#as in about six years ago she drove to my grandmothers house carried in a huge box of material and said ‘there’s more at home. It’s yours’

[headofocs-inklesspen]

My grandparents finally were able to get my great grandmother’s 1950’s White Sewing Machine into a shop to make sure it’s still in good repair.

One step closer to it coming home to me

[blue-bird-kny]

Hi! This is my first time requesting so I’m kind of nervous. I was wondering if I could request an Inosuke x reader fanfic. Maybe as childhood friends who later in life they realize they are in love or you could do anything you want. Anything is fine!I’m not picky! Thank you💕

I’m loving the Inosuke request I've gotten so far! I couldn’t help myself with the angst so please enjoy~Amanda

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Swearing

(1k+ words)

“Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder”

Your childhood was far from a nice one. When you were born, your parents left you in the care of your grandmother so they could go off and ‘find themselves’ or some excuse like that. You knew it was because they had  no intention of having kids but you couldn’t careless, if they didn’t want you then so be it. Your poor grandmother, who was already very elderly when you were born, was stuck with a newborn because of her irresponsible child.  

She eventually died after a few years, leaving you with a small house and an even smaller amount of money. You’ve always been independent, you had to be to survive. You’d do small jobs around the village and tended to farmers' crops just to make some money. You were somewhat of an outcast in the village, if you didn’t do work for them, they ignored you and didn’t let their children play with you. All except for one.

You can’t remember how you met him or when, but you know that after he came into your life, everyday seemed much more exciting. Inosuke was sort of like you, he didn’t have anyone to watch after him, he lived providing for himself. He was always so loud and daring, wanting to jump off trees into the river and other reckless things that scared you. You did them though; if he asked you, you did it because you trusted him, he was the only one that trusted you after all.

For years you two were inseparable, where ever he ventured off to, you were always right behind him. He was your best friend, one you’d hoped would be with you forever. However, you never expected he’d up and leave one day without notice. You knew it would happen, he always said how he had this grand plan of leaving and never coming back, how he wanted to become stronger. What you didn’t know was that this plan didn’t include you. You wish you could say you were angry with him, heartbroken yes, but not angry. You never could get angry at him, no matter how much of your food he ate or what he said, you never got angry. Plus, who were you to stop him from wanting more than the life he had?

That was two year ago though, no sign of Insouke since. You couldn’t deny that you missed him dearly, but his yearning for something more drove you to do something with yourself. During those two years you’d left your shitty life, training hard to become a demon slayer.

You never saw yourself following this path in life, but Inosuke’s absence lit a fire inside you. So off you went leaving everything behind, leaving behind the home where you made so many memories with Inosuke. Securing the old sword you’d managed to buy to your hip, you started on your way to Mt. Fujikasane for Final Selection.

Once you arrived, there were only about 20 or so others. A group of kids stood next to you, whispering about how some candidate had already run up the mountain. “What an idiot” you thought to yourself just as the final selection was beginning.

After a grueling week of tirelessly surviving on the mountain, the Final Selection was over. “Only about six of us survived, but there are only five of us here” you realized as you surveyed those around you. “I wonder if that idiot is the other survivor not here. Not that I really care” you questioned as you picked your ore.

Some time had passed since the final selection. You’d receive your nichirin blade already, it turning into a deep purple. You’d been prowling around the mountain when you heard yelling coming from the distance. You ran towards it, finding a group of demon slayers and three kids. “Are you okay?! You need serious medical assistance” you told the hunter who’d wrapped themselves around this strange box, blood slipping out from under his blonde hair. Before he could even respond, the sickening sound of two skulls colliding could be heard behind you as the other two slayers fought. “Cut it out would yo..” you started to interject as the boar mask of one of the demon slayers slipped off, revealing a matured version of someone you were sure you’d never see again.

“Inosuke” your words trembled as you stared at him, blood spilling from a crack in his forehead. Although you’d spoken quietly, Inosuke heard it and turned to face you. His eyes widened as he realized who you were “Hey I know you!” he started walking to you before he fell face-first onto the floor. “This idiot” you thought as relief washed over you, your tears stopping before they could even fall.

You and the other demon slayer, who’s name you learned was Tanjiro, stood outside of the house with the wisteria crest. He has the boy named Zenitsu on his back while you held Inosuke, whose mask you’d gently placed back on. Once inside, you offered to help othe old women care for the three boys. You’d been hanging their now clean clothes when you heard a loud crash from the room they’d been staying in.

You rushed in only to find three idiots: Tanjiro was trying to stop Inosuke from attacking Zenitsu, who sat curled up on the floor. “Would you three sit down, your wounds aren’t even close to healing yet!” you yelled, catching the attention of the trio. Inosuke smiled before running towards you head first, “wait! Stop Inosuke you can’t..!” you tried warning before the breath was knocked out of your lungs as he picked you up in a bone crushing hug. “(y/n) you’ve gotten so strong! You even carried me all the way here! We have to fight each other now!” his voice was rushed and full of excitement as he held you tightly. Tanjiro, sensing the situation, ushered out a complaining Zenitsu from the room. Your tears crept back into your eyes as Inosuke put you down. He was taller than you, his body thicker now because of all the toned muscle that lined his body. “I can’t believe I found you” you started as tears rolled down your cheeks. His smiling face was replaced with one of regret and worry, his hands dropping from their place on your shoulders.

“You left so suddenly that I didn’t even know what to think. I figured you’d left to grow stronger, but I never thought you’d leave without at least saying goodbye” your voice broke as tears stained the clothes you wore. His eyes cast down to your feet, “I figured if I just left, it would hurt less for you” he explained. You’d never seen Inosuke so quiet, it was so out of character. “You're an idiot then Inosuke, I really missed you” your feeling laid out in front of him as you stood feeling so vulnerable.

“I missed you too, you know. It wasn’t like I just forgot about you and my feelings for you were lost once I left” his response made you stop breathing. ‘His feeling? Inosuke likes me? Do I like him?’ your mind spun in circles as you processed all this new information. Being away from each other didn’t break your relationship, actually it helped you two find out just how much you liked each other.

Inosuke pulled you closer for another hug, this time much more relaxed. “I’m an asshole for leaving, but I do love you” his whispered breath moved your hair slightly. He pushed back only to place a soft kiss on your forehead, causing a small smile to replace your frown. You looked up at him, his eyes staring back as you said “Let’s not dwell on the past anymore. That time apart let us both grow and now we have each other again”.

He laughed loudly, his usual brash self returning “My girlfriend is a badass too!” he exclaimed with his whole chest. You laughed along with him, his words slowly processing in your mind before it dawned on you what he’d said, “Wait girlfriend?!”

I loved this one a lot, I feel like it may be the best one I've written thus far. Thank you for reading and please stay healthy!~Amanda

Main Masterlist

[catrasredemption-moved]

That whole "an abusive mother shouldn't be seen as a mother figure" sitting not well with me.

So can you elaborate on that and not make it super invalidating to people abused by foster/adoptive/psuedo paternql figures?

This feels like a trap, but sure. Buckle up, we’re going back to my childhood.

(this is long, contains emotional/mental abuse, alcohol and drug references, and is just plain unpleasant)

I was emotionally/mentally abused by my mother and stepfather for pretty much my entire life. I was an oops baby, and my bio dad at least had the self awareness to check out my life early because he knew he’d never be a good father (yes, I give him some twisted credit for that, because at least he was honest). My mom was kind of... I don’t want to say forced to keep me, but her family was very insistent. I don’t think she would have gotten an abortion anyway (put aside that this was 1991), but things might have been different if she’d just been allowed to go the same route as my father. Her parents pretty much raised me for six years, partially because she had a full-time job, and partially because she just had no clue what she was doing. And I think having her parents as a crutch for so long definitely limited her.

And then she met Paul. Twenty years older than her, didn’t even have a toaster to his name, alcoholic, drug addict. I was six, so obviously this all went over my head, but my mother’s parents did not like him (something I didn’t find out until years after they both died). My mom was 27 at the time, and I don’t know if she just thought no one else would want her because she was a single mother, if she was just desperate, or maybe she really was attracted to him, but she started dating him. I don’t remember everything that led up to the Breaking Point, because this was 23 years ago, but I remember the specific night - she was on the phone with Paul, and I kept saying I was hungry. I forget what she made, but it was something I’d eaten before and suddenly decided I didn’t like (as children do sometimes), so I was upset.

At this point my grandmother or grandfather would usually step in and just make me something else. Instead my grandfather went upstairs and told her to get off the phone and deal with it. Was I being a little bratty? Yeah, probably. Should my grandparents have just dealt with it? No, that was my mother’s job. Even if it just meant coming downstairs and making me eat the Thing. But she didn’t want to get off the phone (this was 1997, people still talked on phones. Weird, right?)

One huge fight later, my mother put me in her car and drove me 20 minutes to another city to stay with Paul and his roommate. I didn’t see my grandparents for three days. That’s when they learned they had to play nice with Paul or my mother would actually take me away.

We moved in with Paul, after they’d been dating for three whole months. My mother upended both of our lives, including making me transfer to another school after first grade, for a guy she’d been dating for three months. A guy she knew had substance abuse problems. A guy who, when home alone during the day, would sit out in the living room and watch porn (and one time watched it in my room, which? I was eight, I very vaguely remember walking into the apartment, my mother immediately grabbing me and pushing me back into the hall while saying “get that shit off her TV.”)

Some very fucked up things happened over the next twelve years, some I still haven’t told anyone about (including my wife), and some that were just wrong in retrospect. Common occurrences included (some of this might be considered lowkey sexual abuse? I’ve never thought about it that way, but my perspective is skewered af):

Telling me to turn sideways so he could see how I was “developing” (this started at 10)

Inappropriate comments about my weight and how I eat too much (starting around 8 or 9)

Wildly gross and sexual comments about my body (starting around 13)

Coming into my room while drunk and asking for a hug, then holding me for too long and lowkey groping (starting around 13 or 14)

Calling me a whiny bitch (starting around 8)

Yelling at me for eating food, especially if I finished something, because I didn’t pay for the food so why should I get to eat it all (starting around 15)

Yelling at me for daring to go out into the living room and talk to my mother while they were watching TV (pretty much the entire time I lived with them)

Telling me my mother used to have “a great body” before she got sick and lost a ton of weight (I don’t remember when exactly that started, but the sickness in question happened when I was 7)

Trying to tell me about how he and mother were getting hot and heavy while I was at school (high school; one of the only times my mother actually told him to shut the fuck up)

Enjoyed calling me stupid and calling me an idiot and other things that were entirely damaging to my self esteem

Straight up saying, after seven years of my mother insisting we were family, that I wasn’t his daughter and I never would be (13)

Inappropriate comments while drunk, to the point where I knew when he’d be drunk (because it was always pay day), and me arranging to be out of the house for a couple of days just so I wouldn’t have to be there (high school; I went to my aunt’s, and eventually she started figuring out a pattern and asking me what was going on. I was 16 when she finally realized I hate Paul as much as she does)

...to name a few things. And my mother? Knew about all of this. And sure, she tried to stick up for me once or twice, like about the food thing, but even that came with the caveat of “maybe you should stop eating so much.” (before anyone asks, yes, I’m slightly overweight, and this was some grade A body shaming). But for the most part, she enabled him. And when he told me to stop being sensitive and it was “just a joke”? She sided with him and told me to stop “whining” (whining being “trying to defend myself”). She took his side about 95% of the time, while still insisting that he was my father, because he was there and he was helping “raise” me. They’ve been together for 23 years, and she’s basically chosen him over me at this point (because I chose to get the fuck out of the house and take a job in a state 300 miles away just to escape that hell). We actually got into a huge fight about him back in June because I didn’t call to wish him a Happy Father’s Day. He has never met my wife (whom he referred to as my “friend”, and my mother saw nothing wrong with that, then got mad when I tried to say “what if I called him your roommate”), he was not invited to our wedding, and we had a fight last Christmas when I went back to visit and straight up said he wasn’t allowed to visit our hotel (because I never want him to meet my wife).

Do I consider her my mother? ...sure, in the absolute vaguest sense of the word. She made sure I made it from birth to 18, kept me clothed and fed and a roof over my head (while constantly reminding me about how much it cost to raise a kid.)

Do I consider him my father? Fuck. No. I left the house for college when I was 18, moved out when I was 22, have had three therapists, been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and probable PTSD, have gathered a small group of my own found family, and I still carry a lot of shit from that time in my life. I hate showing my body in any way, and tend to wear shirts that are, oh, 2-3 sizes too big. I hate eating “too much”, despite the fact that a) my wife doesn’t care if I finish something and b) I help pay for the fucking food. I get extremely anxious when I try to correct someone about something (like my pronouns), because I’m afraid they’re going to yell at me and tell me to stop being sensitive. My self esteem is still basically at rock bottom, to the point where I don’t believe people sometimes when they say they like my writing. I flinch when people try to touch me (that’s getting better, though).

I can’t even give him the bare minimum credit I give my mother, because he actively hindered my attempts to grow up and move on from the shit he put me through. He was, and still is, a terrible person, and the idea of him being my father makes me sick. I give more credit to by bio father (you know, the one who walked out because he knew he wouldn’t be a good father), because he’s at least made a few half-ass attempts throughout my life to show he cares (and in a way, I think he does, he just knew he wouldn’t be a good father). Paul, though? Paul could die tomorrow and I... I can’t say I wouldn’t care at all, just because he has had such a presence in my life, but I wouldn’t miss him.

If you have an abusive parental figure (be it bio/step/foster/adoptive/etc.), and you consider them your parent, then that’s you, and I don’t judge. But Paul, no matter what my mother says, will never be my father in any way. He actively made me afraid to exist or be in my own home. He left scars so deep that I don’t think I’ll ever totally move on from some of it. I need people to remind me that nothing he did was okay or normal, and that my mother wasn’t right for allowing it.

So basically, I have a lot of experience to back up why I don’t think abusive parents should be considered parental figures. Parents are supposed to help you grow and care about you and want you to succeed. Paul did none of those things. He continues to be an active roadblock in my life, as a matter of fact. And I refuse to feel bad about not considering him a parental figure.

[itsegerton]

Chapter 1: Attack on the Neighbors

Anastasia realized as she looked through the crystal wall that surrounded her bedroom in her Beverly Hills mansion that it was a dark night, darker than usual. Even though there was a full moon, not a single beam of light could be seen in the deep blue sky, which matched the color of her hair.

It was a Saturday night. At 29 years of age, Anastasia was working, writing songs. Thanks to her family name and her father’s profession, she had chosen music as a career and excelled at it.

Her father, Nick Truman, was the leader of a legendary rock band and passed on to all his knowledge of the business to his youngest daughter. From an early age, Anastasia worked hard to become a famed music producer.

One song was giving Anastasia a hard time. A client had commissioned her with a song about discovering love and she knew very little about it. Luckily, she was an avid reader and as such, she tried to invocate all those romantic novels she had read and hated to help her finish the damn song.

A noise downstairs startled her. She looked up from the paper and placed her eyes on her bedroom door, then looked back out the window but could not spot anything out of the ordinary –except for that darkness which she found strange. Anastasia was sitting on a bench next to a crystal wall, from where she could stare down to her patio and a big infinity pool and some classic garden elements such as chairs and tables. The house was two stories high and all the walls that faced the patio were glass. Those incredible views convinced her of buying that house six years ago.

In spite of being born with a silver spoon in her mouth, the blue-haired girl had worked since the age of fifteen; in music, modeling and even found the time to graduate as a professional musician in the University of California. She was not your typical Hollywood heiress living at her parents’ expense. Nevertheless, she had gone through a rebel phase where she partied every night and went on insane trips around the world, spending money without thinking of the consequences. That often put her in the front cover of tabloids, which dubbed her ‘her family’s disgrace.’

A new noise made her look away from her window. This time, it was louder and closer. They were movement noises. Objects were moving. At that precise moment, she understood why the night appeared as dark and in a millisecond, her brain deciphered that she had to leave that house as soon as possible.

Anastasia took her phone and tried calling her older sister, Barbara; she did not pick up. She tried again with no luck. She decided to compose a text message:

“I’m heading to your place.”

She put her phone in the back pocket of her jeans, left the pen and paper aside, and full of fear, headed to the entrance.

Anastasia opened the door to her bedroom; the rest of the house looked darker than usual as well. She did not need a flashlight; this was her home, she knew it by heart. As she arrived to the hallway before taking the stairs down, she felt an instant heaviness all over her body, just like she were carrying somebody heavy.

“Leave me alone!” she yelled. “Get out of my house!”

As she got halfway down the stars, Anastasia felt a sharp, deep headache. She had to stop and close her eyes due to the pain, but knew she could not stay there. As she could, she arrived to the lower floor and adjusted her sight to look around her. The heaviness and the headache increased. She took three steps and felt like something or someone pushed her. She fell over her largest couch. It was a short way until the entrance but felt like her arms and legs had turned to butter; it was impossible for her to stand straight. Suddenly, her sight turned red and it was hard to breathe.

Anastasia had to try with all her might to get out of there.

She crawled and made a great effort to make her way to the entrance when she heard a loud roar behind her. She did not stop to look back. One last adrenaline kick made her get up, take the keys to her car from a small table to her right, open the door and run to her car. Still struggling with that headache, she turned on the ignition and drove until her vision adapted to a normal environment. 

One hour later she found herself knocking her stepsister’s door, in Malibu. She knocked so hard and insistently that her sister opened up, scared. Anastasia looked into Barbara’s eyes in panic and couldn’t keep standing. She collapsed at the entrance.

Barbara dragged Anastasia inside to her living room and sat her down on an emerald green futon. “They were at my house,” Anastasia fearfully told her sister. “They came to get me.”

“The night’s unusually dark, I knew something was going on,” replied Barbara as she went to get some fresh lemonade for Anastasia.

“Do you think she’s dead?” Anastasia asked while her sister offered her a glass.

Barbara did not reply. It wasn’t necessary.

Apart from having a musical gift, Anastasia is part of the witch population of the world. The witch community is much reduced and extremely occult. Witches have been persecuted for years because humans tend not to like what they cannot understand. Besides witches, there is a whole compendium of communities with hidden powers and some of them are dangerous even for witches.

Magical powers were granted to two members of each generation of families that had been initiated as witches. Barbara, who had light, mid-back length brown hair and big, green eyes like grass after rain, also had powers and perfectly understood what was happening.

Anastasia chugged the glass of lemonade.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“You won't like what I'm about to say.” Barbara replied. "You need to leave. You were lucky you got out.”

“Leave?!" She exclaimed. "Why were they looking for me?” Anastasia’s huge, turquoise eyes opened wide.

“They know you’re on your way to becoming a powerful witch. That’s not good for them. They want to get rid of us all.” Barbara turned her back on her sister. “There has to be a snitch within the coven,” she muttered.

“What did you say?” Anastasia asked, although she had heard her well.

“Nothing, it’s not important.” Barbara replied, causing suspicion to her younger stepsister. “You should go to sleep. The full moon will be over tomorrow, they can’t attack you anymore. I’m going to throw my moon water away, it’s contaminated.”

Anastasia walked with Barbara to the patio of the luxurious mansion located by the shore of a private beach. There, she had five half-a-gallon jars of water that she placed there every time there was a full moon, to be charged with the energy of the satellite. Together, they took the jars and emptied them in the coast, allowing the liquid to mix with the water from the ocean.

Sleeping was impossible that night. She had faced a beast and she was still alive. Adrenaline was running through her veins and the concern did not let her rest.

The following morning, Anastasia woke up with the sound of the breaking waves that went in through the big window that served as a wall. Malibu had that aura that eased her anxiety and her complicated brain. The sound of the ocean was helpful; she had always felt a connection to it.

The deep-blue-haired girl got up from the comfy bed and opened the window that faced a small balcony, from where she could glance at the entire coast and the backyard of her sister’s mansion. She breathed deeply, trying to fill up her lungs with the salty air and wondered if in another life she had inhabited the depths of the ocean, as a part of some civilization hidden from human stupidity.

She turned on her heel to her bathroom to take a quick shower. The weather was warm enough, so a grey dress and sneakers dressed her body that day. Anastasia always made sure to keep a change of clothes in that house as she crashed it from time to time. Her sister never closed the door on her.

Before leaving the bedroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. The color of her eyes varied from turquoise to aquamarine. They were big, enormous like a doll’s. Her skin was pale as china; she got it from her grandmother on her father’s side –a British gypsy witch. Her lips were small but plump. She decided on the spot not to wear makeup that day. She closed the door behind her and although she had to walk downstairs to the kitchen, a hunch told her to head up to the attic.

Just as her head predicted it, there was her sister in front of a big cauldron. Every witch had a specialty and Barb’s potions (as Anastasia affectionately called them) were the most effective of them all. Then she spotted another figure, her sister wasn't alone. A tall lady with light blonde hair, almost white was avidly talking with Barbara. 

Anastasia took a seat on a red couch that stood out from all the wood around her. The attic was filled with shelves containing strange objects: jars, potion ingredients, and books. A sole rounded window provided the entire room with light. It could not be seen from the outside architecture of the mansion, from the ocean’s shore –that window was hidden under a strong, protective spell. Witches’ dens were personal and only explicitly invited humans could enter them.

The place was decorated with old pictures and paintings showing witches of all times, from gypsies to those brave women of Salem. Witches were always feared because of the power they represented. While men were heads of families whose function was to sustain, hunt, rule, govern and women were displaced to less relTaront activities, witches rose up to do everything the male gender could and more, therefore, many lost their lives. They were never understood and much less respected. Nowadays they lived hidden. The fear was never gone but while living a concealed life they could be themselves and put their powers to practice, waiting for the day the world could finally see them without a dagger slashing their necks. 

The witches’ power was granted by nature. They had the ability to manipulate the Universe’s energies to achieve everything their hearts and minds, at unison, wished for. On the other hand, there were many other creatures that had stolen that power to use for their own benefit and own the world order. Many ruled nations and hurt thousands, they appeared in human form to the mortals’ eyes, but inside they were dark, shapeless, black-smoke-emitting masses with two red slits in the place of eyes. They fed on suffering and power kept them alive. They had no name, because by naming them they’d get the respect they did not deserve. Witches prevented them from taking over the world order, and therefore they dedicated their lives to hunting them and murdering them. When that happened, they sent their heads to the doorstep of the covens’ leaders as a warning that they were, bit by bit, achieving their goal.

That is why witches had to hide their power from humans. They didn’t know which of them could turn into one of those dark masses, except for Anastasia. She had been blessed with the maximum power of empathy. She could read people; know their deepest feelings by only looking into their eyes. When she did not feel an ounce of sadness or joy in a human, she knew she had to run.

Many had connected the power of witches to the devil, and while this is not exactly correct, many witches had chosen to serve evil with their powers. But there was no such malignant entity. Magic could do good and could also cause terrible suffering. Only those who could dominate both sides, light and darkness, could be leaders of the Coven. Many felt intimidated by handling dark arts, while others felt so attracted to them that darkness consumed them. Anastasia’s run with darkness had been scarce but satisfactory, so much that she became obsessed and Barbara had to intervene to regulate those practices.

“I have news,” said Barbara as soon as she felt the presence of her younger sister pointing to the lady at her side. 

"I'm so sorry your Saturday was ruined like that", the blond lady said taking Anastasia but her arms. "You were so brave".

“Yeah.it wasn't like I was having fun anyway so…" said Anastasia in a low voice, as she glimpsed her sister rolling her eyes. 

“They also attacked Mika at her house. They’re getting more aggressive and powerful.” Barbara was making a potion so her eyes were fixed on the cauldron.

“How did you survive?”, Anastasia looked to Mika. 

“I took some paralyzing potion. The best one, made by Barb of course. My heart stopped for a few seconds and they thought I was dead, so they went off for a bit and I ran to seek shelter. I imagine that if they returned, they wouldn’t find me.” Barbara was adding some bright purple dust to the cauldron.

“Maybe that’s why they came to my house. Maybe they thought Mika was hiding there.” Anastasia’s word caused her sister to look into her eyes for the first time that morning.

“Why the hell would Mika hide at your house?” asked the eldest sister. Anastasia shrugged.

Instead of answering Mika looked at Anastasia kindly in her eyes. She took the girls hands and inspection them cautiously. 

"I remember when you were born. Your midnight blue hair got all the hospital talking. We were so glad a witch was born. The first in a decade". The witches population had been shrinking thanks to the necessity of hiding their powers. Magic is like a muscle if you don't use it you'll lose it, as Barbara would love to say. Since the 80's born witches were a rare phenomenon, imagine a blue haired one. 

"Yeah, I would like to remember my birth", Anastasia said sarcastically. Mika always created a sense of comfort when she was around, truth was that Anastasia wasn't very close to the North America Coven Leader as she was called by fellow witches in the continent. Mika ruled with a strong but emphatic hand and she was loved by everyone. 

Mika was a role model but not to her. Magic wasn't something Anastasia focused a lot on. She actually kind of neglected it. Situation got easy out of hand in the past and she decided that magic wasn't going to define her. 

"You are going to be a great leader one day", Mika turned her back to Anastasia and started walking around the room. "But you need to accept who you are and study" She made a pause "A lot".

Anastasia looked at Barbara confused. Her sister nailed her eyesight on the cauldron to avoid the big turquoise eyes. 

"Yeah, I don't know about that. I can't even manage my own life, imagine being in charge of a whole damn coven. Never less one of the most important in the world!", she laughed but neither Mika nor Barbara raised even half smile. 

"She needs time", Barbara said to Mika. 

"Something we don't have", Mika answered. "Your sister told me you own a small apartment in London"

"I wouldn't call it small" Anastasia was interrupted by Mika. 

"I suggest you take some time off to enjoy that gorgeous British grey skies", Mika said.

"Pardon me?", Anastasia was understanding everything now but her brain was trying to block what was coming. 

"You need to leave", her sister said abruptly. "Even if you like it or not you are next in line to be the leader of this coven. And we need you safe, alive and wise. You are going to London and you're gonna learn as much as you can about what you are and your mission in this world".

"I'm almost 30, I have a job and a life here and frankly I never asked to be any of this", she just spit those words without second thoughts. The pain that Barb and Mika felt was instant. 

“I need you to take this seriously. I need you to take magic seriously for the first time in your life.” Barbara said firmly.

From the age of eight, Anastasia knew she was a witch. Her abilities began manifesting, but she never cared too much about them. She never wanted to train or learn. To her, it was something she had to keep at bay. It was just something she could do, not who she was. On the other hand, music was everything to her, so she sought to focus her energy on that.

“Barbara, for Hell’s sakes!” Anastasia laughed profusely. 

“As much as I wish I were lying, I’m not.” Barbara replied, upset by her sister’s reaction. “Anastasia, a power such as yours has not been seen for centuries.”

“But I don’t practice magic! Apart from a couple of spells to date guys in my teenage years and to do well in College, I haven’t done much more,” replied Anastasia.

“Because you have repressed your power. You never wanted to learn how to use it.”

“Yes, from the moment I began seeing people all around that weren’t really there, I didn’t want to keep up with it.”

“It’s your duty as a witch to educate yourself so that you can rule the Coven in the future.” Mika interveneed. 

“I’m at the highest peak of my career, I don’t have time for this.” Anastasia got up from the couch and headed to the door.

“Go ahead, act spoiled! It’s what you do best anyway! Just caring about yourself".

Barbara could sometimes be very hurtful. Anastasia stopped and wanted to talk back to her sister, but thought it through and kept going, out of the attic, the house and into her car. She drove back to Los Angeles, to her place.

On the way she did a couple of calls to Matt, her on and off boyfriend. But as natural he didn't answer. 

I do not want to rule the Coven, she kept telling herself over and over as she drove. She also though she didn’t really want to go back home, but as she got closer, a crowd of people gathering outside the Jensen’s porch called her attention. Anastasia pulled over by her own gate and curiosity drove her straight to the house next door. She made her way among the people and when she got to the front of her neighbors’ place, she spotted two police cars. The house perimeter was surrounded by yellow tape. Standing there was a blonde lady who kept staring at the main entrance. It was Cindy, the youngest in the family. She was about 21 years old. Anastasia always ran into her at LA events. Cindy was the typical party girl, and judging by her choice of outfit –mini dress and high-heeled shoes, she was just returning from one.

“Cindy!” Anastasia called her.

The blonde girl turned her head towards her. Her make-up was smudged all over her face; she had been crying. Cindy signaled Anastasia to come over and so she did, going under the yellow tape.

“What happened?” Anastasia inquired as she walked.

“My parents—they—they’re…” Cindy stretched her arms out to hug Anastasia. When they touched, an electric shock ran through the blue-haired girl. It was so strong that every nerve on her body hurt, her vision blurred and a scene came in front of her: the Jensen’s master bedroom. The father, Carl, lay on the floor. When she adjusted her sight she realized his neck was slashed from side to side. She kept looking all over her body but nothing prepared her for what she was about to see next: half of his body was missing, just like they had ripped it off him. All internal organs and guts were spread around him. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. His lower belly and his leg were about 12 inches away. Wendy Jensen lay in bed in a similar situation: her left arm was under the bedside table and the lower half of her body was by the bed. As if all of this weren’t strange enough, there was not a single drop of blood in the scene.

Cuts weren’t clean; they looked more like rips caused by a beast. The organs looked clean. The couple looked like mannequins. Carl’s eyes were open and completely white. When she turned to Wendy, she realized the woman was missing both eyes.

The vision faded in a second as soon as Cindy let go of Anastasia. Fear took over her and she understood she hadn’t been inside the house. Instead, she had seen what Cindy herself had seen when she walked in that morning. The adrenaline rush was so strong she abruptly parted from Cindy and fell butt-first on her neighbors’ front lawn. Her expression was one of terror and Cindy’s was one of being stricken by the situation.

“Cindy, I—I am so—so sorry.” That was the only thing Anastasia managed to say before running back to her own place. On the way, she spotted the suspicious looks of a couple of policemen, but she kept on walking, trying as much as she could to ignore her surroundings.

Once home, Anastasia locked the front door and called Barbara immediately. A couple of hours later, the eldest sister was knocking on the door.

“I swear that had never happened to me before.” Anastasia was terrified. She was sitting on her blue futon, sipping on some tea Barbara had made her.

“As much as you try to repress your magic, your powers will manifest themselves one way or another. If you had learned to control them years ago, they wouldn’t come out as intensely now.” Barbara explained.

“I just touched her, but I could experience everything the poor Cindy went through when she found her parents torn to pieces. Terror, shock, uncertainty,” Anastasia explained. “It was horrible.”

“You’re empathic, that’s a normal ability of your power.” Barbara sat down next to her sister.

“Now, tell me, were they dismembered?”

Anastasia nodded.

“Not a drop of blood around?”

Anastasia shook her head no.

“The bodies were clean, just like the entire scene.” Anastasia put down the cup of tea on the coffee table. “Do you think the same creatures that tried to attack me did this?”

“To be honest, yes.” Barbara replied. Anastasia got up in a heartbeat.

“It was my fault, Barbara. It was my fault that they died. It’s my fault poor Cindy is now an orphan.” Anastasia paced around but a force out of her might have made her stop.

“It was not your fault.” Barbara moved her fingers to release Anastasia from the spell. “If you hadn’t ran away, I would be picking up your pieces now, and the Universe knows I wouldn’t do it all by myself. Those creatures were thirsty. Unlucky for them, Carl and Wendy were home.”

“They just came back from Mykonos,” Anastasia said as she sat back down.

“They should’ve stayed in Greece,” Barbara uttered sarcastically.  

[daywillcomeagain]

elwing

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. you can read the others here.

2K words under the cut!

elwing is three years old when it happens.

she grows like a human, already toddling around, and so when it happens her parents give her the silmaril and tell her go with Brithiel, do whatever she tells you to, alright? and she is too young to understand the situation at the time but old enough to hear the fear in her parents' voices and nod without argument.

she may grow like a human, but she has the memory of an elf. for years later she will remember that day. the screams, the clash of metal on metal. the gurgling sounds of those whose lungs are too full of blood to scream.

she didn't hear the screams of her big brothers, so she clung to the idea that they were out there as tightly as she clung to the silmaril in her hand. that they'd come save her just like they did when they told her bedtime stories.

when she hears her father scream, she realizes that her big brothers are not coming to save her. it is only years later, long after she arrives at the Havens, that she realizes they are dead. she wonders if they were gurgling, or if they were just too far away. she doesn't dare ask. she knows that, if they had screamed, she would have known.

she throws tantrums on the road to the Havens of Sirion, at first. it doesn't take long for her to get tired of the novelty of adventure. she can't keep up with the adults, so she is held the whole way. they get worse and more frequent as the food supply shrinks. mostly the tantrums aren't about that, though, or the food or the songs or not being allowed to run around and explore. they're the same. i miss ada, i miss emë, i miss eluréd and elurín, and she fights against whoever is carrying her, as though she plans to run all the way back to menegroth, as though if she does so they will be there again. they just hold her tighter.

eventually they arrive. the Havens of Sirion. they are less impressive than she imagined. she had been imagining--well, she had been imagining home.

home is a palace. home is walls and tall buildings and soft pillows and servants and poetry and song bouncing off the walls.

this is--a refugee camp, trying very hard to pretend it is not. the silmaril that hangs down from elwing's neck is easily the nicest thing to be seen for miles; heads swivel to look at it. flags and scarves are everywhere, colored with bright dyes, but it is clear when you look at them what plants they come from: berries that are just that shade of purple, pinks reminiscent of the flowers that grow on the banks of the river, a flag flying in the wind that perfectly matches the color of the grass. people here have what they have carried, and no more. there is song on top of the cries of a baby being rocked to sleep, but there is no poetry being recited.

she should be excited, that she can finally run around without supervision, that she can explore and hear new voices and run as far as she wants and sing as loud as she wants. and she is. but she's--not sure if she's three or four, really, she tried to count days on the journey but she lost track quickly--and she can't help but feel a little disappointed.

they find her a house, of course. people deliver her meals, for the first few years, until she's old enough that she can be trusted to get her own.

she holds on to the silmaril, always. it's her last memory of her parents, of her ada pressing it into her hand before--before she doesn't see him anymore--before she hears him screaming--

it is about this age that she learns that the silmaril is why they died. she wears it tighter around her neck, after that, tight enough to leave pink marks when she takes it off to sleep. some days, she doesn't even take it off to sleep, just loosen the necklace.

when she is eight, more people come, a stream of them. the havens are crowded. people remark about measures to help with that, at least for the humans, who can get sick. the food is stretched thinner and thinner at first, but as the new people settle in they have more hunters and farmers and it evens back out. the rulers of the newcomers--idril and tuor--take it upon themselves to organize the Havens, giving orders, making buildings of stone. (stone will not actually stand up better than cloth if morgoth or the kinslayers decide to come, but it's nice to pretend that it would, so they all let themselves believe.)

when elwing is a teenager as the Men reckon it, she becomes obsessed with Grandmother Lúthien.

lúthien, who won the silmaril. who killed orcs and vampires, who defeated sauron and even morgoth himself. lúthien, who was shot at by the kinslayers and was not hurt, who won their dog over to her simply by being a better person than them. flowers grew where she walked; she could sing down buildings; she could sing the dead back to life.

elwing sings as loud as she can. the dead do not come back to life.

she hears that idril and tuor have a son, only off in age by her by a few months. idril is eleven--tuor is human--

she goes to find their son.

months later, they whisper long into the night, looking up at the stars:

"i was seven."

"i was three."

"it's stupid, but--i still flinch from campfires, sometimes--"

"i hate the sound of coughing."

their hands brush. it was inevitable, really.

they get married when they are twenty-two. he has nobody to ask for her hand. she has nobody to walk her down the aisle. but sirion watches them, cheering, the people she has grown up with, and it is almost as good. her heart is light, and the silmaril around her neck shines.

later that year, idril and tuor announce that they are leaving. for valinor, they say. earendil is excited for them.

elwing--bites her lip. no ship that has gone to valinor has ever returned. there are two explanations for that, she does not say, because everyone knows it. instead, she says: and then we will rule the havens.

yes, eärendil says, i suppose we will.

they leave. elwing and eärendil rule, as best as they can. eärendil starts sailing, longer and longer, as though he hopes that if he sails far enough he will catch a glimpse of his parents.

the first messenger comes, from the kinslayers. give us the silmaril and we will leave you alone. she wonders if they sent that to her parents. she remembers the noises, of people choking on their own blood, of not knowing if those people were her brothers. they had seemed so old to her at the time, six whole years old, but now she thinks of them as the children they were.

she wonders if the messenger was the one that killed them before she sends him away.

they have two children. twins. elrond and elros. she sings, and recites poetry, long lays of sindarin, as she cradles them to her breast. when they are older, she teaches them the certhas, not the tengwar, first.

more messengers come. eärendil is gone more and more. he has finally admitted he is searching for valinor. they fight and reconcile and cry. she spends so much of her time crying now, before wiping her eyes and splashing her face with water and giving a speech to her people. everybody is too busy looking at the light that glows on her chest to notice. she stays up all night, watching the horizon for messengers or worse. her face is a mess of red skin and dark circles. she is thirty-five, though she looks younger, and she is unbearably tired. she would have given up long ago, were it not for her people, and then her sons came around, and she could no longer think of giving up.

she is the first one to see the banners. she runs first, not to the alarm bells, but to the room of her children. "hide," she hisses. "run. now."

they do, wide-eyed. they are older than she was. they are six: the exact age her older brothers had been. they were twins too. she knows the kinslayers will show no mercy. she has heard by now that her brothers starved to death in a forest, that they were not there that day. images flash through her mind: her sons, spluttering and aspirating blood. her sons, skewered like hogs. shot like deer. starving to death, slowly, so gaunt you can count their ribs--

--she does not do what her dad did and give them the silmaril. she keeps it herself, wears it bright. hopefully they will target her and pass them by. she does not wish to pass this life on to her children. the kinslayings over the silmaril will end with her, one way or another.

she is cornered on a cliff, swords cutting off any escape, and as her eyes flicker over them she wonders: which of you killed my mother? which of you killed my father? which of you drove my brothers in the forest to starve to death? which of you are going to kill my sons?

she knows that she is going to die. she knows that they will get exactly what they want, if she dies. she knows she will scream, on the point of their sword, and she does not know if her sons are far enough away not to hear. she knows that it has been many, many years since she cared about her own life here.

she jumps to her doom silently.

before she hits the water, she is flying, wings spread wide.

she flies and flies, west, west, as fast as she can, until she sees his ship.

she does not land; she falls in a tumble. she is so very, very tired. she sees his look of shock and recognition, and then she falls asleep.

she wakes up and she is herself again. it would seem a dream to her were she not aboard his ship. "here," she says weakly, unclasping the silmaril from around her neck, and putting it in his hand, "take it. i don't want it anymore."

they sail to valinor. she would be surprised when they dock in the sea leading to beaches scattered with gemstones, but stranger things have happened to her now. he tells her not to come--they are not supposed to be here, and nobody who leaves for valinor ever returns, and there are two explanations for that--and she jumps into the white foam beside him and takes his hand.

they go to valinor, and he begs. he begs pity for the noldor. he speaks of his mother, who walked for a decade as a child over icy wastes. he speaks of how gondolin fell around him when he was seven years old and how he still cannot look at fire without his stomach turning. he speaks of his grandfather's stories from the nirnaeth, of mountains of bodies. he says, if they could only have sent their children to be free of the ban and live safe here, you would have received boatfulls of babies, do not tell me now that this was a just punishment.

and, miraculously, they listen.

they give eärendil and elwing a choice: to be mortal or immortal, elf or man.

earendil says: i am weary of this world, but i never wish to be parted from you.

and elwing, who had such a short time ago been exhausted, thinks of luthien. she thinks of how the silmaril was said to have aged her, quickly even by mortal standards. she thinks of her exhaustion, her hopeless dive off a cliff, ready for death.

she imagines what it would be to spend an eternity unafraid next to the man that she loves, an eternity bathed in the radiant light of a silmaril, the entirety of forever stretching before them and the knowledge that they do not have to use a second of it watching for enemies. she has lost two homes now. she imagines what it would be like to live somewhere and know that it was permanent.

they call Valinor the Undying Lands. she realizes then that it is the proximity to death that she is weary of, not life. it was just that, before she stepped foot on valinor, those were the same thing.

she makes her choice.

eärendil’s ship flies through the sky at night. she watches it, and an ocean away, elrond and elros watch too.

[wolfjawswriter]

What Old Friends Can Do - Lucy x Lockwood 2

“Family is a Matter Better Left Unmentioned” - Lucy x Lockwood

Lockwood and Co. Series

Summary: Old friends may come as a solution.

Warning: This fic is made with the sole purposes of dealing and possibly kill Writer's Block and using an OC I've had in my mind for a while now, so it may be a little crappy and trashy. READ UNDER YOUR OWN CONSCIENCE.

—————————

I don’t think it was necessary to tell how the rooms looked, since they were void of life signs. Most of them just had even more books.

I woke up the next morning, very confused as to why I was in a room I didn’t know, but last night’s event came all back to me. The skull had remained silent most of the night, aside from when it protested for me telling Ethan about him. Right now it was inactive inside its jar.

The smell of tea and bacon came from downstairs, along the sounds of voices. I dressed quickly and walked towards the sound and smells, following them across the living room in which we sat last night and to a kitchen beside it.

It was a spacious room, with a stove and a big oven. Many pantries here and there on the walls and shelves with bowls and dishes and other kitchen utensils. There was a table in the middle of the room with many chairs around it, with Lockwood sitting on one of them while reading the newspaper. Wait, how did he get the London Times?!

George and Ethan were also there, standing beside the stove while George talked with him about this or that.

“Morning Luce” Lockwood said.

“How did you get the Times?” I asked him.

“I have membership” Ethan said from where he stood beside George, his hand’s busy as he chopped something on a board “How do you expect me to keep up with the real gossip? I didn’t know you could cook it like that”

“But its a three hour trip from London to here” I said “How did it get here so fast?” He looked back at me and made a sign with his hand.

“Good money gets things done, Lu” A few moments later Holly and Quill walked down and joined us, looking refreshed and rested.

“It is a very nice house you have, Ethan” Holly said as she helped him and George put the breakfast on the table, which, let me tell you, they got a little carried away while making; eggs and bacon, tea and coffee, home-made muffins, donuts, toast, biscuits, even chopped fruit for Holly.

“I’m glad you like it” Ethan said placing the last things and sitting on one of the chairs “Its a terrible mess, but habitable. Lu said you were here on a job”

“Yes” Lockwood said while he took some toast “Mr Weatherall called us, said he needed a ‘psychic disturbance’ disposed of and that the agency that used to work here is no longer in service”

“Well, he got that right” Ethan said after a forkful of egg “He is the owner of the railroad, at least Cheviot Hill’s extension, so I imagine the ghost must be there”

“Who’s ghost do you reckon that is?” I asked him. He scratched his chin like he had done the last night, then looked back at me.

“I don’t know, Lulu” He said “That railway was built at least two centuries ago, thousands could have died there during all this time, so the ghost or ghosts could be someone we knew or someone who died even before it was done”

“I should go to the town’s library then” George said while munching on a donut “Look for anything I can find about it”

“No” Ethan exclaimed “The library doesn’t exist anymore”

“What?” I asked.

“They brought it down a few months after Jacobs agency closed” He explained “Made a new party room there, I think. But don’t worry, I kept all the books they had. That’s why there’s so much books around here” Even after explaining, George looked like his donut had been snatched from his hand and stomped on.

“Why would they ever take a library down?!” He cried out.

“Most people here are idiots. No one really used the library besides the agents, but now the agency is closed and all the agents retired, so there’s no ‘need’ for a library” He took another bite of food “But all the books are here, and still divided by sections. The history one should be together still”

“Eep!” Holly squealed loudly as something jumped before her. That something was a cat. A big brown and black cat, that now stood on the table and eyed the food.

“Makayla!” Ethan stood from his chair and snatched the cat by the neck “We don’t jump on our guests” He dropped the cat on the floor, but as soon as he sat down again, the cat jumped on his lap and tried to get to his face “I ask you to excuse Makayla, Holly, she still doesn't understand what ‘good manners’ stands for”

“Its alright, she just surprised me” Taking a bit of bacon from his plate, he held it to the cat and looked back at us.

“So, we were saying about the history books. I think those are on Freya’s room”

“I haven’t seen Freya in a while” I said “How is she?”

“Gone. She married a few months back, now she lives with her husband somewhere in London, I believe. Haven’t seen her since”

“Is she your sister?” Holly asked.

“Yeah. She’s in charge of the family’s company and said she wanted to live closer to where the company was and where her darling husband works, so she moved out. Reckon she’ll be divorced in a few more months, maybe a year”

We talked some more and finished breakfast, then Lockwood said we had to meet Mr Weatherall at his house, and that when we were back Ethan could show George were all the books were. This was all dandy and nice, it was work after all, but Holly suggested she and I stayed here with Ethan rather than going to the Weatherall’s residence. It took some coaxing, but she somehow managed to convince Lockwood this was a good idea, made me write the directions on a paper and sent the boys on their way.

“You girls should have gone with them” Ethan said as we helped him clean the kitchen.

“But it wouldn’t be correct of us to leave you on your own” Holly said while placing the dishes on the cupboards “Besides, you need someone to help you”

“Oh! I’ve lived on my own enough time to know how to manage myself, Holly, dear” He said as he flicked the towel he was holding.

“What about your family? Is your sister the only other one left?” We finished cleaning the kitchen and walked to the living room where we sat down with some more tea.

“Now, yes, its only her and me. Remember my brother, Dante, Lu?” He asked and I smiled, taking sips of my cup.

“Yeah. He was the better looking brother” I scoffed and Ethan gasped.

“Excuse me, did you even see him?”

“You had a brother?” Holly asked, her cup carefully at her lips.

“Yes, both Freya and Dante were older, I was the family’s runt, just like Lu here”

“And your parents?” I looked at Ethan, concerned for what might come out of his mouth. Just like the stories of his physical scars, the story of his parents was a difficult one to tell. He, however, looked as calm as ever and kept smiling amiably and naturally, unlike Lockwood who, every time his parents or sister were mentioned, became silent, his smile strained and his manners tense. Guess I just spend too much time with Mr Secret-Keeper.

“Well, my parents are an interesting story” He said, got comfortable in his armchair, with Makayla in his lap and the cup on one hand “You see, they were kidnapped just two weeks after I was born”

“Oh God!” Holly exclaimed and placed the cup on the table “I’m so sorry, Ethan! I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, no, Holly. You’re not prying. I’m as okay with sharing this as with the other stories I told you all last night” He said. Holly looked at me worriedly, to which I smiled, reassuringly. I knew this story very well. I knew Ethan didn’t minded sharing it. Everyone in town knew it, anyway.

Holly refilled her cup and adjusted her position so she was sitting more comfortably. I also refilled my cup with more warm tea and took a biscuit from the plate. Ethan was once again scratching his stubble-covered chin, deep in thought.

“My mother barely got time to get better from her pregnancy. The people who took them wanted my parent’s to give them a part of their fortune, but they were set on not doing that. Took six months for the police to find them, but when they did…well, for one, my father was dead” He took a sip of tea and a bite from a biscuit “Seemingly, he had been killed shorty after getting kidnapped. My mother, she was alive, however, she was not the same woman she used to be” Ethan looked at us, a certain heaviness now distinguishable in his tired eyes “She was tortured to madness. Those people thought they could convince her to give them the money if they made her suffer enough, but she refused, which drove her out of her mind. When the hospital called my grandmother to tell her about her about her recently-found daughter, she immediately took us to see her. But it wasn’t her daughter anymore”

He made a pause in which I looked at Holly, to see how she was holding up. The story was just beginning, but her hand had already flew to her mouth, her eyes helplessly looking at him.

“She wasn’t aggressive or anything like that. She just, seemed to lost consciousness, in a way. It was like toddler inside the body of an adult. Doctors wanted to keep her in some institution, but my grandmother refused to leave her in such a place” He smiled tenderly at the memory “She was convicted that if anything could bring my mother back was the love of her family, so she stayed here with us, in this very house. Nothing brought her back though; her memories were lost, her habits, even her speech. I never heard her say a proper word, ever” A single tear dropped from Ethan’s only eye, so I stood and sat next to him, wordlessly putting an arm around him. I was suddenly very thankful Lockwood wasn’t here; I knew he wouldn’t be able to listen to this, when it came to family he wore his feelings right under his skin.

“Oh Ethan…”

“In a way, I think she still remembered or knew she was our mother” His voice had grown thin with emotion, still, he smiled sadly, his head now against my chest in a silent seek for comfort “Dante was very sickish; never went a winter without getting flu or a summer in which he wouldn’t get sick because of the heat. Spent so much time bedridden, sometimes I thought he’d forget what the rest of the world looked like. But each time he got sick, every time he couldn’t go outside, my mom would silently sit with him and not leave his side until he was better. Or when I lost my eye” A silent sob “My grandma took her to the hospital to see me the day after I went in. She refused to leave my side, sat beside my bed all day and night, watching over me, like I’d die the moment she looked away”

Holly refilled his cup in trembly motions, then gave it to him. He gave it a sip and nodded her thanks.

“Eventually she died, peacefully during her sleep. It was hard for my grandma to think that her daughter was gone without ever getting to really know her own children, but I think she’s happier now, with dad. Grandma followed her a few months after. Then it was just us, until Dante got sick again. Spent days in his room without being able to move, but in the end, he left too. Now its just Freya and me”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Ethan” Holly said after a few moments of silence “I shouldn’t have asked”

“Like I said, its nothing personal” He smiled “You could have asked anyone in Cheviot Hills, and they’d be able to tell you what happened almost as good as I did”

After that, Holly told us some stories about her family and from when she was a Rotwell field agent, and I told them some of mine, but soon we changed topic. Family was not something most agents were fond of talking, at least not the way Ethan was casual about it.

Lockwood, George and Quill were back an hour later and we were still chatting in the living room, the tea long gone cold and Makayla now asleep on my lap.

“What did we miss?” Lockwood asked when they entered the living room.

“Just some overdramatic family stories” Ethan said with his lazy smile shining “But nothing too interesting. Now, I assume you’ll want me to show you where the history books are?”

Holly offered to help him walk upstairs, which he accepted kindly.

“Ok, let’s see” We walked after him to one of the rooms in which we slept last night “It should be somewhere around here” We spread about the room and started to look through the many copies spread and stacked inside it.

“Why would you keep this many books?” Quill asked as we helped look through the many covers.

“Couldn’t let this much knowledge go to waste, could I?” Was Ethan’s response, his body half covered with the books he was surrounded by “Besides, I’ve been using them for my research”

“You’re researcher?” George asked “Do you research the Problem too?”

“Oh, god, no!” Ethan scoffed “There are already way too much people researching that, I look for other things. Oh, it’s been years since I read this book”

“What could be more important than looking for a way to stop the Problem from spreading?” Quill said holding many books in his arms.

“Never said I wasn’t looking for that-Ah ha!” Ethan’s limping form retreated from the mount of books he had been looking through, with many volumes in his hands “Here they are” He placed them on the floor and kicked away all the books we wouldn’t need “‘Cheviot Hills’ Records’, ‘England’s Railway History’ and ‘Official Cheviot Hills’ Cemetery Documents from 1867 to 1989’. Any other book you may need should be here”

“Thanks, I’m sure I’ll find them”

We left the room so George could work peacefully, and Lockwood explained us the plan: tonight we’d go the the train station to make a surveillance, so we could find what we’d be dealing with and try to end it there and then, but in case we couldn’t take it down there, we’d go back tomorrow, better prepared and hopefully with more information than the one we’d go with today.

“You finally come back” A voice called me inside my head as I entered the room I slept in “I’ve been bored out of my mind all morning!”

The skull’s jar was sitting on top of a pile of books I hadn’t bothered to read the cover’s of.

“What do you want?”

“What have you been telling that cripple about me?”

“Don’t call him a cripple” My voice lowered into a venomous whisper as I took the jar in my hands “He has a name and you better call him that if you don’t want me to ignore you for the rest of the trip”

“Whatever, he is an interesting one” The skull’s ugly face was now propped against the source, its cheek plastered against it “I’m actually jealous. How he got those scars, very gruesome stories. What I wouldn’t give to have been there or live something like that myself!”

“Why would you want that?”

“Its better than being dead, Lucy. So what’s the plan? Are we going to use him as a bait to draw the ghost out then finish it? Or are you planning on actually feeding him to the ghost and then sealing it?”

“We are not using Ethan as any of that! He won’t be coming to the case”

“What a shame! I thought that that was the reason you chose to bring the others here, he would make a very easy prey for a ghost; unable to run, probably a year away from losing his Talent. I must say, he has an impressive amount of Talent for someone so close to the age of losing it”

“Yes, he always had an impressing Touch. Could pin point the exact location of a source only by Touching and getting echoes of the past”

“Hey Lucy?” I heard a knock on the door as well as someone calling me. The door opened and Lockwood walked in.

“Oh no! We are having a conversation here, no Lockwoods allowed!”

“Shut up” I closed the jar’s lever and basked in the feeling of seeing it get angry and not be able to rant with me about it.

“I’m an interrupting something?” Lockwood asked hesitantly.

“No, no. We were just finishing” We ignored the skull as it kept furiously swimming around its ectoplasm.

“You think it’d be wrong if I sat on the books?” Lockwood asked, his finger pointing to the giant stack that was in front the bed.

“I don’t think so, but I think its better not to find out” I patted the space beside me in the bed and so he sat there. We stayed silent for a moment, waiting for the other to say something.

“It is a very nice house Ethan has” He said in an attempt to break the silence “I’m happy you trust us with this part of your past”

“Couldn’t keep it hidden for long” I said.

“You never told us about that ‘wolf incident’” He said silently.

“The case of the Boy in the Wolf Barn? I wasn’t the star of that incident”

“But you were still there” Lockwood’s eyes were kept away from me, yet a certain vulnerability could be seen in them “You could have died that night. If he hadn’t protected you, you would not be here”

“But I didn’t die” I whispered, my hand coming to his.

“And for that I’m grateful” He said, his eyes finally meeting mine “I couldn’t thank Ethan enough for that”

The rest of the day was spent preparing for our case in the station. George spent most of the afternoon reading as much as he could of the books Ethan gave him. Lockwood and Quill practiced rapier with Holly and I readied our supplies, making sure we’d have enough salt bombs, flares, iron fillings and that our chains were fit for tonight. Ethan spent the day helping me, so we talked all day long, still retelling some experiences and I told him about some of our best cases back in London, like Combe Carey Hall, or the Bickerstaff ghost, the Chelsea Outbreak and from the time I freelanced.

Time went faster than I expected and soon it was time for us to leave for the station. With our sacks ready, our thermos full with tea and George’s compelled information, we were more than ready to leave.

“Lucy…” A hand stopped me from walking out the door. I looked back at Ethan, who for the first time in our visit wasn’t smiling lazily like he always did “The station…its close to the woods”

“We know” He didn’t need to tell me what was concerning him, it was concerning us both, but we had chose not to mention it. Now, though, I had been feeling like it should be brought up “We’ll be careful”

“Just…beware of the wolves”

[nocrying-offical]

Darkest Hour

I’m never sure where to start about my father. He’s a tall man, six foot one. Silent and solemn if he’s not angry. Alcoholic. Smoked on and off. Ex military. Easy to anger. Scary when angry. Played favorites with me and my brothers. He praised David but was clinical with him. He chose to spend time with me because I was quiet and, if something went wrong, it was Eli’s fault. Always. That’s how I would describe him.

I hid under my older brothers and never saw my father’s wrath because I was the baby. Most of our time spent together was watching TV or quiet board games. He taught me dominoes during a snowstorm, chess in the fall and even mahjong, something he picked up in his army days. I don’t know if he liked me the best, it was obvious he was the most proud of David, but I spent the most time with him. So… I knew. It didn’t surprise me when it finally came to.

Dad liked to drink and when he drank he was easier to set off. He took it out a lot on the twins and my mom by blaming them for things out of our control. Sometimes the cops were called because the screaming was so loud, especially since Eli would instigate out of confused anger. So, I think to ease things with everybody, Dad used to take long camping trips with his old war buddy, Adam. I don’t know how long they knew each other, my mom made it seem like longer than she knew him. But whatever happened to dad’s eye Adam was there for.

I noticed… Their body language with each other. The way Adam would laugh whenever Dad made a joke. The way Adam was the only one who made Dad crack a smile. They whispered to each other when Mom wasn’t in the room a lot. Adam was always there when the family needed him. If Eli got into a fight at school he would ease it over, if we needed new school clothes Adam would take us, if my mom started considering more shifts at the diner Adam would hand her envelopes with cash. He always helped with Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays… In a lot of ways Adam was like our uncle but… Brothers don’t act like Dad and he did. I’m not sure if anybody noticed that but me.

I was 11 when it happened. My brothers had just turned 14. Late June of 2000. The twins were interested in completing video games and enjoying summer. I was noticing both David and Eli’s shifts into becoming teenagers and not kids at that point. My relationship with my brothers was reaching this turning point and being the baby felt like it meant being left behind.

Mom was trying to do some deep cleaning in her bedroom, looking for an old pocket knife she promised Eli. She never found it. She did, however, find old letters in a cookie tin. Some were dated two years ago at the time. Some way back to the mid 80’s. I remember her crying so much that afternoon and Eli sitting with her trying to figure out what was wrong but, all she could muster was “your father has some explaining to do.” Dad was supposed to go on one of his trips with Adam that evening. So, maybe it was fate but I think there was never a knife to begin with.

David and I were taking turns at the Playstation by this point. I had the gist of the game down and pointed out a strategy Eli hadn’t thought of. So, while he was in the other room comforting our mom, we just tried to keep out of it.

I looked over to my brother, “Do you know what those letters said?”

He shook his head as I made my next move on the TV.

“I think Dad is seeing somebody.” I said this quietly, just throwing the idea out there in the open.

“Yeah?” David’s face scrunched up with a mixture of worry and doubt, “Do you think they’ll divorce? Then we’ll get split up?”

I paused and sighed, looking over at him, “Maybe.”

There was a long silence as we both stared at the television. This wasn’t the first, or last, time our father made Mom cry like this.

David spoke up quietly, “I just wish he didn’t put me on the spot and make all of you feel bad. Sometimes I think about being bad at school so Eli would feel better but whenever I fuck up he still compares us.”

I could feel my face sagging with sadness, “Sometimes... I feel bad that he only likes spending time with me because I’m so quiet. I’m afraid if he leaves he’ll split me from you two.”

David looked me dead in the eye, “I’ll never let that happen. Okay? I promise. None of us will ever be split up. We’re all in this together.”

I nodded.

“I taped some old Nitro if you just wanna watch something.” My brother tried to force a smile.

I shrugged and we screwed around with the TV to get the Playstation unplugged and the VCR hooked up. David started to rewind the tape and as I put the game console back into the entertainment cabinet, my mom came out into the livingroom, “David? Caleb? Do you know where you put your baseball bat?”

We both looked at each other with worry and I stammered, “Um, I left it out on the back patio last week.”

“Okay. Well... It’s almost time for your father to come home. I want the three of you to stay inside. Promise me, okay?”

We back at each other and nodded as Mom left through the back door from the kitchen. Eli came out of the hallway shortly after, looking around, “Mom went outside?”

I nodded.

“You might wanna turn off wrestling, something better is about to go down.”

I reached over and turned off the VCR player, watching Eli get on the couch and peek out the window it was sitting up against, kneeling low. David murmured, furrowing his brow, “What’s going on?”

“Come and watch.” he grinned, biting his lower lip in anticipation.

We both got up on the couch and peeked out of the beige and red checkered curtains, catching a glimpse of our mom standing in the driveway with a louisville slugger.

David squinted, “What the hell is going on?”

“Dad’s cheating on Mom. Those letters were filthy but I could only read what mom left on the table when she wasn’t looking. It was like something out of Playboy. And she packed bags for all of us except him. She purposefully unpacked his shit for his trip this weekend.”

My oldest brother looked over at me and we exchanged looks.

Eli glanced beside himself, “You knew?”

I shrugged.

He frowned and went back to looking out the window, “Help me open this real quiet.”

The three of us gently cracked open the front window, hoping to hear whatever argument was about to ensue.

About five minutes passed and I let out almost a whimper, “I hope nobody gets hurt.”

“Shut up.”

Eventually, The sound of crunching gravel in the driveway and the hum of a Chevy Silverado slowly came into earshot. One by one we turned around quickly, afraid to be seen peeking from the curtains.

“Did you see-”

“Yes.” David whispered.

I reached out and I held my older brother’s hand. Both of us went into a cold sweat hearing the truck turn off. I mouthed “Don’t let him, please.” and my brother nodded, chewing on his cheek.

The car door popped open, “What’s wrong?” It was my father.

“Why don’t you tell me that, Huh? What the fuck is wrong? You wanna tell me?”

Another car door opened, “Janet.” Uncle Adam.

A hiss from gritted teeth escaped from my mom’s lips, “Oh. You stay the fuck away from me you cocksucker.”

“Let’s just talk about this like adults, alright?” There’s no reason to bring out a bat.”

“Oh. But it’s fine to throw bottles at me? Huh? Or threaten to stab your own son?”

I opened my eyes and caught Eli wincing. David whispered he was going to bring our luggage into the living room and got up, clearing his throat.

“Does he tell you about that Adam, huh, when he’s fucking your ass in the woods?”

“Janet!”

Eli let out this noise that was halfway between a snort and a gasp.

“Dad’s gay?” David whispered, dropping all four suitcases.

His twin slowly tried to take a peek at the backpedaling going on outside, “That doesn’t even make sense. But-” He slid back down into the couch, “Maybe that’s why he hates us so much. We’re not family to him.”

“Just a cover.” David finished.

“Let me just take my shit and go. Nobody has to get hurt, Okay?”

“Oh! That’s how you think it’s gonna go? I’m just gonna let you pack your bags and leave? No. You are not getting into that trailer.”

”Fine I’ll jus-”

There was a loud crack, and then two male scream. We heard keys jingling and then quick stomping up the stairs. As the door slammed open our mom screamed, leaning into the house, “Boys!”

The three of us scrambled to grab our old thrift store luggage. David offered to carry Mom’s and in almost one swift motion, we were in the backseat of the truck. I’m not sure how, or where, but mom got ahold of Dad’s hunting rifle. She slung it over her back, still holding the bat as she ushered us into the car.

I never saw where Dad or Adam were during that, especially since between the luggage and the three of us it was like a clown car in the extended cab. We drove until the first stoplight in silence and then mom instructed David to take the rifle and put it under the backseat, along with the bat.

I finally spoke up, “Mom?”

“Mh.”

“D-... Did you kill dad?”

She shook her head, “No, he’ll live.”

“Where are we going?”

Eli sighed heavily.

My mom looked up into the rear mirror, “We’re going to Grandma’s, okay? It’s going to be okay.”

We eventually moved the luggage into the truck bed and Mom stopped to kiss all three of us on the head before heading back on the road. The three of us were getting to be as tall as her at this point and she commented how there will be a day where she wouldn’t reach our heads anymore. The evening set into night,and we stopped at a dirty truck stop for dinner when god knows when. Mom dug up some quarters and called her mother outside while we got back in the car. It took a few tries before somebody answered

“No Ma, He- There were letters.”

I watched Eli roll up his window so he could rest his head against it. David had been using an old jean jacket as a blanket and started to nod off.

“Please don’t do this now.”

The conversation on the phone very clearly went nowhere and was extremely short. We didn’t go to our grandmother’s.

[therainroguefanfiction]

🌀 Storm Coming (A SKET Dance Fanfic) Chapter 2: A Second Chance?

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Previous Chapter

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The rest of the fifteen-hour flight was spent talking to Agatha – though she did most of the talking and I mainly just listened. She had a lot of stories to tell about the life she had led. The reason she was going to Japan was because her grandson was getting married, so she was flying out to be with her family. According to her, she and her late husband had moved to Florida so they could retire in a nice cabin by the beach.

Before I knew it, the seatbelt signs popped on and the plane started its descent. We were arriving at Tokyo International Airport. My heart leaped into my throat, but Agatha gently took my hand in hers, telling me that it would be okay and, for some reason, I believed her.

First-class was allowed to leave the plane first, and then it was our turn. I pulled both of our carry-on bags down from the overhead compartment, slinging my book bag over my shoulder and putting my arm through the straps of her purse. She wrapped her arm around mine, but I wasn’t sure if it was for her own sake or mine, and we headed off the plane and down the hallway.

“Is someone coming to pick you up, dear?” She asked, softly.

I nodded, digging into the pocket of my jeans, pulling out the photograph my mom had given me. It was an old picture, distorted by the passage of time and the number of times it had been folded into sections. Still, I could clearly make out the man’s tan face, framed by sandy blonde hair. He was looking off in the distance, a soft smile on his face.

I showed her the picture. “My… father,”

“My, how handsome. No wonder you’re so cute.” She gave me a smile like a grandmother would to her grandchild and it made me smile despite my rising anxiety levels.

Now that we were off the plane, my mind was beginning to run wild. What if he forgot I was coming to live with him? What if he didn’t show up? If he didn’t, I would be royally screwed. I have no money at all and, even if I did, it was American Dollars, not yen. No one would accept it. Would I have to stay at the airport? Would they even let me do that?

I know basic Japanese thanks to my love of anime, but I doubt I could properly explain my situation. I can barely explain myself in English…

I started to shake.

“It’s okay, dear.” Agatha took her arm away so she could wrap it around my back – she was too short to reach my shoulders. “From the short time that I’ve known you, I can tell that you are a strong young lady. You’ll get through whatever it is you’re going through, so try not to worry too much, okay? I believe in you, so please believe in yourself.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I did my best to hold them back, nodding. I didn’t fully believe her words, and I couldn’t promise that I would heed them, but it felt nice to have some encouragement when I’m struggling so much. I don’t think mom had ever believed in me before. It felt… warm. Agatha made me feel like everything really would be alright.

“Samantha?”

I looked over through teary eyes. Standing before us was a tall man, maybe six-foot-one, a bright smile on his lips as his emerald eyes met my own. His sandy blonde hair was longer than it was in the picture, pulled back into a low ponytail that rested against his upper back. His name was Kevin Reynolds, and he’s my father. God, that feels so strange to say.

“Are you okay?”

Agatha patted me on the arm and I nodded, quickly wiping away my tears. Way to make a first impression, Sam.

“Grandma!” A young man approached us, a young woman close behind. This must be the grandson she mentioned and his fiance. He smiled at me, brushing away the black hair from his eyes. “I hope my grandma didn’t cause you too much trouble. She loves her stories.”

“Ah, n-no, she didn’t…” I mumbled, looking down at the ground.

“Remember what I said.” She said warmly as she pulled away. I handed her purse to her grandson.

“Thank you, Agatha.”

She nodded at me before turning to Kevin. “You have a wonderful daughter,”

“Thank you very much!” He smiled proudly, bowing to her. She waved as her grandson led her away, chatting animatedly with her. Kevin turned back to me, his smile lighting up his face. “You must have really impressed her,”

I shifted awkwardly, nodding. Hell if I knew how. She had done most of the talking, after all.

“Let’s go get your luggage,” he started toward the right side of the Airport where the baggage claim was. I followed quietly behind him. “How was your flight? It was your first time, right?”

I nodded but realized he couldn’t see it since I was behind him. I cleared my throat. “Yes. It was – It was okay.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad you were able to find someone to keep your mind occupied.” He stood near the conveyer belt, “What does it look like?”

“Black duffle bag…”

“Ah, I see it!” He picked up the bag, checking the tag that had been tied to the handle. “Yup, this is it. Now let’s get you home, I bet you’re exhausted.”

Home… do I have such a place in my life? I have a house with a man I’ve just met here in Japan. I have a house with my mom back in Florida. But a home? I don’t think I’ve found that yet, and sometimes I wonder if I ever will.

I clutched the strap of my backpack. Everything I owned was stuffed into these two bags. Kevin seemed surprised that I didn’t have more luggage, but he didn’t comment on it. I followed him through the airport to the carpark across the street. He had managed to find a spot on the first level.

He drove a white Honda accord that looked like it had seen better days.

He smiled at me after sliding into the driver’s seat and me in the passenger. “My boss was kind enough to let me borrow his car to pick you up.”

I guess he doesn’t have his own car, then, not that it really matters. I stared out the window as he drove, watching the cityscape pass me by. Tokyo was a big city with a large population and that worried me. I glanced at Kevin. Had mom told him about my short-comings?

As if sensing my thoughts, he spoke up. “Alissa told me that you were kicked out of middle school because you stopped going. Is that true?”

My heart skipped a painful beat. Kicked out? Was that the official term for it? It’s true that I did stop going at the beginning of my last year.

“Your mom tends to exaggerate a lot.” he chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road. “I always take what she says with a grain of salt.”

Wait a minute… “Ha-Have you been in contact with her for long?”

“We talk a few times a year.” He shook his head and I noticed his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. “I can’t believe she never told me that we have a child together.”

“She… didn’t?” I felt my eyes widen at this new bit of information, and I dreaded his answer.

“Oh she did,” he scoffed. “Two weeks ago. And so casually too! She called me up and we were having a normal conversation, she drops the bomb that we have a kid together and nonchalantly asks me if I want to take you. She hasn’t changed a bit.”

Tears pricked my eyes as my hands clenched around my jeans. All this time, I thought my dad just didn’t want me. Mom always told me that she didn’t know who my dad was. She said, “It was just a one night stand.” Deep down, I knew she wasn’t being completely truthful with me, but I just assumed she was protecting me. I assumed my dad knew I existed but didn’t want anything to do with me. I assumed she was protecting me from getting hurt, but… why did she lie to me?

I don’t understand.

“O-Oi, why are you crying?” he questioned, worry lacing his voice. “I shouldn’t have talked about your mother like that, I’m sorry.”

I quickly shook my head. “N-No, it’s not that!” I cried, wiping furiously at my eyes. “I thought – I thought that you h-hated me…”

“What?” his voice was full of surprise. He pulled over into the closest fast-food parking lot before turning to me. “You’re my daughter, Samantha. I could never hate you.”

Hearing that made me cry harder, my body shaking as I tried to control my emotions. His arm reached over, wrapping around my shoulders – it was… oddly comforting. He tugged me closer, hugging me as best as he could in the small confines of the cramped car.

“What has that woman done to you?” he muttered under his breath. I was sure he didn’t intend for me to hear those words, so I chose not to comment on them.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, clutching his t-shirt.

I’m sorry for thinking bad of you.

I’m sorry for all of those horrible things I said about you.

I’m sorry for being a cry baby.

I’m sorry I can’t even voice these thoughts properly…

He patted my back, his voice soft and calm. “Don’t apologize, it’s okay. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

I didn’t believe his words, but I was comforted by them.

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Kevin pulled up to a one-story house, parking the car out front. I stepped out, clutching my bags tightly as I squinted against the sun. It was just afternoon, so the sun was high in the sky, unblocked by any clouds.

Did he live alone? Or did he have a roommate or significant other?

He stopped beside me, putting his arm over my shoulder. “Welcome home, Samantha.”

“Um, Kevin?”

“Hm?”

“Do you… do you mind not calling me Samantha? I don’t really like my full name…”

“That’s no problem. Is Sam okay?”

I nodded, turning my attention to the house. A low stone wall surrounded it, connecting to a low black iron gate. The house was painted a soft cream color, accented by dark oak. On the left side was a low wooden porch leading to a sliding glass door.

Kevin headed for the front door, which sat directly in front of the gate. I followed him nervously.

The front door opened to a small entryway. On the right was a table with three drawers stacked on top of one another, atop which was a landline phone. On the left, pegs had been inserted into the wall to hold coats and hands. Beneath it was a shoe rack and an umbrella stand.

He took his shoes off, setting them in front of the small step up. I followed suit, glad I hadn’t worn socks that had holes in them.

“I’ll show you to your room, I bet you’re tired.” He smiled, turning down the hallway to the right. There was a door on either side of the hall and a door at the very end, which he led me toward. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. “It’s not much…” he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “But hopefully you can make it your own over time.”

I stepped past him into the room. The headboard of the double bed was pressed against the left wall, the sheets royal blue cotton. On the right side, under the window, was a simple wooden table with a lamp and a pen holder. Next to the door was a three drawer dresser. The walls were painted a soft, almost translucent blue, and a single painting of a tiger and dragon forming a yin-yang had been hung above the bed.

“Alissa said you like the color blue and you have a thing for tigers and dragons. We can get some more later, but I didn’t have a very big budget on such short notice.”

I forced a smile. “It’s… perfect. Thank you so much.” And I meant that. I was so grateful for the trouble he had gone to for me, but I also felt really guilty. He was practically stopping his own life to accommodate me and my needs. He was even giving up his hard-earned money for me… someone he had just met. “Kevin?”

“Yes?”

“Please… please don’t put yourself out on my account,” I mumbled, staring down at the tan carpet beneath my feet.

He chuckled, resting his land hand on my head. “I’m not put out in the least. You’re my daughter and it’s both my job and my joy to provide for you.” He glanced down at his watch. “I need to take the car back to my boss. Make yourself at home, okay?” He turned to walk away but suddenly stopped. “Let me give you my number just in case.”

I pulled my flip phone from my pocket, entering the number as he recited it.

With that, he left the house.

I stared down at the name entry field on my phone. Should I save his number as ‘dad’ or ‘Kevin’? Now that I was thinking about it, I had only called him Kevin up until now. Did he feel offended by that? Should I start calling him dad? Would he even be okay with me calling him that? I frowned, choosing instead to add him as ‘Kevin (dad)’. Now I had two contacts in my phone.

Morning up in the world, Sam. I sighed, setting my bags down on the bed. Guess I should unpack.

I started with the duffle bag, pulling out my clothes – a bunch of t-shirts featuring various bands and anime, faded and ripped jeans, some basketball shorts and my favorite hoodie celebrating my favorite video creator’s climb to seventy-million subscribers. I had folded them as best as I could when putting them in the bag, but I had never been good at folding clothes, no matter how many times my mom showed me.

The rest of the bag was various hygiene products – toothbrush, deodorant, pads, etc. My bookbag, on the other hand, held the more important items – my laptop, mp3 player, three of my favorite books, and the box set of my favorite anime, The Kings of Tennis. I wanted to bring my gaming system, but it wouldn’t fit in the back. Mom promised to send it in the mail, but… I don’t know if that would work or if she actually planned to do it.

I set all of them on the desk and glanced out the window. It seemed like a nice and quiet neighborhood, and the weather had been nice when I stepped out of the car. I decided to grab one of my books and sit on the porch to read for a bit. Before that, though, I’m going to explore the house a bit.

Facing the entryway, I checked the room on the right – it was the bathroom. On the left was Kevin’s bedroom. On the left of the entryway was the living room, which connected to the porch. The kitchen was also connected to the living room. Overall, it was a small house but it was warm and comfortable.

I slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The wood creaked as I put my weight on it, settling on the ground with my legs crossed. A gentle breeze ruffled my hair. My new life… was this a chance to change? Could I change? Will I be the same over-sensitive mess that I’ve always been, just in a different country?

With a sigh, I let my head fall back against the house, staring up at the bright blue sky and the soft white clouds that occasionally rolled past.

Man, I feel so tired. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute…

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“…am? Sam? Hey, wake up.”

My eyes fluttered open, blinking away the sleep. The sun was low on the horizon, hidden behind a grouping of clouds.

“Good afternoon, sunshine.”

I glanced over, seeing Kevin squatting beside me. Crap, guess I fell asleep. I sat up and winced, feeling a crick in my neck.

“Not the best place to sleep,” he commented with a smile, holding out his hand as he stood up. I took it and he easily brought me to my feet. In his hand was a brown bag. “I brought some cheeseburgers,”

The thought of food made my mouth water and my stomach hurt. I hadn’t even since the day before my flight – when my anxiety is really high, it messes up my stomach so I try to avoid eating if I know I’m going to be in a high-stress situation.

I followed him into the living room, sliding the door closed behind me and stifling a yawn. I plopped onto the floor in front of the low table that sat in the middle of the room. He sat the back down, taking out two cheeseburgers for each of us before stepping into the kitchen to grab a couple cans of soda. I didn’t hesitate to unwrap it and stuff my face – manners had never been my strong suit, either.

We sat in a comfortable silence until we finished eating.

“Thank you for the food,” I mumbled, softly.

“You’re welcome,” he paused for a moment as if searching for the right words. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

The words brought fear to my heart. The last time someone had said that to me, I was shipped off across the globe because my mom didn’t want me anymore. Was he regretting his decision already? I closed my eyes tightly, feeling my heart beating painfully in my chest. I mentally prepared myself for what might come.

“I know you dropped out just before high school because of your condition, but… I feel strongly that continuing your education and going to high school will help you out in the long run. I could be like… a second chance for you.”

A second chance? Did I even deserve such a thing? Of course, dropping out had been my biggest regret in life so far, but I had always been ruled by fear and doubt, so I never once considered the possibility of going back. But now… a second chance to be a normal teenager?

“I’m old friends with the principal of Kaimei high. I’ve already talked to him about your situation and he’s okay with you enrolling. You’d have to take a placement test to make sure you can keep up with the other second years.” He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me as he spoke, softer this time. “What are you thinking?”

“I… I’m scared,” I admitted, clenching my hands around my jeans.

“Do you regret leaving school, Sammy?”

I don’t know if it was the warmth in his voice or the nickname he had used, but I looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. It was like looking into my own eyes in the mirror.

“Sorry, are you okay with me calling you Sammy?”

“I-I don’t mind. And… yes, I regret it…”

“I won’t say it’s going to be easy. High school rarely is, but in my opinion, I think it’s an important time in our lives. I believe the regret of not going will be much worse than the regret you might feel from taking this chance. It’s something you need to decide for yourself, though.” He patted my shoulder as he stood, cleaning up the mess from our meal.

I knew he was right, but I felt so much fear gripping my heart. Would I be smart enough to enter my second year of high school and keep up with the other students? All eyes would be on me for transferring as a second-year… would I be bullied? Oh god, if I had a panic attack in class, all eyes would be on me. They’d think I’m a freak or a weirdo!

“Sammy,”

I glanced up at Kevin as he stood in the doorway toward the hall.

“Don’t let your anxiety make your choices for you,” he smiled encouragingly before heading for his room.

My whole life, my anxiety had ruled over me. I was just a scared child doing whatever it told me to without question. I believed it when it said I was in danger. I believed it when it called me worthless and weird. I never questioned it. I never went against it.

I’m not a strong person. I’m super sensitive and cry easily. I take everything to heart. How could I ever go against such a strong force? But at the same time… I want to go to school. I want to experience high school like a normal teenager.

I just want to be normal.

━━━━━━༻ 🌀 ༺━━━━━━

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[delighfuladventure]

Invasion

    Home, a place where I go to relax and try to forget my academic burdens. I love relaxing in my home (it’s quite a big, yet modest house), where in each different corner I can feel isolated from others. It may be considered a welcoming, minimalist style. When I’m at home, I can feel this warm comforting feeling. Our house is open for anybody who we may consider nice and kind. My family is a small one: it’s only my mother, brother, and I. We’ve been like this ever since I’m three years old; have in mind I am 22. My mother has always been the glue that helps us stay together. My brother, already in the university, has always been the one with the intense personality: he even might be considered the black sheep of the family. He’s the average troublemaker that escapes from the house just to hang out with his friends.

A shift in energy in the house had accord six month ago. But we couldn’t put our finger on it. My mom has always been an inspiration. She knows how to stay on her feet and preserve her energy. I always wondered why I never had that dedication for staying on my feet. But at last, she found a personal trainer that would train her and her friends to have a better pace when running. She got to her goal. But the personal trainer had other intentions…

He fancied my mother and accomplished obtaining her love. But little did she know how her life would change remarkably. She knew very little about him. He was a very talkative, even though he used to talk a lot. However, he talked nothing about himself. This person, whom I rather not name, knew how to gain my mother’s trust: he needed to be more open. Once he started talking, he seemed like an open book. Before I continue, something that it’s not usual of my mother is to be in a relationship with a person with tattoos. This person did not have a tattoo or two or three: he had tattoos all over his body, including his face. He had a tattoo I couldn’t even appreciate on his forehead because it was covered by his hair. But why does it matter? One should not judge a book by its cover. Well, that’s what people say. My mom was amazed, he told him he used to be active in war in the marine force. My mother couldn’t believe all the war stories he had, it was almost surreal. He was a snipper; one can imagine the demons he carries due to everything he has done in war.

When he thought he had more of my mother’s trust, he told his biggest secret. My mom couldn’t believe what she was hearing: he told her that he was an undercover agent. He claimed to be a secret agent; furthermore, he would not even say the agency’s name to avoid further questions. He would do the computer work since his degree was in computer programming. Once I saw him in “action” programing a computer base. It gave the impression of being legit, but what would I know since I have little experience with computers. He moved in to the house because my mom took pity on him. He wasn’t living in an unsafe place. He told my mother it was in that location where he was living for a cover he had. He claimed even his bank account was frozen to avoid blowing his cover. The house seemed to start feeling lonely: the house felt like it wasn’t my house. I was trying to visit less since it felt less homely; however, I couldn’t grasp clearly the reason. Even so, every time I would be at home, hell would break lose. My brother would bring weed to the house and my mother always managed to catch him: a feat we weren’t aware she was capable of. It gave the impression he became sloppy when hiding his stash. My mom has little to almost no tolerance to weed in the house. But, how did she catch him all the time? My brother was always in the “dog house” and his attitude was never in his favor.

Three months passed, and my bother with his unchanged attitude, couldn’t muster some empathy towards my mother and continued to bring his stash to the house: she kept finding it. The house was no more a place to relax, I felt I didn’t have any privacy. Mom seemed very glum, but she wouldn’t tell me until she couldn’t hold it any longer. – “Sofía, all the jewelry of the house is gone missing, I think we’ve been robed”. My first question was “Who do you think is the robber?” My mother didn’t know. She thought it was my brother since the person, who would not be named, said he saw my brother visiting the house during the week. He thought it was unusual because he was coming in and out of the house like he was doing something bad. He also mentioned how many times he’s been caught by his stash. My mother, because of this, she believed his theory. She also confessed me that he always entered my brother’s room to see if he brought any stash in to the house.  

I know my brother, I knew it wasn’t him. He could be a lot of things, but I knew he didn’t steal the jewelry. Especially since my grandmother’s jewelry —who passed away two years ago— were also robbed. It was devastating because I also lost the jewelry my grandmother gave me before she died. My bother wasn’t capable of this conduct. My mother didn’t know what to think. I actually thought it was the person my mother was with and I still believe it was him since he had the best cover story.

A month has passed, and everything started to become clear. But my mother didn’t know was worst, her son being the one that robbed who seemed to be walking the wrong path, or the person she is with who has the perfect cover story. To make sure it was him, I told my mom what he told me, about who he was and what kind of conversations were exchange. Something he told me before the incident made me lost trust in my mother’s judgement. He told me, she thought I fancied the person my mother was with. He even told my mother supposedly told him that she thought I was selling drugs. I actually believed him, he made me believe that she was thinking this way because she was suffering from menopause. I even talked to a doctor about it: I was worried about her. Once I told her, she couldn’t believe her ears. He was lying all the way. He had a conversation just like that one with my mother, but my mother actually told me what went down. He actually went to my mother and told her I was selling drugs. I was mind-blown with all this because why would a person lie so much, for what? We even doubted his profession. Is he really an agent? Once we put two in two together, we knew he was the one. His father stepped in and told my mother that he was a compulsive liar. He told this now! Six months of dating this man, and he decided then to tell us. Later on, we were informed he was in a Satanism cult, the tattoo I didn’t understand was actually 666. Who is this guy who got to live in my home? My mother once she knew that he was not who he said he was, she threw him out of the house. For some reason, this reminds me of Mulholland drive. The movie does not make so much sense because is not a linear movie, the main character seems to suffer from her mental health which drove her to madness. Just like the man, who should not be named, his full of madness but also, full of darkness. His ending will come to him and he will suffer the consequences.

Fast forward to a week ago, after all this drama, I came back to the house, my mom seemed sad but strong. I know she will get pass this. The house feels empty but as if something bad happened, as if some part of my mom is missing and it was replaced by that person’s residue. However, I feel relieved I can come home again and still feel the capability of calling it “home”. The house only needs time for this bad energy to leave completely. My mom tried to press charges against him, but the investigators told us there was not enough evidence against him. Justice failed us, this man walks the streets with no cares in the world. Only we know what he is capable of doing. My worst fear is him coming back home and doing a lot more damage. I hope my loved ones stay safe.

[edc-creations-blog]

  “Unveiled” coming 2019…promises to become a Book Club Favorite!

Attorney L. Morgan Franklin finds her well-ordered life at a prestigious New Orleans law firm, turned upside down when her half-brother, Winston, dies in their small hometown of L’Ouveture, Louisiana. When it becomes evident that Winston’s death may not be as it appears, Morgan begins a search for answers that lead her to new discoveries about the people she loves the most. The mysteries of family, life and love all converge in this story of one woman’s refusal to accept things as they are.

Excerpt: Unveiled by La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson

Grief and the sickeningly sweet smell of too many flowers hung heavy in the warm air of the late August afternoon. Morgan felt the weight of tears shed and hearts breaking. She rubbed her hands down her black silk suit when she walked slowly toward the simple wooden coffin that held the body of her beloved baby brother, Winston. “Half-brother.” She could almost imagine her mother, Marie, standing in front of her and uttering the word “half” as if it were some sort of disease. Morgan breathed deeply and pushed Marie’s words from her mind as she exhaled. They had no place here.

Winston’s mask-like, powdered face somehow belied the words “heart attack” that still echoed in her head. Morgan stepped away from the coffin and quickly brushed away her tears. She fled the church and barely heard the words of comfort tossed her way. Outside there would be air she could breathe without inhaling the pain of the mourners.

Morgan moved quickly once outside. Her legs felt somehow lighter than they had only moments before. She breathed deeply for the first time since she had received the news of Winston’s death a week ago and headed for the sanctuary of her car. The tinkling melody of the car alarm signaled her safe haven. She slid onto the butter-soft, caramel-colored leather seat and found comfort in its warmth. She cranked up the car, rolled down the electric windows, and turned on the CD player. The soulful sound of Jill Scott’s voice surrounded her as she watched the family file out of the church and head toward limousines with the words Garrett Bros. painted in gold across the rear doors and windows. Of course, it would be Garrett Bros. They were still the only mortuary in town that “knew how to do colored.” Morgan had heard her maternal grandmother, Essie Baptiste, say that many times while she was growing up. Mama Essie, as everyone lovingly called her, had made everyone in the family vow to take her body to Garrett Bros. when her time came. Although it had been three years since Mama Essie passed, Morgan still felt her presence in this place. This thought alone eased the tension in her neck and removed the large knot that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

Morgan fanned herself slowly with the funeral program, which created a pleasant albeit warm breeze. Winston’s high school graduation picture grabbed her attention as she placed the program on the seat of the car. At eighteen and dressed in his tuxedo, he still had the face of a little boy. Her stomach tightened as she remembered missing his graduation because of a last-minute work assignment.

Things had changed so suddenly, Morgan thought as she eased her car into the funeral procession. Weeks before Winston was to report to Grambling University on a football scholarship, his girlfriend, Tanya, told him she was four months pregnant. Winston stayed in St. Vincent, married Tanya, and took a job driving a delivery truck for a local market. They named their son, William. Winston continued his training after he promised Morgan he would make good on his scholarship “one day.” Now six years later, he laid dead of a heart attack at the age of twenty-four.

The gravesite ceremony was sad; final. Morgan felt goose flesh rise on her arms, despite the wet heat of the afternoon. Her stomach churned as she cast her eyes downward away from the flailing arms of the mourners surrounding the freshly dug grave. Morgan clinched her teeth and willed herself not to cry. She feared if she started she might never stop. Irene, Winston’s mother, had to be carried away by relatives and friends as she kicked, screamed, and threw herself at the coffin to stop it from being lowered into the ground. Family and friends encircled her and tried unsuccessfully to quiet her before getting her seated in the back of the Garrett Bros. limousine. Morgan was drained and suddenly felt the reality of Winston’s death like a weight tied around her heart. She decided to forego the traditional after funeral gathering at Irene’s and instead went straight home after leaving the cemetery.

“Mama! Mama!” Morgan called as she entered the living room of her mother’s home. The hardwood floors and rich mahogany wainscoting gleamed in the shadows of the early evening. The silver tea service shone brilliantly atop the highly polished buffet and was only rivaled by the matching silver candelabras that stood guard on each side. Morgan smiled as she wondered whose house had all the extra dust that was forbidden in Marie’s home. She spied a note leaned against a crystal vase filled with white tulips on the dining room table.

Lisa, I hope you have not exhausted yourself completely with the day’s events. I am giving a

lecture at the university, followed by a reception sponsored by the Deltas. I’ll be late.

Your uncle Raymond wants you to call him.

Mama

Lisa. Here was another reminder that she was no longer in New Orleans. No one there knew the “L” in L. Morgan Franklin stood for Lisa. For that matter, no one there knew much about the Rockhurst District of L’Ouverture, Louisiana.

( Continued… )

© 2018 All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only.

La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson Social Media/Contact Information: Email: larhondawrites@gmail.com Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/ideatepub Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/larhonda.crosbyjohson.94 Ideate Publishing Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ideatepublishing

    About Author La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson is a contributor to the award-winning Life Spices From Seasoned Sistahs anthology series and has also published work in Go, Tell Michelle: African American Women Write To The New First Lady, Sassy, Savvy and Bold After 50, Jubilee’s Journey an e-book, serial novel, and All The Women In My Family Sing edited by Deborah Santana.La Rhonda is co-founder of Ideate Publishing, LLC. Ideate’s debut project, an anthology of short stories by women writers titled Where’s My Tiara? was released in the fall of 2017. Unveiled, her first novel will be released in 2019.www.ideatepublishing.com

  BPM: It is such a pleasure to have you join us to discuss, Unveiled. Describe yourself in three words. LCJ: Reliable. Honest. Committed.

BPM: What drove you to publish your first book or create your first series? How long have you been writing? LCJ: Publishing my work is a way to share my love of writing with others. I’ve been writing most of my life.

BPM: Describe what you do outside of writing to expand your business or brand. LCJ: The business of writing is still fairly new to me. As an author, I look forward to connecting with readers. I plan to use several vehicles to stay in touch with them – social media, blogging, readings/book signings, participation in book festivals and conferences, etc. – and give them a chance to get to know me as a writer and person.

BPM: What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your body of work/books? LCJ: I learned that even when I thought I was finished, there was more work to do. Tina McElroy Ansa told me, while attending the first Sea Island Writers Retreat, hard writing made easy reading. Unveiled has allowed me to understand what Tina told me on an entirely different level.

BPM: How did you choose the genre you write in? Have you considered writing in another genre? LCJ: I don’t want to limit myself to any one genre. However, I initially saw myself as a fiction writer until my first published work was in an anthology of non-fiction. Since then, I’ve been a contributor to several non-fiction anthologies. It then occurred to me that a writer writes. I plan to continue to write and hopefully publish in both fiction and non-fiction. I recently placed second in a poetry contest, so I may venture into that genre again in the future. I have a friend who is writing afro-surrealism/speculative fiction and I find that very interesting.

BPM: Tell us about your most recent work. Available on Nook and Kindle? LCJ: My debut novel, Unveiled, will be published early 2019. The book will be available in print and e-book: Kindle and Apple Books.

BPM: Introduce us to the people in the book! Give us some insight into your main characters or the speakers. LCJ: I’ll introduce you to three of the characters: Morgan Franklin, Marie Baptiste Morgan, and Mary Joyce Lyons. Morgan, the main character, at first glance, is your typical overachiever. She’s excelled in school and her career. As the story unfolds, readers will get to see Morgan has as a strong sense of justice and believes her privileged life must be used to help those who don’t have it so easy. Morgan also has a vulnerable side that adds to her strength and resilience.

Morgan’s mother, Marie Baptiste Morgan, can easily be described as having ice water in her veins. Marie believes vulnerability is a weakness and doesn’t extend herself to others without benefitting personally – quid pro quo. There is so much more to Marie. The reader will get an opportunity to see to how she was shaped by her upbringing and experiences. Mary Joyce is Morgan’s younger half-sister who didn’t have the opportunities Morgan had. She finds herself married to a man who would rather drink than work, pregnant, and the mother of three small sons. Mary Joyce has been overwhelmed by her circumstances and has to make some difficult choices. The reader will get to know these and other characters in Unveiled in a way I hope will make them memorable long after the book has been read.

BPM: What’s so unique about their story-line or voice in the story? What makes each one so special? LCJ: The characters are unique because people are unique. We are all more than we first appear to be and the reader will find this true of the characters in Unveiled. While it will be easy to label some of the characters as “good” or “bad,” you’ll find once you’ve made up your mind, you may have to change it.

BPM: Share one specific point in your book that resonated with your present situation or journey. LCJ: Great question. I hadn’t thought about this before. I think the experience of a minor character, Stephanie Arceneaux, speaks to my journey. Stephanie is recreating her life. Many times, I’ve found myself in a place of recreation. Stepping fully into writing is just one example. Morgan’s commitment to the truth and the way she shows up for her family and friends is also a huge part of my journey.

BPM: How do you balance the professional, personal, and spiritual sides of your life, while pursuing your dreams? LCJ: I don’t even know if balance really exists. Balance seems to indicate there is some parity between the different parts of my life. This just doesn’t ring true for me.

What works better for me is to acknowledge all the parts exist (as a whole) and practice caring and giving each its requisite time. Some days, my professional life takes up more hours (in addition to writing, I’m a life coach and publisher) because on that day it requires it. Some days, I write for hours and other days not at all. My spiritual life is very important to me and supports all the other parts of my life, so it receives daily attention. I have days where I don’t go near my office, computer, or email. I’ve learned REST and PLAY are critical to my well-being, so I make sure to practice them regularly.

BPM: Tell us about a project that forced you to be your most innovative and creative. LCJ: There have been many. The one that comes to mind quickly is working as a substitute teacher (primarily middle school). Each day called for something that wasn’t written in the lesson plan. Working with people, throughout my career, has required constant innovation to connect on a human level.

BPM: We have to step out of our comfort zone periodically to act on our passions. Have you ever stepped out on faith and combated your worst fears? LCJ: It seems I do more of this more than I realized. Publishing Unveiled is certainly a leap of faith. Learning the business of writing/publishing is definitely outside of my comfort zone. I started a consulting business (which I still run) in 1994 and that was one of the scariest things I ever did. While I’ve dreamed of being exactly where I am right now, it still brings the need for me to stretch my “faith muscles.”

BPM: What does the phrase ‘Fail Forward’’ mean to you? LCJ: I am a believer in there being no such thing as failure. This was instilled in me early, and I was taught to use every experience as a lesson to improve for the future. “Fail Forward” means, to me, each “failure” takes you closer to your desired outcome.

BPM: What advice would you give to young people who want to follow in your footsteps? LCJ: First, I would tell them to forget about my footsteps and make their own. They’ll have so much more success this way. I would tell young people (and not so young people) not to allow themselves or others to put limits on them based on what they see. Everything I’ve ever started in my life didn’t exist before I did it. I would tell them to take a chance on themselves.

BPM: If you could pass on a single piece of advice to authors out there reading this interview, what would it be? LCJ: To do YOUR best. While inspiration is important, comparison can be detrimental to creativity. Don’t worry about how your work will be judged or received. Tell the best story you can tell.

BPM: Do you ever have days when writing is a struggle? Have you ever had to deal with rejection? LCJ: YES! And then I stop. I never want writing to feel like a struggle. Now rewriting and rewriting and rewriting is a different thing. Unveiled went through more drafts than I even want to count. I have been very fortunate that as it relates to my writing, I haven’t suffered rejection. The anthologies I submitted to accepted my work.

I attended a workshop at the United California African American Bookclubs (UCAAB) literary conference and heard author Gary Hardwick say, “Do not wait for someone to ‘approve’ your work or say ‘yes’ to you. Write your own acceptance letter.” This drove me to self-publish an e-book serial novel, Jubilee’s Journey, and co-found Ideate Publishing.

BPM: Have you written any other books that are not published? LCJ: I have at least four that are in various stages of completion that may one day be published. I have folders of other stories that haven’t been fully developed. I also have written stories just for myself that I have no plans to publish.

BPM: What projects are you working on at the present? LCJ: Unveiled is my number one priority right now and I’m working hard to ensure it has a successful launch. I am also very close to finishing a young adult novella.

BPM: How do you stay connected with others in publishing and your readers? LCJ: Right now, through social media, book events, and writers’ groups. I am a member of the San Francisco Chapter of the Women’s National Book Association and once Unveiled is published, I will increase connections with readers through book clubs and attending book conferences and conventions.

BPM: What legacy do you hope to leave future generations of readers and new writers with your writing? LCJ: I heard Maya Angelou tell Oprah Winfrey that you don’t get to say what your legacy will be. I get that. I have no idea what my legacy will be. I would like readers to have an enjoyable experience reading my work. I’d like them to travel to places they never saw themselves and think of things they’d never considered. I’d like writers to be inspired to tell their stories. I’d like for my work to live on after me.

BPM: What is your preferred method to have readers get in touch with or follow you? LCJ: Readers can email me at larhondawrites@gmail, LIKE me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/larhonda.crosbyjohnson.94or

BPM: How can readers discover more about you and your work? LCJ: Readers can get more information on Ideate Publishing’s Facebook page, http://www.facebook.com/ideatepublishing, Twitter via @IdeatePub, and my author page on Amazon.

    Unveiled by La Rhonda Crosby-Johnson “Unveiled” coming 2019...promises to become a Book Club Favorite! Attorney L. Morgan Franklin finds her well-ordered life at a prestigious New Orleans law firm, turned upside down when her half-brother, Winston, dies in their small hometown of L’Ouveture, Louisiana.

[seniorbrief]

My Father Was the BTK Killer. Here’s Why I Managed to Forgive Him.

Travis Heying/Wichita Eagle

The man knocked on Kerri Rawson’s door around noon on February 25, 2005. She looked out at him from inside her apartment near Detroit—he was holding an FBI badge.

She almost didn’t answer. Her father, a code compliance officer in Park City, a suburb of Wichita, Kansas, had taught her to be wary of strangers, and this one had sat in his car for an hour outside her home. But she decided to let the FBI agent into her kitchen, where she had made a chocolate Bundt cake. From then on, the smell of chocolate cake would make her queasy.

The man asked if she knew what BTK was. Yes, she did. BTK—Bind, Torture, Kill—was the nickname for the serial killer who had scared her mom decades ago and who was responsible for murdering ten people in Kansas between 1974 and 1991.

The FBI guy was her dad’s age, in his late 50s, wearing glasses and a necktie, nervous. Kerri was a 26-year-old substitute teacher taking a day off, still in her pajamas. The man said her dad had been arrested as a BTK Killer suspect. He needed to swab her cheek for DNA. (Here are the strangest unsolved mysteries in each state.)

At that moment, in Park City, Kerri’s mother, Paula Rader, 56, sat down to lunch at home, waiting for her husband, Dennis. Cops rushed in, guns drawn. A week later, Paula’s lunch still sat uneaten in the house she had shared with Dennis since the early 1970s. She’d never sleep there again.

Cops arrested Dennis as he was driving home for lunch. In Wichita, officers picked up family and friends for questioning. At the police station, Paula defended Dennis. Back in Detroit, Kerri yelled at the FBI agent. The last time she had seen her dad was in Park City at Christmas. He’d looked sad. She remembered his bear hug, how he smelled, his brown uniform. This could not be true, she told the man. Dad had called last night, asking if she’d checked the oil in her car.

At that point, she did something she would do many times over the next seven days: defend and then doubt her father at the same time. She told the agent about Marine Hedge. Hedge, 53, was a grandmother with a silky southern accent, five feet tall, weighing no more than 100 pounds. She’d lived six doors down from the Raders and disappeared in 1985, when Kerri was six. Hedge’s body was later found in a ditch. Paula had been fearful. “Don’t worry,” Dad had said. “We’re safe.”

Kerri remembered that when Hedge disappeared, her dad wasn’t home. “It was stormy, and I didn’t want to sleep by myself. My mom let me in her bed—that’s how I know he was gone.”

After the FBI agent left, she took down a picture of her father from the hallway and stuck it in a closet. She Googled “BTK” for proof that he was innocent but then told her husband she was matching her memories to BTK’s murder timeline, wondering if her whole life might be a lie.

The next day, police and politicians gathered in Wichita’s city hall. “BTK is arrested,” the police chief announced. Kerri was furious when she learned that to link her dad to the BTK Killer, cops had obtained one of her Pap smears taken years before at Kansas State University’s clinic. They used it to confirm that the Rader family DNA closely matched DNA in the semen that BTK left at the scene of a quadruple homicide in 1974. The FBI guy had asked Kerri for a cheek swab so he could double-check her DNA.

The first nights, Kerri and her husband, Darian, slept as if one of them needed to be on watch—she on the couch, he on the floor. TV crews camped outside, and when Darian drove to work, they followed.

Darian watched his wife change. Athletic and nearly five foot ten, she was no girlie girl, and he loved that. She could walk for days carrying a backpack. But now, she was the BTK Killer’s daughter. She even looked like her dad: same dark hair, same eyes. She shared his middle name, Lynn. She felt as if she’d done something wrong.

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

Kerri searched her memories. The night of Hedge’s murder, Dad had taken Brian, her brother, on a Boy Scout campout. Was it an alibi so he could sneak out and murder their neighbor? In 2004, around Christmas, after BTK threatened in letters to the police and news outlets that he would kill again, Dad had driven her to the airport to pick up her brother. But Dad had wandered off. Was he mailing one of those letters? Watching the news to see if he was mentioned? She minutely analyzed her whole life.

Kerri remembered how he spoke sharply if she sat in his chair or failed to put her shoes away. Cops said BTK made strange marks in his communications to them. She recalled weird marks Dad made on newspaper stories. “Code,” he’d called it.

Three days after her dad’s arrest, Kerri flew back to Kansas City. On the plane, she escaped by reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. But on her layover, she saw her father’s face on the airport’s TV screens.

Mike Clark, the family’s pastor, visited Dennis Rader in jail a week after his arrest. Clark called Paula afterward, and Kerri watched her mother take the call, with a yellow legal pad in her hand. Paula wrote, “He’s confessing,” and underlined it as they talked.

It was true. He had murdered the Oteros: a mom, a dad, and two children, ages 11 and 9. He had tortured victims, sexually defiled several. He had taken Hedge’s body inside Christ Lutheran Church, where he was congregation president. He posed her and took photos. BTK had started his crimes in 1974, before Kerri was born.

Everybody assumed the BTK Killer was a sadistic genius. But the real BTK is an ordinary, inarticulate doofus, Darian thought. And a good dad, Kerri said. With Paula, he’d taught the kids’ godliness. Kerri had two college degrees; Brian, her older brother, had been an Eagle Scout and was training to serve on U.S. Navy nuclear submarines.

Dennis couldn’t understand why no family members visited. Kerri wrote him: “You have had these secrets, this ‘double life’ for 30 years; we have only had knowledge of it for three months … We are trying to cope and survive … You lied to us, deceived us.”

The family dreaded a trial, where his crimes would be described. Dennis pleaded guilty to spare them. Kerri felt relieved until the plea hearing. Her dad told a TV audience at length how he had killed people, lingering over how he’d murdered the Otero kids. He seemed to enjoy the story. He even brought up Kerri. “Joseph Otero had a daughter; I had a daughter.”

One night the next year, while Darian slept, Kerri lay beside him and wrote her father.

“Should I tell you that I grew up adoring you, that you were the sunshine of my life … true, even if it is coming out jaded and bitter now … Sometimes I just want to go out and buy the biggest, buttery tub [of popcorn] I can find and wave it in your face and say, ‘Ha, you won’t ever have this again’ and ask was it worth it? In the next breath I want to ask if you’re staying warm at night … I’m so sorry that you’re alone in that small cold concrete cell and sometimes I just wish I could give you a hug.”

She never sent that letter. And when her dad wrote, his letters sometimes went into the trash, where she dumped cat litter on them. Other times she’d write, and he would not reply, later telling her he’d been busy.

Dennis committed his first murders at age 29. At age 29, Kerri became a mother, and suddenly she truly despised her dad. In 1974, he had killed two children. In 1977, he had strangled Shirley Vian while her six-year-old son watched through a keyhole. In 1986, he killed Vicki Wegerle as her two-year-old stood in a playpen. “Man hurt Mommy,” the child told police. Kerri stopped writing to her father and cut him out of her life.

Sue Parker, a therapist, treated Kerri for five months in 2007. Parker saw a woman with above-average intelligence, poise, and post-traumatic stress. (Kerri gave permission for Parker to be interviewed for this story.) Many factors determine how well people can recover. “It’s about the severity of the trauma and how long it goes on, but it also depends on the coping mechanisms the victims have … their support system, who they have around them,” Parker said.

Kerri had had good people around all her life, Parker thought. A loving husband. Church. Friends. And good parents. Not just Mom. Dad too.

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

The cops said Dennis Rader fancied himself a James Bond character with cover stories—Boy Scout volunteer, congregation president. But the BTK Killer had also been a good dad, Parker said. “Maybe it was all a cover story,” she added. “But if it was, it was a cover story that actually worked.”

While betrayed on a level only God can understand, Parker said, Kerri seemed healthy and strong when she left Parker’s care. After her daughter, Emilie, was born, Kerri clung to teachings about God’s love. But when a sermon on forgiveness was announced at church, she stayed away. She had a second child, Ian, in 2011, but her dad’s betrayals kept poisoning her life. When Emilie was five, she asked her mother where her grandfather was.

“In a long time-out,” Kerri replied.

Could Kerri see him? Emilie asked.

“It’s a really long time-out,” Kerri answered.

One day at church, Darian and Kerri listened to a woman describe being raped. She said she forgave not to help the rapist, but to lighten her own suffering. Kerri talked about that idea for days. In August 2012, she announced at church that her father was a serial killer and told her story. “I have not forgiven him,” she said. Marijo Swanson, a friend, talked to her. “If we choose not to forgive or not work at healing from the betrayal,” she told Kerri, “we continue to give the other person power to control us and our feelings.”

That fall, Kerri suffered a fracture in her tibia. She was laid up for weeks. Shortly afterward, forgiveness poured over her one day. She sobbed so hard while driving that she had to pull the car over. The anger was gone. In December, Kerri wrote to her dad for the first time in five years. She told him she would never forget his crimes or be at peace with them, but she was at peace with the man who had raised her. Then she wrote of her life and of the grandchildren he would never meet. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to make it for a visit but know that I love you and hope to see you in heaven someday.”

After that letter, Kerri changed. “Before she forgave him, she thought of herself as BTK’s daughter,” Darian said later. “But as soon as she forgave him, she was Kerri again.”

In February 2013, Kerri spoke at church. “[God] told me, ‘You have a dad problem; you have a trust and obedience problem. You trusted and obeyed your earthly father, and he hurt you, so now you’re holding out on me. Let’s fix that.’”

She said, “I told Him that ‘I love you.’ He said, ‘Then show me.’”

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

And so she had done it, she told them. She had forgiven him. She wrote again to her father, telling him once more that she forgave him. Her father was stunned. “Forgiveness is there between the lines,” he wrote in his rambling style. “She recalls all that we did as a family—many good memories, and that helps her make the day. That is true love from a daughter’s heart. What else can a father ask for.”

That was not the end to Kerri’s struggles. In September 2013, Stephen King said in a TV interview that he’d written a story inspired by the Rader family called “A Good Marriage,” about discovering a monster in the house. Furious, Kerri gave her own interview, lashing out at King. Among people giving her rave reviews: Dad.

“She reminds me of me,” he wrote to the Wichita Eagle. “Independence, fearless, uses the media. I was touch[ed] by it … People reading … will see we had a ‘good Family.’ Nothing to hide; Only me with my ‘Dark Secrets.’ Like she said, I was a good Dad, (but only did bad things).”

Memories came back to Kerri. In 1996, the Raders had lost a cousin to a car wreck and were losing a grandfather to illness. To comfort the family, her mom made manicotti, but the Raders got into a fight at dinner. “We had this old rickety table and someone—I don’t remember who—pounded on it, and the legs broke and all the dinner came crashing down … My dad was so angry at my brother, he put his hands around my brother’s neck and started to try to choke him. I can still picture it clearly, and I can see the intense anger in my dad’s face and eyes. Close to manic.”

For Kerri, life continued to be complicated. “I fight my dad sometimes in my dreams, never understanding who let him out of prison,” she said. “I’m always very fearful of him and very angry in my dreams. Sometimes I’m even fighting for my life or frantically trying to convince others of the truth.”

On a bitter morning in January 2015, Kerri is in Wichita. “Coming back here to Wichita is like stepping into enemy territory,” she says. She wonders whether people might recognize her, and she talks about forgiveness. “I feel bad for the 30 years of … bad things because of one man, my dad … I forgave him. But I didn’t do that for him,” she says. “I did it for me.”

She returns to her old block and points. “There’s my grandma’s house, and there’s where Mrs. Hedge lived … And here is where our house was.”

It is a vacant lot. The city razed the house to discourage gawkers. “To get to my grandma’s house, I had to walk past Mrs. Hedge’s house, and now [at age six] I was afraid. And the guy who killed her was living in our house.”

She shows where a tree house stood, built by her dad. She indicates with her arms how big his garden had been. “He turned my bedroom into a nursery for plants when I was three, and I’d sleep with my brother in the bunk bed. I was so annoyed with my dad. But now you realize that kept him out of trouble. He was trying to stop. So it was plants—or murder.”

She points to a depression in the grass: the grave of Patches, a pet dog long dead. The cops were so suspicious of the BTK Killer that they had dug up the dog’s remains to see whether BTK had buried any secrets with them. He had not.

But nothing about her life was spared, Kerri says. Not even the graves of long-dead dogs.

Next, find out the most notorious criminals in each state.

Original Source -> My Father Was the BTK Killer. Here’s Why I Managed to Forgive Him.

source https://www.seniorbrief.com/my-father-was-the-btk-killer-heres-why-i-managed-to-forgive-him/

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Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van.

Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van. Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van. http://www.nature-business.com/nature-they-were-seeking-mental-health-care-instead-they-drowned-in-a-sheriffs-van/

Nature

Image

Route 76 in Nichols, S.C., near where a van taking two women to a mental health facility was overtaken by floodwaters on Tuesday. Both women drowned.CreditCreditJohnny Milano for The New York Times

MULLINS, S.C. — Nicolette Green had decided to get better. The medication she was taking to treat her schizophrenia had calmed her and cleared her head. On Tuesday morning, her oldest daughter, Rose, with whom she had spent the weekend waiting out Hurricane Florence, drove her to her regular counseling session.

A new therapist saw Ms. Green, 43, that day. And within a half-hour of evaluating her, he wanted her committed, said Donnela Green-Johnson, Ms. Green’s sister.

After hours of filling out paperwork, Ms. Green said goodbye to her daughter. She told Rose that this was a good thing, that she would be O.K., that they would soon all be a happy family again watching movies together at home.

Then Rose watched, troubled, as sheriff’s deputies patted her mother down and put her in a van to take her to a hospital almost two hours away. Rose, 19, recalled the deputies having handcuffs out when they frisked her mother, though she did not know if they put them on.

Sometime that evening, the van, carrying Ms. Green and Wendy Newton, another woman being transported to a mental health facility, was overtaken by the flooding waters of the Pee Dee River. The two sheriff’s deputies in the van managed to get out, said Sheriff Phillip E. Thompson of Horry County in a Wednesday afternoon news conference. The women did not.

By the time emergency workers arrived by boat and found the deputies on the van’s roof, it was too dark to dive. The van, with Ms. Green and Ms. Newton inside, remained in the waters by Highway 76 overnight. Their bodies were recovered Wednesday evening.

For the families of the two dead women, there was one big question: How could the state take someone in, ostensibly to make her better, to protect her even from herself — and then let her drown by the side of a highway?

“Why the hell would they leave a safe, dry area to go to God knows what?” asked Allison Newton, Wendy Newton’s daughter. “Something feels wrong about this.”

Image

Nicolette Green, seated, in an undated photo with two of her daughters, Erica, left, and Rose.CreditCourtesy of Donnela Green-Johnson

Officials on Wednesday said the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division and the sheriff’s department were conducting investigations. The two deputies — Joshua Bishop, who has been on the force for six years, and Stephen Flood, who has been on the force for 10 — have been put on administrative leave.

“They got out and tried to get the ladies out,” Sheriff Thompson said. He was not sure how long they tried — possibly 45 minutes. They may have struggled because of the way the van was positioned against the guardrail or because of the pressure of the water on the doors.

The women were not being evacuated from floodwaters. They were both being taken from hospitals, where they had come voluntarily, to mental health facilities, where they had been committed. At the news conference, Sheriff Thompson said that his department had been responding to a court order to transport the women. On Wednesday, family members said they had heard nothing about any orders.

It is routine, and required under state law, for law enforcement to transport people who are involuntarily committed and who are determined by a physician “as posing an imminent risk of harm to him or herself by virtue of mental illness,” according to a statement from the state Department of Mental Health. It was unclear to the families whether the women had expressed an intent to harm themselves or anyone else.

The sheriff did not think the women were in restraints when they drowned, as early reports indicated. Restraining patients was not typical, he said, “if they’re not combative or having issues and I understand they were not.” But he could not say for sure.

The deputies also apparently drove onto a road that was blocked off because of flooding. The sheriff could not account for why they would have done that.

On Tuesday morning, Wendy Newton, 45, told her mother she could tell she was about to have what she called “a spell,” according to Ms. Newton’s daughter Allison. Ms. Newton asked to be taken to McLeod Hospital in Loris, S.C. An ambulance soon arrived to pick her up.

This was not unusual. Ms. Newton, a mother of three who lived in coastal North Carolina, had wrestled for the last dozen years with severe mental illness, Allison said. She had been in hospitals at times, but the family always knew where she was, or if she was being moved somewhere else.

They heard nothing on Tuesday night. Late Wednesday morning, Allison’s sister Abigail called the hospital to check in.

Image

Wendy Newton in a recent photo with her grandson, Leighton Sellers.CreditCourtesy of Allison Newton

It was only then that the family learned that Ms. Newton had drowned. They were not told much and turned to the news for details. They heard on news reports, for instance, that Ms. Newton may have died in handcuffs.

“Why would they chain her and another lady to the back of a truck?” Allison asked. “Why didn’t they tell us she was being transported? Why were they going through floodwaters knowing how dangerous it’s been?”

“That’s my mother,” she said.

The other woman, Ms. Green, had struggled with mental health issues since her teenage years.

Nikki, as she was called, grew up in central Pennsylvania. When her parents retired, they moved south for the weather, to a house in Myrtle Beach, about a mile in from the shore.

The family all stayed together, moving as a unit. Ms. Green had physical ailments, too, some of which led to seizures, making it hard to stay at a job. She loved working with children but worried that she could be holding a child when a seizure struck. She did not want to drive, either, given the dangers to her and others if she were to have a seizure behind the wheel.

Ms. Green had married and divorced, and she had four children — two girls, Rose and Erica, and two boys, Gad, who is now in kindergarten, and Otto, who died three years ago of bone cancer. He was 7 years old.

Everyone lived in the house in Myrtle Beach: Ms. Green, her parents and her children, all taking care of one another. “It was sort of symbiotic I guess,” Ms. Green-Johnson said.

When Hurricane Florence came, they split up: Erica, 17, took her grandfather far inland, so he would not lose the electricity necessary for his oxygen machine; Gad and his grandmother joined Donnela at her house; Rose and Nikki stayed together. The medication she had recently started taking for her schizophrenia seemed to be working, “opened her eyes,” Ms. Green-Johnson said, making that time all the richer.

“They had a hurricane party kind of thing there, the two of them,” she said. “They were really reconnecting, getting much closer than they had been.”

On Sunday, after the storm had passed, the family had all been reunited. On Monday, things were back to normal. On Tuesday, Ms. Green had her counseling appointment. And that night, Ms. Green’s sister heard on the news about a van, lost in the floodwaters.

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/19/us/women-drown-van-south-carolina-floods.html |

Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van., in 2018-09-20 00:45:07

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Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van.

Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van. Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van. http://www.nature-business.com/nature-they-were-seeking-mental-health-care-instead-they-drowned-in-a-sheriffs-van/

Nature

Image

Route 76 in Nichols, S.C., near where a van taking two women to a mental health facility was overtaken by floodwaters on Tuesday. Both women drowned.CreditCreditJohnny Milano for The New York Times

MULLINS, S.C. — Nicolette Green had decided to get better. The medication she was taking to treat her schizophrenia had calmed her and cleared her head. On Tuesday morning, her oldest daughter, Rose, with whom she had spent the weekend waiting out Hurricane Florence, drove her to her regular counseling session.

A new therapist saw Ms. Green, 43, that day. And within a half-hour of evaluating her, he wanted her committed, said Donnela Green-Johnson, Ms. Green’s sister.

After hours of filling out paperwork, Ms. Green said goodbye to her daughter. She told Rose that this was a good thing, that she would be O.K., that they would soon all be a happy family again watching movies together at home.

Then Rose watched, troubled, as sheriff’s deputies patted her mother down and put her in a van to take her to a hospital almost two hours away. Rose, 19, recalled the deputies having handcuffs out when they frisked her mother, though she did not know if they put them on.

Sometime that evening, the van, carrying Ms. Green and Wendy Newton, another woman being transported to a mental health facility, was overtaken by the flooding waters of the Pee Dee River. The two sheriff’s deputies in the van managed to get out, said Sheriff Phillip E. Thompson of Horry County in a Wednesday afternoon news conference. The women did not.

By the time emergency workers arrived by boat and found the deputies on the van’s roof, it was too dark to dive. The van, with Ms. Green and Ms. Newton inside, remained in the waters by Highway 76 overnight. Their bodies were recovered Wednesday evening.

For the families of the two dead women, there was one big question: How could the state take someone in, ostensibly to make her better, to protect her even from herself — and then let her drown by the side of a highway?

“Why the hell would they leave a safe, dry area to go to God knows what?” asked Allison Newton, Wendy Newton’s daughter. “Something feels wrong about this.”

Image

Nicolette Green, seated, in an undated photo with two of her daughters, Erica, left, and Rose.CreditCourtesy of Donnela Green-Johnson

Officials on Wednesday said the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division and the sheriff’s department were conducting investigations. The two deputies — Joshua Bishop, who has been on the force for six years, and Stephen Flood, who has been on the force for 10 — have been put on administrative leave.

“They got out and tried to get the ladies out,” Sheriff Thompson said. He was not sure how long they tried — possibly 45 minutes. They may have struggled because of the way the van was positioned against the guardrail or because of the pressure of the water on the doors.

The women were not being evacuated from floodwaters. They were both being taken from hospitals, where they had come voluntarily, to mental health facilities, where they had been committed. At the news conference, Sheriff Thompson said that his department had been responding to a court order to transport the women. On Wednesday, family members said they had heard nothing about any orders.

It is routine, and required under state law, for law enforcement to transport people who are involuntarily committed and who are determined by a physician “as posing an imminent risk of harm to him or herself by virtue of mental illness,” according to a statement from the state Department of Mental Health. It was unclear to the families whether the women had expressed an intent to harm themselves or anyone else.

The sheriff did not think the women were in restraints when they drowned, as early reports indicated. Restraining patients was not typical, he said, “if they’re not combative or having issues and I understand they were not.” But he could not say for sure.

The deputies also apparently drove onto a road that was blocked off because of flooding. The sheriff could not account for why they would have done that.

On Tuesday morning, Wendy Newton, 45, told her mother she could tell she was about to have what she called “a spell,” according to Ms. Newton’s daughter Allison. Ms. Newton asked to be taken to McLeod Hospital in Loris, S.C. An ambulance soon arrived to pick her up.

This was not unusual. Ms. Newton, a mother of three who lived in coastal North Carolina, had wrestled for the last dozen years with severe mental illness, Allison said. She had been in hospitals at times, but the family always knew where she was, or if she was being moved somewhere else.

They heard nothing on Tuesday night. Late Wednesday morning, Allison’s sister Abigail called the hospital to check in.

Image

Wendy Newton in a recent photo with her grandson, Leighton Sellers.CreditCourtesy of Allison Newton

It was only then that the family learned that Ms. Newton had drowned. They were not told much and turned to the news for details. They heard on news reports, for instance, that Ms. Newton may have died in handcuffs.

“Why would they chain her and another lady to the back of a truck?” Allison asked. “Why didn’t they tell us she was being transported? Why were they going through floodwaters knowing how dangerous it’s been?”

“That’s my mother,” she said.

The other woman, Ms. Green, had struggled with mental health issues since her teenage years.

Nikki, as she was called, grew up in central Pennsylvania. When her parents retired, they moved south for the weather, to a house in Myrtle Beach, about a mile in from the shore.

The family all stayed together, moving as a unit. Ms. Green had physical ailments, too, some of which led to seizures, making it hard to stay at a job. She loved working with children but worried that she could be holding a child when a seizure struck. She did not want to drive, either, given the dangers to her and others if she were to have a seizure behind the wheel.

Ms. Green had married and divorced, and she had four children — two girls, Rose and Erica, and two boys, Gad, who is now in kindergarten, and Otto, who died three years ago of bone cancer. He was 7 years old.

Everyone lived in the house in Myrtle Beach: Ms. Green, her parents and her children, all taking care of one another. “It was sort of symbiotic I guess,” Ms. Green-Johnson said.

When Hurricane Florence came, they split up: Erica, 17, took her grandfather far inland, so he would not lose the electricity necessary for his oxygen machine; Gad and his grandmother joined Donnela at her house; Rose and Nikki stayed together. The medication she had recently started taking for her schizophrenia seemed to be working, “opened her eyes,” Ms. Green-Johnson said, making that time all the richer.

“They had a hurricane party kind of thing there, the two of them,” she said. “They were really reconnecting, getting much closer than they had been.”

On Sunday, after the storm had passed, the family had all been reunited. On Monday, things were back to normal. On Tuesday, Ms. Green had her counseling appointment. And that night, Ms. Green’s sister heard on the news about a van, lost in the floodwaters.

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/19/us/women-drown-van-south-carolina-floods.html |

Nature They Were Seeking Mental Health Care. Instead They Drowned in a Sheriff’s Van., in 2018-09-20 00:45:07