#and this….open wound I guess of knowing what we lost and being unable to reconstruct it

[katabay]

lmao these are ocs I made wayyyy back in 2021 on a personal blog and I don’t think I ever posted them here, so I’ll do a quick recap!

the guy with the blue hair is marion. he hunts demons! baron is a librarian at a university only because everyone else who was actually qualified for the position died and he really just wants to go home and take a nap.

that’s about it! it was a story I started on because I wanted to draw cool outfits and big monsters after spending a weekend playing DMC5 during the lockdown, but recently it’s been getting some more serious depth as I build up the world.

the original desire to give everyone fun hair colors has remained the same tho, that’s not going to change no matter how serious this story does or does not get

⭐ places I’m at! bsky /��pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app / tip jar!

[xloveyouanywayx]

Day 4

I don’t know why, I started thinking about you and Rachel this morning. Obviously, it made me feel pretty bad. I just couldn’t help it. Will she be visiting you soon? Is she replacing me? Has she already replaced me? Was she with you for Labor Day, when you were supposed to be with me? Probably not. But at this point, nothing is impossible. She has been unable to come and spend time with you so I’m sure now that she would jump on any opportunity. What’s gonna happen when you come to Madison? Is she going to the wedding? I feel like now she probably will. Are you going together? What’s this weekend going to be like? Are you going to spend it together? Will she be arriving early to spend as much time as possible with you? Right now, I’m terrified of this happening. So scared that I would put my own healing in the line just to make sure it would not happen. If you were coming this weekend to visit, if you were arriving tonight, I know exactly what I would do. I would meet you and hug you when I see you. Taking in your smell and your body, I would just cave and cry. I would let you hold me, I would let you kiss me. I would let you pretend nothing happened and I would just dive, trying to forget that this is not real. I’d let you come home with me and I would feel the high of having you back after so long. And then I would be crushed again. I would be crushed as your hands run over my body, fully aware that this is going nowhere, that this is something you have chosen to give up. I would collapse as you head to the wedding to meet her and celebrate your friends love and commitment to each other, something I wished so many times that we could do as well. I’ll fall apart as my heart wishes to simply embrace you while my head screams at me to stay away and protect myself. If you were coming back today, I know exactly what I would do. But you’re not coming back today. There are 15 days left to your return and so much can happen in 15 days. 360 hours spent alone, reconstructing my life around myself rather than around you. Over 21,000 minutes to remind myself as memories come flashing back that you are no longer my future.

I don’t know how I’ll feel when you visit in 15 days, in 360 hours, in 21,600 minutes. Part of me wants to have completely moved on or at least enough to feel alright seeing you and then letting you go. Letting you go to live your weekend in Madison on your own, to see your friends, to enjoy life without me, to celebrate love with her rather than me. Part of me wants to still be hung up on you enough to enjoy this time together blindly. Not caring about the consequences, just relishing in your presence and your attention. I maybe even wish that I could use you and just be done with it. I wonder what it would be like to feel nothing but make you feel everything that you have lost, everything that you gave up when you broke up with me. I play with the idea of leading you on and torturing you a little. But I know I’d never be able to do that. I’d never be able to hurt you this way. I also know that I’ll never be able to detach myself enough from you to do something like this. I’ll forever be partly in love with you. There will forever be some history between us that will make our time together awkward, tense, ambiguous. I don’t believe we’ll ever going to be able t be friends because we were never friends. We would never know what to go back to. We’ve never hung out together without wishing we could touch each other and be intimate. Now that we have been, there is no going back. I doubt it. And I won’t let you convince me otherwise. I won’t become another Aimee or Rachel. I won’t let you make the same mistakes you’ve made before, I won’t let you keep a knife in the wound you have opened. I’m sure you’ll thank me for it later. Someday.

You liked my Instagram picture and came to the meeting point. It confused me but it also appeased my heart a little. At least, I am still on your mind, even just a little bit. I think I feel better. While the Instagram confuses me because it makes it feel like nothing happened, your presence on what’sapp reassures me that you too wish you could talk to me. It also means that you’re forcing yourself not to, that you feel the frustration and the pain. It helps a little.

The have removed the Bucky statues. You never got to see them. It feels like the end of a chapter that we started together.

I wore the red flannel shirt that you found and gave me today. I wanted to feel closer and I felt like this was less significant than reaching out. It felt like a subtle reminder of the good that you had brought in my life and how I could continue my life without you.

We talked about the Global War on Terror in the geography class today and I learned a lot. If I could have come home to you or talked to you on the phone, I would have wanted to talk about it. You were always so educated on these topics, it was so attractive. It was also very educational, it made me feel like our relationship and our conversations were making me a better person. I miss this in my life. I miss you.

I spent the afternoon with Saida and Iker. It was great. He’s such a happy baby, it really made me happy to hang out with them. We talked about you, of course, and I think she was holding back a little. I told her how her previous messages made me feel and I think she felt bad. She questioned whether you had been honest with me and if you were really this miserable and I defended you. I’m probably too nice. But I’m not angry at you yet, I’m just processing. I guess I like the idea that you are suffering to and that I’m doing something good by accepting to leave. And if you’re lying well, who cares? The result is the same.

I cheated and liked your horse picture on your Instagram. I know I shouldn’t have but you had liked my cookie picture just earlier and immediately after, you had gone to the meeting place. I wanted you to know that I was here, that I was still checking for you everywhere and all the time. I don’t know if that was a good thing but it made me feel a little better.

I watched a couple of episodes of Ink Master. The overall mood of the show made me feel angry and I had to stop. I also played with markers and imagined what tattoo I would want. I’ve done this a couple of times before, especially when I felt like I needed a reminder not to let you mistreat me. Then I had come up with “what have you learned?” but it was pretty negative. Tonight I wrote “life is a learning process”. I don’t know that it really says what I mean but it felt good to be wearing a reminder that all of this is teaching me about myself, about what I want, and about what it takes for things to work. Made it a little easier.

I’m glad I have already removed your picture from the wall, it would have been a difficult thing to do now.

Scotty finished his bookshelf. It looks great. I was glad he reached out because I wanted to tell him how I felt. It took me almost half an hour to write a text that I was happy with but I think it was an alright one. I don’t think he’s mad. Maybe just disappointed. It made me feel better to write it and get this out of my chest. I don’t know yet if or when I’ll reach out to him again. We’ll see. He’s honestly never done anything to be except being a wonderful friend so I don’t really see a reason not to come back to him once I feel more comfortable.

Tonight I don’t want to re-read my entry before posting it. I know that where I was this morning is no longer where I am today and I don’t want what I was worried about this morning to come affect my mood tonight. If anyone is reading these, I apologize for the typos and such.

[wesratcliffe]

lost souls || self para

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.“ — E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

tw; death, depression, grief, gore, injury, surgery, mentions of murder, alcohol, drugs

* permission was granted for the use of @rylie-barton

June 5th, 9:58am

The hours spent in the ballroom with his legs broken and mangled were a blur of fear, pain, and grief. There were hours where his body would be so in shock that he didn’t feel anything at all. Those hours were bliss, but the pain always came back with a vengeance, instantly and brutally clearing the fog his mind. He wasn’t sure what time the emergency rescue teams finally cleared away the rubble and got in to rescue the trapped students, he only became aware of it when it became obvious that they’d have to move him.

It was utter agony. Every shift of the people lifting him up off of the ground jostled his broken legs, and pain tore into his mind and body like white hot fire. It only lasted a few seconds until he was safely strapped into the gurney, and then exhaustion overtook him. From lack of sleep, from adrenaline wearing off, from the anxiety and fear that had made his blood run cold, from the pain that swelled and crashed over him like the ocean; all of it was too much for his mind and body to take anymore, and so his consciousness finally faded into blissful darkness.

“Multiple comminuted tibia fractures… shattered patella… dislocated hip… oblique fibula fracture… CT scan for a torn ACL… check for nerve damage…”

Wesley barely registered the words that the frantic doctors and nurses mumbled back and forth to one another as he was wheeled through the hospital. He had an oxygen mask over his face, and his vision was clear enough to see the concerned glances that some of the nurses gave him.

“Reconstructive surgery… Might not ever walk again…”

He was hardly surprised. He had to stare at how awful his legs looked all night. There was no blood, but they certainly looked unnaturally bent and twisted. What would he do if he could never walk again? How would he care for Salem, how would he ride his bike, how would be walk across stage and receive his hard-earned diploma? Wesley barely registered being brought into an operation room, and it was only when they moved him from the gurney to the table that the pain reawakened his exhausted brain.

“Honey–” said a nurse in an annoyingly gentle tone. “I need you to count backwards from ten…”

Ten, he felt a mask slip over his face.

Nine, his eyes started to feel heavy.

Eight, his limbs felt limp.

Seven, his thoughts began to slow.

Six, his eyes shut.

Five, darkness…

June 5th, 2:15pm

It was a steady, rhythmic beeping that registered first in his brain. What was that beeping? It was annoying. He groaned, brows furrowing together when he heard the beeping steadily speed up. His head felt like it was full of cotton, somehow aching and numb at the same time. That beeping was annoying, someone should make it stop.

“How are you feeling?” He’d heard that voice before. Cracking his eyes open against the blindingly white light, Wesley’s mind registered the face of the annoyingly gentle nurse. She looked at him with pity in her eyes; he hated pity.

When he didn’t answer, she walked over to the end of his hospital bed and picked up his chart. Hospital. He was in the hospital. Wesley took in his legs, which were currently hanging slightly above the bed, both of them secured in casts that went halfway up his thigh. Only his toes, which he could tell were covered in deep purple bruises, were slightly visible at the end of the casts.

“Your surgery went very well. It took longer than expected, as the surgeon had to completely reconstruct your right kneecap and dislodge bits of the bone that damaged some of the surrounding tissue. But it all went successfully. You’ll have to wear the casts for six months. Your kneecap and fibula should only take about six to eight weeks to heal, but your tibia, specifically your right tibia, had multiple breaks and will take–”

“Will I ever walk again?” Wesley interrupted, not particularly interested in hearing about the specific details of his broken legs.

The nurse pursed her lips, eyes flickering with pity once again. Maybe he did prefer the clinical bullshit. “We’re… We’re hopeful, that you’ll be able to make a full recovery with limited mobility issues.”

“Hopeful. …So you don’t know.”

“Once you can begin physical therapy, we’ll be able to make a better guess. The best case scenario is that, with diligent physical therapy and treatment, you’ll be able to walk without much trouble. Perhaps some lingering pain in your knee and some minor mobility issues, but with time you’ll hardly notice.”

“And the worst case?”

“…Worst case scenario is that the ACL in your right knee doesn’t heal properly and you’ll permanently need assistance to walk, such as crutches or a cane.”

Wesley let the words sink in as a heavy silence fell over the room. He might not ever walk properly again. It hit him like a ton of bricks, like the chunk of the ceiling that had caused this in the first place. Would he be able to do anything?

“We are very hopeful that you’ll make a full recovery.”

Wesley nodded his head, not bothering to verbally respond.

“We reached out to your emergency contact, Michele Ibis–” The name made his heart skip a beat. He’d forgotten she was still his In Case of Emergency contact. “but we were unable to reach her.”

Wesley’s blood ran cold, and he looked up at the woman so sharply that she looked momentarily taken aback. Was Michele okay? He went out of his way to avoid her at school, and even though he hadn’t seen her at the dance, that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. What if she was hurt? What if she was–

“Is there anyone else you’d like us to contact? A family member, perhaps?”

Trying to control the growing panic in his chest — she probably just ignored the call. Who could blame her, really? — Wesley shook his head. “No… No, no one.”

The nurse nodded her head in what looked like understanding, and Wesley almost laughed aloud. Understanding, as if anyone out there could give him that.

“Are you currently prescribed any medication? Or do you have any allergies to medication?”

Wesley shook his head.

“Okay,” the nurse said, pausing to write something on his chart, “then we’ll be prescribing you Vicodin. It’s a strong opioid, so it should under no circumstances be taken in excess. Only take one to two pills, with at least six hours in between, when you feel in pain. You should not consume alcohol while taking Vicodin, as it can be dangerous and lead to substance overdose. Do you understand?”

Wesley nodded his head.

“Good. We’d like to keep you overnight, just to monitor everything, but you’re free to go when you wake up tomorrow morning.”

June 5th, 3:31pm

No one told Wesley that hospitals were boring. He’d never been in one before, at least not that he could recall. Other than the occasional cold, his health was relatively good, as was his father’s. So now, being stuck in an uncomfortable bed with nothing but a television with limited channels to keep him occupied, he was coming to realize how dull the place could be. He flipped aimlessly through the channels, not particularly paying attention to what was on. He’d told hospital staff earlier about Salem, and had thankfully been notified that she was unharmed and being taken care of until he would be released tomorrow. The relief he felt was a major one, but there were still many other anxieties that weighed on his heart and made it impossible to focus on anything.

He heard the door to his room open with a creak, and he turned his attention from the television to the visitor. He assumed it would be a nurse coming to check on him, but instead he saw a blessedly familiar face. Even though he’d seen Rylie during the ordeal, it was nice to see her outside of the ballroom and alive. There was some expression on her face, some flicker of emotion in her eyes that he simply couldn’t read. Worry for him, perhaps? Or worry for Salem? The latter was probably more likely.

“Hey,” she began. He couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t getting her own treatment. He decided not to ask. “…How do you feel?”

It was the same question that he’d replied rudely to in the ballroom, the same one that nurses and doctors have been asking him all afternoon. “A bit sore, but better. I think I have the pain medication to thank for that.”

He vaguely registered the buzz of electronic sounding words coming from the television. It seemed like the afternoon news was starting. He paid it no mind, more focused on the  strange, uncomfortable silence that settled between them; it almost like there was something hanging in the air, waiting to be said. Was she nervous about Salem’s well-being? Scared to ask? Whatever it was, he didn’t like the silence, so he decided to break it.

“Salem is okay. I had hospital staff send someone to my dorm to check on her. She’s being examined at the pet hospital just in case, but they said she looked unharmed and would be held there until I can pick her up when I’m released.”

Some bit of tension in Rylie’s shoulders seemed to relax, but she still looked tightly wound, like she was putting effort into holding herself together. That effort seemed to be cracking by the second, and Wesley could catch glimpses of pained emotions in her expression. “Wesley…” she began, cutting herself off as her voice seemed to crack.

His heartbeat ticked up. He could tell because the heart monitor he was attached to beeped a bit faster. Was something the matter? Did something happen to Bailey? She couldn’t be hurt too badly…right? She was too kind; the universe couldn’t possibly be that cruel. “If you have something to say, Rylie, just say it.”

The local news reporter interrupted their silence.

“Updates from local authorities say that the severe earthquake that shook local Walt Disney Academy took the lives of eight students and severely injured many more…”

Wesley’s attention was drawn to the television. People died in that earthquake? He’d been incapacitated for the whole thing and hadn’t been able to see the full damage. His heart rate sped up again.

“Wesley–” Rylie tried to interrupt, seemingly having found her voice again. However, he needed to know what the news was going to say.

“Shut up,” he barked — more harshly than intended — reaching for the remote to turn up the volume.  

“One of them, Princess of the Great Forest, Bailey Forrester, is currently in a medically-induced coma at local Doc McStuffins Hospital. The status of other severely injured students is unknown, as many of them are still receiving medical treatment.. Police say that, upon freeing the trapped students from the ballroom, eight of them were pronounced dead on arrival: Zephyr de Chateaupers, Michele Ibis–”

Wesley’s world went dark. The words of the news reporter were drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

Bailey Forrester, coma.

Michele Ibis, dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. The word repeated in his mind like some sadistic mantra, drowning out all coherent thought.

He felt as though he was free-falling, tumbling down, down, down, through a bottomless void filled with nothing but endless darkness. His heart throbbed in his chest, a pain far more intense than anything he’d felt within the last 24-hours. He’d watched his father once shoot a man in the chest, but he could imagine this pain was equal to that. It was just as deadly, just as soul-crushing. His whole body seemed to ache, seemed to scream in an indescribable agony that threatened to consume every single flicker of hope and light that he’d carefully preserved deep in his heart.

His senses returned to him in a rush, and he mentally registered a sorrowful, enraged, otherworldly screaming. It sounded like the wailing of millions of lost souls, all of them crying out for help, for vengeance, in pain. Their voices called out as one, stitched together by a single force: Wesley. He didn’t realize it was him that was screaming, didn’t realize that his powers had reawakened in an explosive, tortured burst of energy, fueled by his overwhelming grief, self-hatred, rage, misery, hopelessness, despair… He didn’t realize that his scream shattered the glass in his hospital room, made ice cover every surface he touched, didn’t realize that Rylie was shouting something at him, trying to reach his sorrow-filled mind, didn’t realize that the hospital staff were rushing into the room, yelling at one another to sedate him, didn’t feel the needle puncture the skin of his arm.

Only when his energy began to swiftly fade did he realize the destruction that he’d caused, did he feel the tears streaming down his face. Only then did he see the terrified and concerned faces of the hospital staff, only then did he see Rylie speaking to one of them, explaining what had happened.

He heard the steady beeping of his heart monitor. Someone should make it stop.

In those last moments of consciousness, before his mind faded to a cold and ruthless darkness, a single thought shattered through his heart like the bullet that pierced the chest of the man his father killed:

“I wish it was me. I wish I was dead.”

[bleedingcoffee42]

Absent- Part 33

Tracking tag

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Roy reached over and wrapped his hand around her clenched fist.  Hearing her distress, hearing her vehement questions made him realize she was still unsure about what had happened to her.  This hesitation wasn't just about finding the words to put in a report or protect him from statements that he could twist to feed his own self-loathing, this was genuinely about Riza not knowing what happened this morning.   It really was a dream, a dream she questioned ever aspect of even to the point of wondering if it really happened.   He wanted to support her through this and be the reassurance that she wasn't losing her mind.   “It's an alchemist's fairy tale, one that appears in most introduction to alchemy books, one you've probably read a few times and Henry had to as well.”

Riza wished she could feel that same confidence in herself that she had felt in that dream world, however speaking about it all made her scrutinize every word.    Living in the moment, riding the adrenaline and powering through the unknown, was easy in a dream where she knew things were not right.  Here, in reality, she was scared of the consequences of her words.   One misstep could wound a man she loved and reduce her faith in herself to distinguish between truth and imagination.  

Roy continued, seeing that his participation in this was needed, seeing that his contributions could help her in some way.  “The story goes that there was a archaeological dig at Xerxes back in the 1870s and they discovered a tablet with an inscription on it that read “descend into the dark abyss for the elixir of life”.   And being that 'Elixir of life' was what some of the ancient cultures called the philosopher's stone, the ruins were almost instantly overrun with everyone from alchemists to treasure hunters all looking for what they thought would be the long sought after mythical prize.”

Riza remembered this now.  It was another story, like the Philosopher from the East, that alchemists considered a romantic history of their science.   She looked to Roy as he continued, his face saying that he believed in her and that he was here to help her believe in herself.  

“After damned near destroying the ruins, the original archaeologist finally unearthed a well at the location of his dig.   A well.   “  Roy said and squeezed her hand.   She took a deep breath, more confident in her experience now that she could place where this information came from.  “Water was the 'elixir of life' referenced, not the philosopher's stone, and the tablet was once part of the structure housing it.   Eventually they determined the phrase was about embracing fears and things not being what they seemed.  An ancient idiom for looking at both sides of a situation, because the darkness is cold and the epitome of fear but you trust and rely on the liquid in the bucket you pull up from the depths.   On the surface it is bright and warm and comfortable, but you'd die without the water from below.   Two contrasting locations can occupy the same space, just on different layers.   And the moral of the story to alchemists is about verifying the source of Truth before accepting it's context.”

Riza didn't remember it quite like that, but Roy was so much better with words than her Father.   He was also giving her something more, his own encouragement woven into the fabric of that simple little story.   “And Henry, he was so moved by this story to engrave it on his coin?”

“A little bit of flair.”  Roy said and took his hand back.  Then he watched hers turn over and open, revealing the coin in question.  He looked it over, then etched it out on his notebook.  “I think it also was a way to get some credibility for his work.   There is nothing quite like using some proverb in a dead language to make yourself look like an intellectual.”

She could hear Roy's hostility in the snide remarks.   “This alchemy worked.   I don't understand how you can still be doubting the man's ability.”

“Riza, true alchemy is about deconstruction and reconstruction.”  Roy said and finished his sketch, Riza turned the coin over so he could see the back.   “This was a weapon, destruction, disguised as a advancement for mental health of soldiers.   The odds of someone being able to come out of this were not very high.   His research was incomplete, he could active this transmutation circle and put the victim in a coma, however once the body reacted to the chemical manipulation the equation changed.   The elements were unknown, hell they were always unknown.  He had no idea what level of chemicals were in the subjects body to begin with, it was risking a persons life to even activate this.   That's not alchemy, that's flippantly gambling with someone's life.”

She nodded.   It made sense.   Alchemists knew mass, atomic weight, density, components of alloys, atmospheric concentration of gases....however the level of chemicals a body was producing at any given time was not quantitative.    

“He made it work, most of the time.   However he was unable to reverse it.  All this...shit on the back is just that.   He couldn't know measurable amounts of anything after the brain took over and tried to fix an imbalance.   This isn't a switch.   He had no way to undo this and if he tried he would more than likely have caused some chemical reaction in the brain that would have killed the test subject.”  Roy shook his head.   “He was relying on the subject to find their way out of this, knowing it was a dream.  If they refused to leave and embraced that fantasy than they were going to be lost.  That was the summation of his defense when I questioned him.   If he was trying to cure a soldier of reoccurring, debilitating nightmares, and they could not help themselves out of it....he wrote them off as a loss and then bragged about the State not having to pay for care for this individual any more.   That they were too damaged to be of use to the Military anymore, anyhow.”

She took a deep breath.   No wonder Roy took offense to Henry, no wonder he went after him with all the power he had.  

“So Riza, I don't want to rush you...but I have to know.  How did you get out of this?”  Roy asked.  

“I had help.” She admitted. “Everyone I met gave me so much information, some useful...some not.  In the end though, I believed I was capable of alchemy and I drew your array and manipulated oxygen concentration in order to force my body to react to the increase of oxygen.   Override what was happening in my mind by threatening my own life.   However, if I really did it....you would have felt it if you were holding me.”

He heard the sadness, she had truly believed herself capable and that seemed to be what upset her the most.  It tarnished her victory over this life-threatening alchemy.   “You'd need to be conscious to activate an array, the energy needed has to come from the physical form.    However I think you were right to believe in your ability, I always have known you could do it if you wanted to.”

“I'm not a little girl anymore, Roy. You don't have to tell me you believe in me because nobody else will.”

“Riza, look at the proof.” Roy said and pointed at the coin. “You conquered this.   This was not meant to be a maze with an exit and you made your own.”

“It was a dream that I believed was real.”

“It was a test that would have killed anyone else.”  He replied.   “And as soon as you are ready we are starting alchemy lessons.”

She rolled her eyes at that.  “I told you years ago that I have no patience for that.   Why spend years studying to start a fire when I could just strike a match and be done with it and spend my time getting real work done?”

“Well I made a promise to someone I love to not teach flame alchemy to anyone, so you're just going to have to come up with something else you want to do.”  He said and started to doodle a picture of her.  “You can have oxygen manipulation without the spark I guess....I mean you already take my breath away.”

He grinned and she couldn't help but smile at that.   She wanted to say something but then laughed a little and walked back over to take her seat on the couch.   How he always knew how to derail her bad trains of thought was unreal. “Let's get back to work, sir.”