages to brush her once or twice. As the track ends, he turns his back to her to rejoin his pals, and she has a first-hand witness to his exaggerated head-shaking with a thumb hooked over his shoulder. The girls with him wrinkle their noses and giggle, their dates howl their jests at buddy’s expense. Annie’s smile never falters, although it’s a little dimmer for a moment. She shrugs back into her dignity over one more drink and one more introduction to Nick. The big doors close behind her before the ice even starts to melt in her emptied glass.

Consecutive nights. Some repeat faces, mostly new ones. And a-one, and a-two, and a-second verse, just like the first.

On night nineteen, a tall, solidly built, roughneck type makes himself at home on a bar stool a few seats to Annie’s right. When her head turns with interest toward him, their eyes meet with the polite, if disconnected, tight lipped smiles of strangers acceding the sharing of public space. She takes the time to explore him over once or twice with grey eyes, making special note of the spread of his knees, the evidence of manual labour in his rough worn hands, the tell-tale approach of age in the coarseness of his cheek. He keeps his back to the room, attending to a few bottles of domestic, a platter of substantial potato skins, and the Braves and Padres game on the overhead televisions.

Annie makes a trip to the Ladies’, and when she returns it’s to the seat just one more closer to the rather attractive big man’s elbow.

“Padres haven’t beat the Braves all year, doesn’t look like they’re doing much better tonight,” Annie volunteers toward Nick and maybe the new bar mate to her right. Nick simply continues pouring the order in front of him without acknowledging her, but the big man in canvas and denim nods aimlessly, and turns soft eyes her way momentarily. “Don’t look like it.”

“They put up a good effort though, gotta give them that,” Annie ventures on with attempts at Small Talk With Strangers. Her voice is deceptively youthful, clear, just a little bit breathy, and just as neat as her appearance would promise.

“They do, I guess. Braves just have their number this year,” Handsome Stranger returns once his latest bottle is emptied and offered for a replacement.

“I’m Annie, by the way.” Her short glass remains half-filled and caressed in slender fingers.

The man sinks his weight onto forearms crossed on the bar top, and seems to debate with himself whether or not to risk it. Finally he swings his head heavily in ‘fuck it why not’ resignation. “Dean.”

Annie raises her glass to Dean with her best coquettish smile, “Happy Thursday, Dean.” He returns her casual toast with the neck of his new bottle, finishing with a short mouthful of the drink. The next minutes flow by against the background of low bar conversation, the click and thunk of the pool tables, and Dean’s gaze moving progressively over various female figures passing by. Annie doesn’t concede defeat quite yet, though, risking a little more of his patience. She turns more directly toward Dean, bringing her drink to rest innocently between them.

“Do you play? Ball, I mean.”

“Hm? Uh, no. Never good at the organized team thing.” Dean’s attention is disjointed toward a flirting brunette in a purple sweater giggling nearby with her girlfriends. In the next inning break the purple sweater appears at his elbow between him and Annie with empty glass in hand. Dean’s hand goes to the girl’s back, high enough to be chaste, but with just enough weight to stake a claim on her evening, gesturing to Nick with the other to refill two drinks. As Nick delivers Annie’s next, last, rum and Diet Coke, Dean leans back to catch her eye around his new date.

“Have a good night. Good to meet you.”

“You too, Dean. Thanks.” Annie doesn’t even watch him depart the bar with the girl tucked against his side. She does tuck in on herself long enough to finish her rum and Diet Coke, before nodding wordlessly to Nick and slipping out into the evening.

The twentieth night, Dean takes the same seat as he had the previous night, Annie’s empty glass and a wet-ringed napkin lying next to it a few feet away. Her tall seat stands empty, but soon he spies her on the opposite edge of the dance floor, sweetly waifish among the handful of dancers surrounding her. She sways and bobs her chin almost gracefully to Audioslave’s melancholy Like a Stone pouring out of the speakers. There doesn’t seem to be a partner swaying with her. The press of couples and dancers near her pay her no regard. When the song ends she raises her pensive stare from the floor, nods decisively to herself and returns to her spot at the bar. As she nears, she meets Dean’s nod of recognition with a pleasant, perhaps hopeful, girlish smile.

She holds his gaze just a moment long enough to pick up her glass to reposition it a hand's width away. Nick sweeps the glass and napkin away, murmuring a confirming question if she would like another. Seconds plod away until Dean blinks blankly. Annie lifts her chin stoically, as her resolve drains from her eyes.

“Sure, Nick. Rum and Diet Coke.” She prompts patiently as he opens his mouth to inquire and Dean’s head swivels away to come to rest in the direction of the pool tables. Left with the view of the back of his head and impressive shoulders, Annie sips her drink. From there she observes the assortment of bar patrons interact. There’s the co-ed knots of friends at tables flirting and failing over foaming pitchers, the scattered pairs of couples hip-leaning and close-talking at the rail lining the far wall, the two groups of confident men and courageous women seamlessly pairing off in a stunning display of John Nash’s study in human nature.

Annie alone at her perch begins to feel a little like the picked over rock among the freshly polished stones along the river banks. She lowers herself from the tall stool and raises a glance toward Nick taking orders from a waitress at the opposite end of the counter. She turns then to Dean who at the same moment is striding away on his thick bowed legs in the direction of the restrooms down the hall.

“Well. Goodnight then. Thanks for everything.” No one answers, but then, she really didn’t expect one.

After a few minutes, Dean comes back to his place and notices Annie’s seat deserted. “She coming back?”

Nick shrugs loosely, “I’unno. Gotta give it to the old girl. She’s been here for the last three weeks, same place every night. Talks to anyone, flirts with all the guys, but always arrives and leaves alone. Never seen anyone even buy her a drink.”

“Huh,” is all Dean can manage.  “Huh.”

The next evening Dean drops onto the bar stool next to Annie’s apparently customary place. Lifting his chin to Nick, he orders his first whiskey and beer chaser as the bartender approaches.

“Did I miss her?”

“Who?” Nick sets a glass and an opened bottle on cardboard coasters at Dean’s elbow.

“Annie. Pretty lady, dark hair, little thing, sits here every night?” Dean jerks his head at the bare space next to him.

“Dunno, nobody’s been there all night,” Nick throws over his shoulder as he goes about his business.

“Tell ya what. When Annie gets in tonight, put her drinks on my tab.” His head ducked into the beer cooler, Nick waves a thumbs-up in recognition of the offer. Two hours later Dean is half a dozen beers thicker and too focused on the blonde twins next to the jukebox to remember who it was he meant to be waiting for.

Annie rests on the balcony wrapped in a dull worn blanket against a cooling breeze. Her bare feet disappear tucked under her for warmth on a cushion. She watches leaves skitter across the street and the colours of the sunset drain into the horizon from a creaking wicker chair. When the last trace of purple melts into grey, she sighs deeply and stands, laying the blanket folded just so over the arm of the chair.

She goes through the unlit little space, adjusting her spartan surroundings as she goes. On her pass through the bare kitchen for a glass of water, a solitary wood slatted kitchen chair is squared to the formica table, a chiffon curtain pulled straight, a loose thread picked and brushed away. Entering her bedroom, Annie considers for a moment closing the door behind her, instead deciding to leave it opened to the view of the single armchair and empty plant stand across the dim adjoining living room. A single brass key lays atop four envelopes on the round table in the hall. Her three utility bills, all paid in full. Seventy two dollars and eleven cents in total. A large orange document envelope she’s been deciding who to address to. She has settled on Police Chief Larry Thompson, seems the most likely.

She undresses and hangs her clothes in trim order in a closet empty except for the few hangers holding the last of the clothes which fit lately. She pulls a fresh, pink cotton nightgown on, secures the buttons at the chest. She sits delicately on the edge of the narrow bed, her weight barely enough to wrinkle the dull purple coverlet smoothed precisely over it. She places her emptied water glass exactly so in the yellowed light of the tiny lamp. She replaces two plastic caps and turns the empty amber bottles to match the glass.

Annie shuts off the lamp with a faint ‘snap’. She sits in the silent dark and reminisces on the array of people come and gone from her life - her mother long dead from liver cancer, her father in the last vacant stages of Alzheimer’s in Philadelphia. Her estranged brother Roy, who stopped asking for help supporting their father once the Veteran’s pension took over. His ex-wife Barbara, who used to have such a busy mouth before she found quiet in the bourbon. Jethro, her ex husband who left on a business trip over eight years ago and has never extended a word to her since. Neighbors who she’s never met, but who come and go on a Swiss train schedule morning and evening.

It’s been two years since her aged cat, Tigger, mostly lame from advanced diabetes, disappeared from her back porch. Fourteen months since she left her job at the grocery store. Nine days after she stopped going to work, her resignation letter was still in the mail slot beside the Manager’s door.

There are no photos left hanging on her walls, she disconnected her phone just after the turn of spring. It had been four months since she got a call on it. It’s been exactly eight months on Sunday since she’s heard her own name spoken from another mouth.

Her hands rest stacked in her lap and head hangs bowed for long minutes until her shoulders nod wearily. Finally she lays herself out between the cool cotton sheets, straight and expectant. It doesn’t take long for the embrace of sleep she summoned in a handful. Her last happiness comes with a soundless sigh, relieved at last to sink into the emptiness of her own making.

And it's too late for Annie, she's gone away for good There's so much we could tell her and now we wish we could

.....

If only we had known her situation, We'd have tried to stop this useless tragedy Annie's lost forever, never to be found But there are lots of others like her all around

TOE-TAGS: @rizlow1 @awhiskeywithawinchester @littlegreenplasticsoldier @kittenofdoomage @sis-tafics @the-mrs-deanwinchester @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @deandoesthingstome @aprofoundbondwithdean @kayteonline @inkiestdawn @dorky-and-i-know-it @mrswhozeewhatsis @mrsjohnsmith @skybinx-blog @ellen-reincarnated1967 @saenalife @jotink78 @nichelle-my-belle @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @sp-oops @ilostmyshoe-79 @misswhizzy @rainygalaxynerd @spectaculacular-sammy @klaineaholic @but-deans-back-tho @writingthingsisdifficult @oriona75 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @charliesbackbitches @feelmyroarrrr @salvachester @love-me-some-pie21 @demberly @faith-in-dean  @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @hello-nicolexoxo-love @@notnaturalanahi @bringmesomepie56 @charliebradbury1104 @daydreamingintheimpala @deanssweetheart  @winchesterprincessbride @manawhaat @bkwrm523 @whispersandwhiskerburn @for-the-love-of-dean @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @katnharper @quiddy-writes

[raavenreyes]

aeternum.

Bellamy x Raven: reincarnation / immortal au

Word count: 2,487 words.

Description: Bellamy Blake has been alive for longer than he’d care to admit. When he refused to side with a God in a petty disagreement, the God decided to curse him with immortality. When the war resulting from the petty disagreement reaches Bellamy’s front step, the immortality benefits him but kills the love of his life. Now, thousands of years later, he’s doing his best to blend. That is, until the love of his life finds him once more. But that’s impossible, right?

[ rating: R for language. chapter description: bellamy blake tells everyone but raven reyes how feels about raven reyes. its basically canon verse without ppl dying]

Chapter 6.

Booming music filled Bellamy’s ears, and it felt like for a moment, his brain was shaking in his skull as he made his way through the crowd on the dance floor. There was a time in his life where he went out to the bars, or a couple of clubs every weekend, but now he was in a period of rest. Every once in a while he enjoyed going out, it usually meant good drinks and on occasion, when he was feeling it, a one-night boyfriend or girlfriend. But now, his presence in the nightclub was on business rather than pleasure.

“Nate!” He shouted from the other end of the bar as the man manipulated two chrome shakers in his hand. “Miller!” It was his last name that caught his attention, and Miller slid over, giving Bellamy a smile.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Raven said you needed some dinner, I was on my way home, offered to drop some stuff off.” He held up a bag and Nate grinned from ear to ear. “It’s Louie’s on 5th and Beret.”

“Hoagies?”

“Damn right.”

“Hey, Asher! I’m takin’ my lunch.” His co-worker gave him a thumb’s up and Bellamy followed Nate out into the back of the club, sitting on empty wine crates next to each other. A beat of silence settled between them as they opened up their meals. “You mind sittin’ with me, or is Raven waitin’ for you?”

“Ah, no she’s not. She and Lexa are having a girl’s night. I don’t know, I told them I’d be home late to give ‘em some space.” Bellamy replied. “I think it’s good for her, y’know?”

Nate nodded, taking a large bite out of the sandwich and wiping the corners of his mouth as he chewed. “Did she tell you about Anya?”

“Mentioned her. That’s her ex, right?”

He cleared his throat. “After Anya left she uh, kind of sank in on herself I guess.” Miller shrugged. “We wanted her to go out with us, meet people, but she just…I dunno, it hurt her.” Bellamy stayed silent, staring into the darkness of the alleyway. “Sorry, does it upset you to talk about it?”

“No, no,” He replied immediately. “I just…I wish she would talk to me about it because I wanna help her heal, but she doesn’t—she won’t. I try to bring it up, I tell her about my wife and—”

“Wait dude, you’re married?”                                    

It had slipped so suddenly, Bellamy didn’t even notice. “No, I’m—widowed.” He lied, leaning back against the brick wall. “I was married, but I lost her.”

“Shit, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, she knows. She told me about Finn.”

“Yeah, Raven told me she told you—you know, I don’t like speakin’ ill of the dead but that dude was jackass sometimes. Treated Raven like shit, but he had his good moments.” Miller took another bite, but continued talking through his full mouth. “Crazy though, how life can just rip people away from you.”

Nate crumbled up the wrapping paper his sandwich had come in, tossing it into a nearby trash bin. “Nate,”

“’Sup?”

“I think I love her.”

“Good, you deserve it.” He smiled. “Don’t tell her yet, though. You need to have a conversation about Anya.”

Bellamy nodded. “I’ll let you get back to work. Gotta get home to my girl.” He patted Miller’s back before heading back into the club. Bellamy lit up a cigarette once outside, deciding to enjoy a smoke before he hopped onto his bike and went home to Raven.

“Mind if I borrow your light?”

Bellamy turned, holding out the lighter until he recognized the face. He dropped the device and slammed the other man’s body into the wall of the club. “You son of a bitch,”

“Nice to see you again, my son.”

“Fuck you.” He hissed. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I’ve never seen you so angry.”

“You cursed me with this shit and then abandoned me—me and Lexa,”

“Lexa, unfortunately was not my handiwork. That…was someone else. Ontari the dreadful. She gets jealous, and she does so often.”

“Yeah? What name d’ya go by now?”

“Jaha.”

“Jaha? That means dignity, right? That’s somethin’ you don’t got.”

“I understand you’re upset.”

“Get rid of it. Now. I want to live a human life.”

“Why, because you fell in love? I told you, Bellamy. Life repeats itself eventually. You have your wife back, you should be happy.”

Bellamy took out another cigarette, cursing himself for dropping the half finished one in his hurry to assault the god in human form. “What, I get another…seventy years with her and then another two thousand without her? Yeah, sounds fucking great.”

“You’d like me to lift your curse so you can die with her?”

“Yes.” He breathed out.

“And what if she dies before you? An accident, a sickness, a bad piece of tuna?” He asked. “Then you’re alone for those seventy years.”

“I don’t care. I’m sick of this, I don’t even know how old I am. Can’t remember where or when I was born, and until a couple months ago I was losing the memory of Raven’s face. I don’t want that to happen again.”

Jaha shrugged. “I can’t help you. The curse is permanent. You are to live until the world itself dies. At least you’ll have Lexa.” Bellamy let out a growl of frustration. “Accept it, Bellamy.”

“Why me, huh? Why me?”

“You displeased me.”

“Great answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

He shook his head, “Leave me alone. If you’re not gonna help me, leave me alone.” His eyes closed, and the air around him dropped in temperature. When he opened his eyes again, the man was gone.

Home was a welcomed sight, and a smile lifted his cheeks at the vision before him: Raven and Lexa sharing a blanket, at the bottom end of a bottle of red wine with a platter of cheese and crackers between them. “Hi baby,” Raven greeted him warmly, a slight slur in her tone.

“Did you get my girlfriend drunk, Lexa?”

“I might have, she’s adorable when she’s drunk.”  She teased, and Raven’s face got even redder. “Well, Dad’s home so I should go.”

“Oh no, Lexy, come on. Stay.”

“I would love to, birdie but Clarke just got off work.”

“Starbucks?” Bellamy asked as he shed his outer wear.

“No, she got a second job as a cocktail waitress at that piano bar.” Lexa explained, pulling on her leather jacket. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Bellamy followed her out into the hall and closed the front door behind him, causing Lexa to raise a brow at him. “That fucking bastard showed himself to me.”

Her eyes widened, “You mean—”

“He goes by Jaha now. He also told me he wasn’t the one that cursed you. It was Ontari.”

She groaned. “Ugh, that fucking bitch. She was tied up with him, I should have known.” Lexa ran her hands through her hair, tugging slightly at the roots. “Well, what are we gonna do, Bell?”

“Something. I’ll figure it out.” He wanted to tell her the curse was permanent, get her to stop trying so hard but…he couldn’t. The words were there, wanting to spill over the edge, but something was holding them back. “Get some sleep, I’ll call you in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, Bellamy.”

“Stop being sorry for this, it’s not your fault, Lex. You carry too much sometimes. I worry about you.” He pulled her into a hug and pressed a kiss to her hairline. “I’ll see ya later.”

When he entered the apartment again, Raven hadn’t even noticed he had left, eyes still glued to the muted television. He settled in next to her, and that pulled her attention. She gave him a lazy smile and he pulled her leg into his lap, massaging around her knee. “Hi, handsome.” She cooed.

“Hey.”

“You smell like hoagies.”

“I had dinner with Miller behind the club.”

“Thank you for doing that. Sometimes he gets so into his job he forgets to eat.” She explained. “You okay? You look stressed.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, baby.”

“I worry about you all the time. You got so much in that head, I think you’re too old for your body.”

You had no idea, he thought to himself. “Let’s get you into bed, Rae.”

“Wait, wait,” She whispered, slender fingers digging into his skin on his arm. She slid her hand up into his shirt and sought out warmth. “Wait, don’t go. I have to—” She hiccupped. “I have to tell you something.”

“I’m sure it can wait until morning when you’re sober and able to form a cohesive thought.”

“No, it can’t wait—I was talking to Lexa and she told me—she told me everything, Bell.” His heart began pounding in his chest. How could she? That wasn’t her secret to tell.

“Rae, lemme explain.”

“No, I get it. I should have seen it because sometimes you say or do things that…I can’t explain, and I—it scares me, but I get it now. I get it.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“No, it doesn’t sound crazy.” She shook her head. “Bell, you loved her. You were lucky to find someone you loved that much.”

“…What?”

“Lexa, she explained your relationship you had with your wife, why you’re—why you’re you…the way you are and,” She sniffed. “I don’t wanna replace her, I don’t want you to feel obligated to love me as devotedly as you did her. I don’t…” He sighed in relief, closing his eyes for a moment. “Bell, I…”

“I miss her,” He said, but it was a struggle through bubbling emotion in his chest. “I miss her so god damn much but I feel like I foun—I find her, I find her in the little things. It helps. Some days, it feels like she’s right in front of me.” Bellamy made eye contact with Raven, fingertips tracing a small tattoo of a heart on her wrist bone. “Right there. Like I can, smell her, hear her voice. I was forgetting what her voice sounded like.” A tear fell from his cheek and turned into a darkened spot on his jeans. She ran her hands into his hair, and he turned his head to the side to kiss along her wrist. “When I lost her it ripped a hole in me, baby. I can’t—”

“I love you.” She whispered, and he looked up at her in time to catch a tear sliding down the outside curve of her cheek. He caught it with his thumb and kissed the trail. “You don’t have to say it back, just—I wanted you to know. I needed—I love you, and you don’t have to feel like you have to keep that from me because of…I want you to be able to talk to me about her, y’know? She’s…she’s a part of you.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Raven.”

“I’m someone who cares, Bellamy. If that’s all you want to think of me right now, that’s fine. Love me when you’re ready to love me. Tell me when you’re ready to tell me. Just know you’re safe with me.”

“You’re so drunk,” He mentioned, and they both began to laugh through their tears. Bellamy deposited a kiss onto her lips.

“I’m getting a tattoo on Friday, do you wanna come?” She said suddenly.

“Where are you gonna put it, do you even have room?”

“I’m getting Rambo’s machine gun from the first movie on my hip.”

“Why?”

“It’s fucking Rambo, Bellamy, I’m honestly offended you even asked me that question. Now, come help me to bed because I can’t remember where it is.”

“Anything for you, Reyes.”

[everymonster]

EMDR Resourcing III

Yes, I’m dong another EMDR resourcing post. It takes more than one 55 minute session to get all the resources you need when your trauma history is, well, fucked. Today, of course, started with a now standard “how are you going with the CoVid-19?” greeting, because nine days ago it was a non-issue for psychology in Australia and today it’s a significant and reasonable question. My psych will probably move to tele-health over the weekend, but thankfully EMDR still works just as well. If it doesn’t, we’ll find a solution that works for everyone and things will be okay. I’m working on that optimism idea from last week, hah. Honestly, the biggest hurdle from all of this will be not being able to use a white board to diagram stuff together... I’m very aware of my privilege in this context.

We started off with attributes, and I think my list is pretty much finalised now - although, like the cast of paw patrol, I'm sure there’s space for a mid-season addition if need be. My final list; focus, dignity, acceptance, tranquility, optimism and tenacity are pretty good. I’m going to explore the link between tenacity and dignity, because for me the opposite of shame is dignity, but we ended up using  my memory for tenacity to give shame a bit of a heave ho. It turns out that EMDR isn’t just strictly for the past... I should back up and explain this.

We were working through my list of attributes and had just started the slow eye movements for tenacity when I became distracted by my psych’s brightly embroidered cushion. I asked her if it would be possible to put the cushion face down because it was distracting me. Unconsciously, I used really judgmental language about myself in doing so, which of course my psych picked up on. In EMDR I feel like every moment is a teachable moment for her - when pushed gently, my feelings brain immediately had a big outburst of shame because culturally, I was raised to be too polite to ask for changes in someone else’s environment. The validation from my psych, coupled with this realisation lead to some tears and sadness. [Thankfully, I had a sensory fidget in my hands to help me with this one.] While working through this teachable moment [PMSL], my psych suddenly said to me, “Lii, just try this with me quickly. Can you hold shame and dignity in your head at once?” It took me a minute but I managed it, mostly. My SmartBrain was able to hold the concept of dignity and my FeelingsBrain was well set up with shame. “Okay, just hold both of them in your head at once, however it works. Now, watch my fingers.” My psych then flicked her fingers much faster than usual back and forward. It was quite difficult for my eyes to focus that fast, but I was much less distracted, which I enjoyed. After a length of time [maybe 15 seconds?], my psych asked me to stop and tell me what I was feeling in my brain. My Brains had shifted so that one of them was empty, and one was holding both concepts. More quick flicking. Whichever one of my Brains was holding the shame and dignity was finding the dignity taking up more and more space, and the shame was much fainter and further away. That whole exchange took about 12 minutes, from “Wow, I can see Lii that you’ve having a big feeling” through to being able to hold dignity firmly in place. Even now, 24 hours later, when I think about the need to change someone else’s environment for my Brains to work better, my immediate reaction is to value my incredible Brains and their cool abilities rather than to feel ashamed that I can’t focus if there are distractions in the room. I have [mostly] replaced my belief that it is ALWAYS impolite and selfish to need those changes with a belief that while there are times it would be inappropriate, it is okay to request those changes and good that I can recognise my needs and place reasonable value on them. I’m kind of bewildered, in a good way, about how effective one single EMDR treatment was. It’s absolutely amazing and I’m completely converted. I had seen video testimonials from people trying to explain how incredible EMDR can be, however, I hadn’t really understood the feeling until yesterday. It’s amazing.

it was a really good note to finish on too, having such a positive response to EMDR is probably going to help with the whole “optimism” thing I’m trying out. I set myself a shit-tonne of homework this week though, not entirely sure why, but hey, I can homeschool two kids and manage the social-work needs of 1200 people AND do EMDR homework, right?

Flesh out my list of EMDR resources with cartoon, colour, physical touch and base memory.

Research and [hopefully] purchase the necessary items for my sensory kit[s]. This is to help my AloeBrain. It might be worth having a more portable kit for my SageBrain too.

Develop a post-EMDR session routine for self-care and monitoring.

Research: my SmartBrain is currently in heaven - I’m thinking about the correlations and causations between neurodivergence and high intelligence. I’m also wanting to research the possibility of emotions causing physical sensations in the brain.

Make sure your monsters wash their hands so that they stay healthy! See you next week, xo, Lii