#being seen as something defective that needs fixing instead of a child that needs support etc etc

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Having thoughts

[wri0thesley]

I know this topic abounds but ... can I get Bruno and a s / o chubby? 🥺 s / o he had been insecure about himself throughout his life, but in recent months he has become more confident in himself and begins to truly shine, the change is noticeable. Bruno is happy for them, but he begins to think ... "and if he now he gets something better than me? Someone who gives him a normal life" does not want to have that thought but he can not get it out of his mind

beneath the cut: bruno x chubby masc reader, body insecurity, light angst on bruno’s part!

♡ Bruno’s the kind of person who notices a person’s smile and their eyes and the lilt of their voice before he notices anything else - and honestly, when he does notice that his future boyfriend is a little softer than average around the edges, it’s absolutely not a deal-breaker. He notices beauty in small things - and the fact that his future boyfriend has soft arms and a round face and a stomach a little bigger than average doesn’t bother him. He can’t help but imagine how soft and warm they’d feel when he enveloped them in his embrace - and if he notices, too, that there’s insecurity fraying at the edges he’s even more charmed by it. Bruno thinks he’s incredibly handsome - and the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice just how handsome he is makes Bruno smile. Bruno needs to introduce himself, to get a date - and Bruno, handsome and charming and already falling a little bit in love with them, gets it. 

♡ Bruno is quick to kiss away any insecurities and reassure his boyfriend that he’s handsome, that he’s perfect, that Bruno adores him body and soul. He’s proud to be seen with him on his arm - he buys him clothes so the two of them can match, rests his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, laughs and takes photographs. He does eventually tell him about his profession, afraid that it’s going to turn him away - but s/o nods, slowly, processing it. “I should have figured it would be something like that,” he says, but he tangles his fingers with Bruno’s anyway. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you. You make me feel whole.” Bruno’s insides feel like they could simply combust with happiness, but he settles for a slightly too manic smile and a drag of his boyfriend out to go and do something chaotic and fun to celebrate how much the two love one another. 

♡ Bruno notices little changes in his s/o as time goes on. He doesn’t seem to shy away from things that cling to his body more - he’s more likely to smile at strangers, to talk to new people. Fear no longer seems to stoop his shoulders and he stands straight up and has the strength in him to answer back when before he meeky accepted his lot. Bruno is so proud of him - and he’s more proud when his s/o squeezes his fingers and gives him a smile, and murmurs softly that it’s because of Bruno’s adoration.  

♡ He doesn’t realise what else comes with the territory until he notices someone else in a cafe checking out his boyfriend. Bruno and him are getting some gelato together, when Bruno sees the man opposite’s eyes travel up and down his boyfriend’s body - when he approaches, to ask for a number and flirt. Bruno feels his bones turn to ice even as his boyfriend laughs and motions at him, bashfully saying that he’s already taken. Because . . . perhaps Bruno is weighing him down? If he went with this man, instead - dated him and kissed him and loved him - he would not be in the line of fire of the mafia if anything went wrong. He would not have to fear for his life if Bruno defected, or even fear that perhaps Bruno would never come home again. Bruno feels the creeping taste that he’s selfish on his tongue, hot and sour. He goes a little quiet for the rest of the night, and when his boyfriend tries to give him a kiss that evening Bruno murmurs softly; “Not today. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

♡ His boyfriend notices that he seems kind of off, but he can’t see what’s going on in Bruno’s head. The constant warring that perhaps it would be kinder to break up, to let him live his life free of Bruno’s shadow. But then he does something that Bruno loves - laughs and throws his head back, cracks a joke that only he would make, brings Bruno breakfast in bed - and Bruno falls in love all over again. It doesn’t mean that his fears go away, though - and it doesn’t mean that his boyfriend doesn’t notice. Bruno has a tendency to hole things up because he thinks he should be the strong one. He’s so used to being the pillar for his gang that it’s only natural that he says nothing to his s/o--

♡ But his s/o knows him too well. It comes to a head when he sits Bruno down and fixes him with a calm, stern look - a look learned by watching Bruno for so long. As he tells Bruno to let go of what he’s worrying about - he’ll be there, he’ll support him, he just needs to know to help. And Bruno does not want to burden him with his problems but his eyes are so kind and he loves him so much - so out comes the fear that he is ruining his boyfriend’s life. That his boyfriend deserves a normal existence, that he shouldn’t have to be in fear - and through it all, he listens to Bruno with a troubled look on his face, even as Bruno finds that he’s started crying. 

♡ Arms wrap around Bruno and he’s pulled into the comforting softness of his boyfriend’s embrace, softly soothed like a child - it’s so different, to be the one getting the comfort. His boyfriend murmurs how much he’s improved their life, how he wouldn’t be shining this brightly if it wasn’t for Bruno. He kisses Bruno’s cheek and tells him that he knows the life Bruno lives is dangerous, and that he’s in danger for being involved - but he loves Bruno enough to not care, and if Bruno loves and respects him, he’ll let him make his own choices. The two of them stay curled up together on the sofa until the early dawn light, embracing, holding, loving one another. It doesn’t bring an end to either of their worries. But it’s a good start. 

[colehasapen]

As a prompt: "It has long been impressed into Anakin Skywalker's mind that if something goes wrong, he should call Obi-Wan. As a result, after Palpatine reveals that he was the secret Sith lord all along, Anakin comms Obi-Wan while incoherently screaming. Obi-Wan goes 'Anakin calm down, tell me what's wrong, and we'll think about this for more than five seconds.' the result of this is the saving of the galaxy."

For as long as Anakin had been a Jedi, Obi-Wan had been watching his student’s back, has been doing his best to be what the younger man needs. He had made sure Anakin had known since he was nine years old - too small but too old, too quiet but too loud, a Freed slave who didn’t know what being Free meant - that he would drop everything to help him if he needed him, that he’d be there to support him no matter how unimportant the matter seemed to be. Obi-Wan knows too well the pain of being brushed off by the person he was supposed to be able to lean on, remembers the words that had never been meant to be uncaring but never seemed to care enough.

Obi-Wan had never wanted Anakin to feel the same, but he can’t help but feel like he failed.

He used to call for the smallest of things, the most minor of things, things that made his classmates give him weird looks for needing his master for something like not knowing what to pick for lunch, but as he’d gotten older, Anakin had pulled away from him, almost aggressively at times. Obi-Wan had promised him that he was there if he wanted to talk, but Anakin never reached out, never took the hand that was being offered to him.

Sometimes, Obi-Wan had worried that he never would again, that their relationship was too damaged by misunderstandings and miscommunications to be fixed. The Clone Wars had brought them back together, had led to them becoming closer than they had ever been before, but it had also made their differences painfully possible. He hopes that, with the impending end to the War, that maybe they’d be able to bridge those differences, as equals instead of Master and Padawan, or High General and General. Stepping down from the Council will make him more approachable, hopefully, and maybe they’ll be able to be honest with each other.

After the War. He casts his mind to his troopers, who will be able to be free once the War is no longer dragging down any bill brought to the Senate. To Cody, who will no longer be his subordinate, who will be free to live and laugh and love however he pleases, like he and all his siblings deserve. They’ll be able to see a Galaxy without constant battle, to discover things about themselves they never could with the threat of the Senate and Kamino breathing down their necks.

Maybe Ahsoka will return, like she had expressed an interest in during their last conversation. Maybe Anakin will finally come clean about the nature of his relationship with Padme, and will no longer feel the need to hide a part of himself.

Maybe they’ll all be able to just be free.

It’s a sweet thought that powers him through the bad days.

They’re already so close to the end, Dooku is dead, and the Seperatist Senate is collapsing, most of its members defecting to return to the Republic. With ARC Trooper Echo’s rescue from the Techno Union, they had lost a valuable resource, and the droids couldn’t keep up with the Trooper’s knowledge of their movements and tactics. It’s almost over, all Obi-Wan has to do is defeat General Grievous, and they’ll be able to bring the remaining leaders in for negotiations - not even the strongest voices for war in the Senate will be able to continue the fighting if there was no one left to fight.

They just have to defeat Grievous here, then they can turn their attention to finding the Sith Lord, and if Ahsoka can capture Maul, then they have a perfect way to learn their identity.

He’s just running Cody and lieutenants through the final branch of their plan of attack, when his comm chimes, and, absently, Obi-Wan answers it, wondering if its command with more intel. “This is Kenobi.”

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin’s voice wobbles over the comm, like it had back when he was a child, and didn’t know what to do when confronted with a choice between milk and juice at breakfast. He sounds young - young and scared in the way that he hadn’t allowed himself to sound since he had turned sixteen and started pulling away from Obi-Wan.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan straightens, turning away from the holotable, feeling Cody’s worried eyes drilling into the back of his head. “What’s wrong, dear one?”

“I-” Anakin stutters slightly, sounding close to tears, and Obi-Wan wishes desperately that he was on Coruscant so that he could comfort the young man, “- Obi-Wan, the Chancellor - he’s -” Anakin is quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is pitched lower, like he’s desperately trying to control his breathing or like he was sharing a dark secret, “- he’s the Sith Lord.”

Behind him, Cody and his men go deathly still.

Obi-Wan’s heart drops. “He’s the what?” He breathes in shock, mind rolling in his head as he tries to connect Anakin’s dear friend, the leader of the Republic, with the shadowy Sith Lord. He hadn’t listened - Dooku had warned him. He had been told that the Sith Lord was in the Senate, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe him, had thought it was just another mind game so soon after he had taunted him with Qui-Gon. “Anakin - are you alright?”

He had let him be around his Padawan. Around his Grandpadawan.

“He told me.” Anakin says shakily, “He - he said that there were ways to keep people from dying - skills that only Sith knew. He told me a story about Darth Plegueis - there’s no records of a Sith by that name ever existing in history.”

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan says pointedly, and he glances over his shoulder to see Cody rapidly typing into his own comm. “Where are you?”

“At the Temple.” His former Padawan murmurs, “Master Windu’s taken a team to arrest the - the Sith Lord.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan forces himself to breathe past his own nervousness, releasing his fear into the Force and embracing the calmness it brought him, the clarity. “Okay, breathe, Ani. Who did Master Windu take?”

“Masters Fisto, Kolar, and Tiin.” Four of the best swordsmen in the Order, all on one team to confront the Sith Lord. Obi-Wan prays to the Force that they’ll be enough. “Master. He - he said that he could help me save Padme.”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrow, confusion bubbling up past his alarm, “What’s happened to Padme?” She had been fine the last time he had seen her, glowing with pregnancy and excited to travel back to the Naberrie home on Naboo to give birth to her children. Her Force signature had been strong and bright, as had the life forces of her babies. He had even asked Sabe to pass on his wishes of good health the last they spoke.

“She’s - I’ve been having dreams again Master -” Obi-Wan’s stomach drops again, he remembers too well that painful week of Anakin’s nightmares about his mother’s death. He had urged his Padawan to meditate on them, the last time, as his Padawan had never before shown much of a connection to the cosmic Force, or any predisposition for visions, hoping that he’d be able to help him learn to differentiate nightmares from true visions. But then their mission to protect Senator Amidala had happened, which had led him to Kamino and Anakin to Naboo, and they’d never gotten the chance to really study the root of Anakin’s dreams.

Anakin had screamed himself hoarse afterwards, blaming Obi-Wan for his mother’s death, telling him that if he had just listened to him, than she would still be alive. It had driven them even further apart.

“Anakin-”

“She’s pregnant, Master.” Anakin interrupts in a rush, “And I’ve been dreaming of it - her dying.”

“Ani-”

“And you can’t say that they’re just dreams! They’re real! And Chancellor Palpatine says that he can save her.”

“Anakin, I need you to take a deep breath, to center yourself.” Obi-Wan keeps his voice soft and soothing, and he can hear Anakin’s breathing slowing the longer they speak. “Please, think through this rationally. People don’t die of childbirth on Core Worlds, nor do they on Naboo. The last time I spoke to her, Padme was strong, as were her children, the Force is strong with them, healthy. Save foul play, nothing should happen to her.” Anakin’s breath shivers, “Ani, listen to me. Nothing Palpatine can offer you would be worth what you’d lose. You’re strong, Padme is strong, your children are strong. Trust me. Trust Padme. Trust yourself.”

“I -” His former Padawan stutters for a second, “- children?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan says slowly, patiently - anything to pull the younger Jedi from the spiral he had fallen into. “You didn’t know?”

“How did you?” Anakin asks incredulously, and Obi-Wan huffs out a slight laugh.

“They’re strong in the Force.” Behind him, Cody waves to catch his attention, gesturing to the holotable, and Obi-Wan lets out a breath. “Anakin, listen to me. Master Ti should still be in the Healing Halls, go to her, tell her what Palpatine told you. She’ll send Shadows to help defeat the Sith Lord. Soon I’ll have Grievous, and the War will be over. I have to go now, but I swear to you, I’ll comm you as soon as the battle is over.”

“Okay.” Anakin breathes, “Alright. Be safe, Master.”

“The Force is with you Anakin.” Obi-Wan promises, “Trust in it, and trust in yourself. I’ll see you soon.”

Taglist: @a-mediocre-succulent @yellowisharo @spoofymcgee @roseofalderaan @everything-or-anything

[giftedsupport]

Re-parenting yourself

Lots of gifted kids have childhood wounds from bullies, teachers, and adults who harmed their self-esteem. Lots of us also had parents and teachers who didn’t fully understand how to nurture the gifted children in their care. Furthermore, studies have shown that gifted children suffer more from childhood emotional abuse and neglect--but are also capable of healing more quickly and fully when given the tools to do it. You can re-parent yourself and heal the wounds of your childhood! If you’ve seen me talking about reparenting and fixing the mistakes of our own parents on previous posts, this one explains how to actually do that reparenting. What follows are passages from The Tao of Fully Feeling by Pete Walker, an excellent source on recovering from childhood abuse. Under a cut because long post is long.

Self-compassionate reparenting is a term I have coined to describe my approach to remothering and refathering the inner child. When we practice self-compassionate reparenting, we identify and provide for the unmet needs of our childhood so that we can grow into more complete, life-loving human beings.

...Many survivors are uncomfortable with the concept of the inner child because they were forced at an early age to become miniature adults and to hate their childlike characteristics... Survivors who do not like their inner children, or children in general for that matter, are often those who were not liked as children.

Many of us were so traumatized for being and acting childlike that we had to move from toddlerhood to adulthood in astoundingly brief periods of time. Various combinations of shame, punishment, and abandonment forced us to forfeit childhood and to act like grown-ups even before we were ready for school.

...When a child is not allowed to be a child, she abandons her child-self and banishes it to her unconscious and tries to behave like an adult. Many of us find it difficult to get an authentic sense of our inner child because that part of ourselves is still hiding somewhere out of awareness... The child-self often stays sequestered in the unconscious because the adult survivor, like his [abusers], reviles it whenever it emerges into awareness seeking help or attention. ...Self-compassionate reparenting begins with the decision to love our inner children and protect them from self-abuse.

...We will focus here primarily on the emotional tasks of the reparenter. These constellate around two crucial goals: the recovery and ongoing development of our inborn sense of self-acceptance, and the reestablishment and strengthening of our instinctive sense of self-protection. ...[These are] the two key processes of emotional caretaking:  unconditional love and unrelenting self-protection (which has its roots in the emotion of anger).

...

Reparenting begins with forgiving the inner child. It sometimes seems outlandish to me that we need to forgive the children in us who were so innocent and undeserving of blame. What a cruel irony that we need to forgive the blameless, yet we must let our inner children know that we forgive them because, like our [abusers], we have been blaming since time immemorial. ...Forgiving our inner children is a powerful avenue into self-forgiveness. In the words of self-esteem guru Nathaniel Branden:

When we learn to forgive the child we once were, for what he or she didn’t know, or couldn’t do, or couldn’t cope with, or felt or didn’t feel; when we understand and accept that child was struggling to survive the best way he or she could--then the adult self is no longer in adversarial relationship to the child-self. One part is not at war with another.

Our inner child’s heart, broken by a dearth of compassionate [acceptance], begins to heal when we turn inward with unconditional love and forgiveness. We add substance to this [loving self-parenting] by offering the child ongoing tenderness, listening, affection, and unconditional love. Consistency in such practice is what allows our inner child to feel truly forgiven.

We also enhance forgiveness by championing our inner child in a parental way. We do this by using anger and blame to fight off internal or external aggression. Such actions prove to the child that she is not only forgiven, but also no longer subject to unfair blame.

The efficacy of our reparenting is further enhanced by providing our inner children [with] verbal, spiritual, and emotional nurturance... When we give our inner children love, understanding, and protection consistently over time, they begin to shed their horrible burdens of fear, shame, and emptiness. 

As we become more successful in resisting the shaming and terrorizing attacks of our internalized critical parents, our inner children begin to feel safe enough to come forth in all their vital wonder and beauty. Normal qualities of human existence that like joy, peacefulness, friendliness, spontaneity, and playfulness naturally begin to reemerge as we master the practice of reparenting.

Talking to and for the inner child

We heal ourselves with self-protection when we use our anger and blame to challenge inner messages of shame and self-hate. Speaking up in a protective way for the inner child makes it safe enough for her to once again inhabit consciousness. ...If I [realize that I] have numbly repeated the lies and shamings of old authority figures, I apologize to [my inner child] and recommit to eliminating this old self-destructive habit.

I usually supplement my self-protection with the kind of love that feeds self-esteem with positive and supportive statements. I imagine my inner child sitting on my lap or resting in my heart. I remind him that he is absolutely and eminently lovable just as he is. And then I soothe him with words of this nature:

I love to have you near me. You are such a joy to me. I love it when you talk to me and tell me how it is for you. I want to hear everything you have to say. I want to be the one person you can always come to whenever you need help. You can come to me when you are hurting, when you just want company, or when you want to play. You are always welcome. You are a delight to my eyes, and I always enjoy having you around. You are a good child, very special and absolutely worthy of love, respect, and all good things. I am so proud of you and so glad that you are alive. I will help you in any way that I can. I want to be the loving mom and dad you were so unfairly deprived of, and that you so much deserve. And I want you to know that I have an especially loving place in my heart for you when you are scared or sad or mad or ashamed. You can always come to me and tell me about such feelings, and I will be with you and try to soothe you until those feelings run their natural course. I want to become your best friend and I will always try to protect you from unfairness and humiliation. I will also seek friends for you who genuinely like you and who are truly on your side. We will only befriend people who are fair, who treat us with equality and respect, and who listen to us as much as we listen to them. I want to help you learn that it really is good to have needs and desires. It’s wonderful that you have feelings. It’s healthy to be mad and sad and scared and depressed at times. It’s natural to make mistakes. And it’s okay to feel good too, and even to have more fun than mom and dad did.

...I reassure him that I will never allow anyone to abuse [or bully] him again. No one will be allowed to slap him with a hand or with words. I remind him that I have a healthy anger now that can be summoned up to ward off, or “write off”, abusers.

When we consistently give our inner children this kind of support, we suffer less and less paralysis from toxic shame. We become skilled at transforming the inverted anger of self-hatred into a defense against [our internalized bullies]. [Our abusers’] rulership of our psyches gradually dissipates, and we are able to treat normal mistakes as learning experiences rather than as proof of our defectiveness. The demon of perfectionism loses its grip on our psyches, and we begin to cherish our differences and imperfections as the unique treasures of character and being they are. 

I have been so healed through this process that I now value many things about myself that were formerly perpetual sources of shame... What I used to disparage as “my moodiness” now strikes me as emotional richness and flexibility. My need for considerable introversion, which used to be my all-time greatest defect, has now become the much appreciated matrix of my rich inner life. My “streak shooting” in basketball no longer sends me down the drain of toxic shame, although I will probably always prefer the hot streaks to the cold ones. Moreover, I can now savor my few remaining addictions: nonstop gum-chewing, long telephone conversations, daily grilled cheese sandwiches, writing with ink in books, and crying at sentimental movies.

I can also graciously accept the moans that I occasionally evoke in others via my habit of telling bad jokes. Even my feelings of inferiority about my appearance have almost totally vanished. I now really like the imperfections that for many years made me feel so ugly that I wouldn’t dare approach the opposite sex. ...And perhaps best of all, I now frequently hear a voice that automatically says “I love you” instead of “nice going, klutz” whenever I accidentally drop or bump into something.

I have also noticed that since my inner critic lost its job as boss of my consciousness, I am far less critical and perfectionstically expectant of others. I believe this has made me safer and more comfortable to be around. Others seem to be able to be more authentic and vulnerable with me... [and] allows me to make new friends on an ongoing basis.

As new friends come into my life, my sense of belonging increases and now begins to feel like something comfortingly tribal. I feel as though the enormous loneliness of my loveless youth is largely dissipated. And it continually decreases as my social network expands though meeting good people from all walks of life.

...One of my greatest delights in being a therapist is witnessing my clients making similar gains in their lives through reparenting. Many develop trustworthy relationships for the first time in their lives. Many awake from years of stagnation to become wholeheartedly excited about new endeavors or old reclaimed enthusiasms. How wonderful it is when a client comes in proudly reporting that over the weekend she flew a kite, made a friend, climbed a tree, took a dance class, started a garden, went roller-skating, frolicked on the water slides, enrolled in an arts and crafts class, or identified fifteen different wild flowers on a camping trip!

If you would like me to post more on re-parenting through self-compassion and self-protection, please let me in the notes or in an ask! 

[babybluebanshee]

Seared with Scars - Chapter 6 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Hey, kids. Did ya miss me?

Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Smoking, PTSD, descriptions of graphic injuries, descriptions of miscarriage, and panic attacks.

I am so sorry this took so long to get out. That’s all on me. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you guys actually still care enough about to read.

Previous chapter

---

“I survived, but it’s not a happy ending.”

- Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried”

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

The guts of the gun sparked again, and a low rumbling of thunder shuddered in the night. Fiddleford wanted to blame it for his shaking hands, but he had always been a terrible liar, even to himself.

He set down his screwdriver with a quiet sigh, and chanced a glance up at the clock. 1:37 am. He had no idea why he didn’t feel more tired. Helen had long since downed the rest of her beer and gone back into the living room, swaying slightly. He heard the couch squeak loudly as she plopped down on it. Soon, Fiddleford heard her snoring softly.

She had not spoken a word to him in the time it took her to leave the room and fall asleep. Hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

After the sort of day she’d had, he understood. Pity played in his chest. She was a decent women. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the waking nightmare that was Stanford Pines’ so-called research. It was clearly taking its toll on her now. He wished that he could comfort her, in spite of her current feelings towards him.

He’d been wracking his mind the entire time he worked, trying to find something, anything stashed away in there that would assuage her fears about Dr. Matthews. To ease her mind that her friend and colleague wasn’t the one who’d broken into her home and terrorized her. That he wasn’t mixed up in anything unsavory.

And sure, he knew that, even if Dr. Matthews was part of his flock, there was nothing to fear, but Helen didn’t. If he was being perfectly honest, he could see how the whole thing seemed rather off-putting. All the secrecy and hush-hush stuff might seem practically cultish to an outside observer, but now that Fiddleford had found out about the defect in the gun, it was easy to understand why he’d decided that the Society needed to work in secret. Memories that the gun tried to suppress could be called forth with any sort of trigger - a smell, a sound, even an errant thought about some seemingly innocent thing could force the unwanted memories to come rushing back.

And that was the last thing Fiddleford wanted. If he wanted to carry on his work, he needed to fix that when this was all said and done. It was all too important not to.

The front door opened, and he heard the merry jingling of dog tags as Ripley trotted in, right past the kitchen archway, and into the living room. Another jangling of the tags and a satisfied huff led him to believe Ripley had jumped on the couch to join Helen. The thought made Fiddleford smile. At least Helen could get some comfort from someone.

He was pulled out of himself when he heard the front door shut. Stan was still outside, had been since their argument. That had been over an hour ago.

Fiddleford sighed again, trying not to let that awful faded scar he’d seen dance too vividly across his mind. He reminded himself that, although the other man’s hardships were indeed tragic, that didn’t change the fact Stan was a brute - swearing at him and threatening him and tossing him about like an old ragdoll. Fiddleford’s shoulder ached a bit from the way Stan had wrenched it, dragging him downstairs, throwing him at the foot of that...that...monstrosity in the basement.

Stan Pines didn’t deserve Fiddleford’s sympathy, and he was not going to get it.

Fiddleford shivered again as the draft from the previously open door finally hit him. It had already been so cold out, and the storm wasn’t making things any better. It was probably freezing now.

If Stan had been on his own for ten years, he was certainly used to cold nights, possibly even colder than this. But just because you were used to something didn’t make it pleasant to endure.

His wrist throbbed again. No. Stan was choosing to stay outside, like a huffy child. He could freeze for all Fiddleford cared.

He lifted his screwdriver, intent on losing himself in his work once more. Stan Pines was not going to distract him anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

Gosh darnit.

Fiddleford set the screwdriver aside and got up from the table, trying his hardest not to scrape the chair against the wood floor too loudly and wake Helen. He even tiptoed past the opening into the main room, just to be safe. Aside from Ripley waking up momentarily to offer him a bleary glance, he managed to make it to the front door without any problems.

A frigid blast of icy air bombarded him as soon as he opened the door a crack. He thought about turning tail and running back in, but something stopped him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything done until he made some kind of amends with Stan. Apologize for his insensitivity, for all that Stan had been through, whatever. Just so long as Stan knew that Fiddleford wanted to make things right.

Bracing himself, he rounded the door, and was immediately greeted by the stink of cigarette smoke...

“I can’t sleep,” the man said, his cigarette burning down between his fingers. He barely seemed to notice as it was reduced to ashes. “It’s all I see anymore. You have to help me.”

Fiddleford shook his head. As welcome as memories sometimes were, now was not the time for them. He had to focus on what he came out here to do.

Leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the weak porch light, was Stan. A cigarette was between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting lazily from the tip. Stan himself was sopping wet, his red jacket plastered to his skin. His brown hair hung limply around his face. Stan barely seemed phased though. Instead, his surprisingly intense gaze was focused solely on Fiddleford.

Fiddleford tried his best not to shrink away. He’d come out here with a purpose, and he reminded himself that, no matter how intimidating this man was, he was still just a man, and one who’d been through quite a lot. The least Fiddleford could do was give him the dignity of not acting afraid of him.

After a moment or two of realizing Fiddleford was not going anywhere, Stan slowly blinked, then turned his gaze back out to the black forest just beyond the house. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine what was out there that he’d want to see, but if Stan was anything like his brother, he was sure that there was something, some mystery he wanted to solve or creature he wanted to study.

Fiddleford gulped silently, and took a step closer to Stan. After another moment of stamping down his anxiety, he said, “Hi there.”

Stan didn’t reply.

“I bet it’s cold in that wet jacket,” Fiddleford said softly, grateful that the rain had let up enough so his words weren’t swallowed up entirely.

Not that it mattered, since Stan didn’t reply. He merely brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

Fiddleford pressed onward. “I was thinking about making a cup of tea,” he said. “Did you maybe want to come in and have some? It’d warm you up.”

The cigarette was brought away, and Stan held in the smoke.

“Maybe you and I could talk. Because I really think we need to.”

Stan tapped the ash at the end of the cigarette, and it floated down to the porch like gray flakes of snow.

“I…” Fiddelford faltered for a moment. Why wouldn’t Stan say something? Anything? How angry could he possibly be? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. You were right - I didn’t know you existed until now. But if I did...if I’d known the sorts of awful things you’ve had to endure, I never would have said what I did.”

Stan released the smoke through his nose as he flicked his steely gaze back at Fiddleford, making him look positively dragon-like. It was almost fearsome enough for Fiddleford to forget his soft nature and go back in the house to hide. Almost. But then he caught a glimpse of Stan’s eyes in the pale yellow porch light.

There was no anger left in them. No malice. Not even any frustration. Stan simply looked tired.

Fiddleford felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Taking another step forward, he hesitantly reached out his hand, and placed it on the cold, wet fleece of Stan’s jacket, and said, “I think you might benefit from having someone to talk to. You’ve obviously been holding a lot in.”

Although it might sound boastful, Fiddleford was very good at getting people to open up to him. He’d always been small and non-threatening, patient and understanding; the kind of person that made people feel comfortable about dropping their defenses. It’s why the Society had been so successful. He didn’t need to seek out new members; they came to him, desperate for his support and kindness to soothe their frenzied minds.

He offered Stan his sincerest smile as he waited for him to reply.

After a beat of silence, Stan sighed and shook his head “You ain’t interested in helping me,” he said, tone flat. “You just don’t wanna feel guilty.”

Fiddleford yanked his hand away from Stan’s jacket as if it were an open flame. “I...I beg your pardon?” he said. It was all he could think to say.

“I think you heard me pretty clearly,” Stan replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Fiddleford felt heat bubble up behind his cheeks, his mind groping for some kind of response. He found nothing. Finally, a little more sharply than he intended, he blurted out, “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This mess we’re all in is hardly my fault. It wasn’t my idea to poke around with the dangerous things in this town. I didn’t want to come back to this house and relive this nightmare. And I certainly didn’t decide to build that thing down in the basement!”

“But you did help.”

Fiddleford closed his mouth so quickly his teeth audibly clacked together. As he turned away from Stan’s gaze, his mind belched forth an image, an image of Stanford excitedly explaining his plans for the portal to him. A warmth, a feeling of giddy anticipation, blossomed in Fiddleford’s chest, spreading out and into his fingers and toes. He’d shared his former partner’s enthusiasm. They’d been ecstatic to start such a monumental feat together, to reach new heights of achievement and understanding. He’d wanted to make the portal as much as Stanford had.

But that was before the incident. Before whatever happened that drove Fiddleford away. The memory was still hidden away, beneath layers of fog and protection, and he knew it was better off that way. He gave his head a shake and said firmly, “I didn’t know what we were doing. I didn’t know where that awful gateway would lead. And once I did, that was it. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

“But you stayed in Gravity Falls.”

Fiddleford whipped his head around to face Stan again. The other man looked completely unfazed, like he’d made a casual remark about the rotten weather.

Stan continued, “You had a wife and kid waiting for you back in California. A pet project that Ford said you were pretty interested in. Hell, the reason he never tried to help you till now is because that’s what he assumed you did.” Stan flicked the stub of his cigarette away. Fiddleford heard it hiss softly as it landed in the wet darkness beyond the porch. And then that intense gaze was on him again as Stan asked, “You had a life ready to be lived. So why did you stay here?”

Fiddleford quickly stammered out, “Well...I...because I wanted to help people. Help them deal with the supernatural things…”

“This town is almost 150 years old, Fidds,” Stan said. “And the weird stuff has been here since before the town was even an idea. There wouldn’t be a Gravity Falls if the folks here couldn’t deal with all the weird shit in those woods. You’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Fiddleford spat back. The ferocity in his words shocked him, and he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, trying to calm himself down. When he felt the flush of his cheeks subside a bit, he added, fighting to keep his tone even, “The people in this town rely on me.”

“Yeah, but why?” Stan asked. “You didn’t owe these people anything. I know for a fact that none of them ever had the guts to come out here. You guys weren’t exactly town celebrities. You could have gone home, lived your life, and left my brother to whatever was waiting for him beyond that portal. But you’re still here. So, I’m gonna ask you again: with a family waiting for you, and a town that didn’t need you to martyr yourself for them, why the hell did you stay?”

Fiddleford wanted to respond. He wanted to brush Stan off, tell him he was crazy, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He wanted to find some clever thing to say to finally get this man - this violent brute who’d slung him around like a ragdoll and called him names - to stop asking him these questions.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find an answer for them that didn’t prove Stan right.

So he stayed silent.

Stan watched him for another moment, before he turned his gaze back out to the inky black forest, and said, “The portal may have been Ford’s idea, but you had a hand in it. And deep down, you know he’d never have been able to build it without you. That’s why you stayed, even after it scared you so bad you left. That’s why you started this whole Blind Eye thing. Because you felt like you had to make up for it. You screwed up, and you didn’t want to live with that. So you tried to fix it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that,” Fiddleford asked wearily. He found he no longer had it in him to argue.

“Because I’ve been watching Ford do the same thing since we found you,” Stan replied.

Fiddelford thought of Stanford, eyes brimming with tears a few hours ago. He sighed softly.

“It sucks doing something out of guilt,” Stan said. He sounded less like he was talking to Fiddleford now, and more like he was just thinking out loud. “No matter how much you do, no matter what ends up happening, you never feel like you’ve done enough. You just keep beating yourself up and beating yourself up until one day, it just kind of dawns on you that you haven’t really fixed anything. Nothing’s better, nothing’s changed. You just feel that much shittier about yourself.”

Off in the distance, in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound.

“Look,” Stan continued, “in a way, I do get where you’re coming from. There are days when I’d give anything to never remember some of the things I’ve been through. You weren’t wrong when you said there are some things that no one should ever have to endure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford watched Stan reach up and gently run his fingers down the length of his arm. Now, more than ever, he regretted his words about “everyday” trauma. There was nothing commonplace about the pale scar under that sodden fabric. And the fact that he’d tried to turn something like this into something inspirational? It turned his stomach more than the thought of the scar ever could.

Stan spoke up again, jarring Fiddleford from his thoughts. “But as much as the memory hurts, it’s still there. It’s as much a part of me as the scars it left behind. All I can do now is make my choices with what I know. And I chose to try and keep living.”

He turned back to Fiddleford, gaze beseeching. “You’ve got a choice now too. You can keep hiding, keep forgetting, and one day, maybe, it’ll all finally be gone. But I can’t guarantee that you’ll be the same man as when you started.”

The owl in the forest called out again.

“Or,” Stan added, “you can face those scars, and finally start doing some real good.”

Fiddleford maintained his gaze at the other man, this man who’d proven he was more than just brute strength and cheap insults. This man, who, for all his bluster, was surprisingly wise, even though it hurt Fiddleford deeply to think about all that happened to him to obviously make him that way.

Maybe Stan was right.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of dirt crunching under tires. He lifted his head and saw a pair of headlines slicing through the pitch blackness. In the distance, the owl hooted indignantly and fluttered away, a speck against the night sky. As the car came closer to the house, Fiddleford realized that it was a blue Buick. Helen’s blue Buick. The one Stanford had taken off in.

Beside him, Stan muttered, “Oh my god,” and before Fiddleford could even offer a reply, the other man was across the porch and down the stairs, loping like an excited dog to meet the car. He even raised up his arms and started waving the vehicle down, a relieved smile splitting his face. It was actually rather sweet.

The car stopped a few hundred feet from the house, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights went out, and Fiddleford could finally see the silhouette of someone behind the steering wheel.

But as he looked, he realized something wasn’t right.

The figure didn’t look like Stanford at all. It was much shorter, even sitting down. The driver’s face had a bushy mustache. Fiddleford couldn’t make out the mop of messy brown hair, but there was the outline of a slight belly.

Whoever was driving was not Stanford Pines.

Stan hadn’t seemed to notice yet, and ran up to the passenger side door. “Get out of that damn car, Sixer,” he cried, clearly with laughter in his voice. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you stupid nerd.” He rounded the car as the driver’s side opened, but stopped short when he saw a five-fingered hand reach up and grasp the window, in order to pull the driver the rest of the way out.

His face fell completely when Dr. Ed Matthews emerged from the car, wearing a bright red, hooded robe. His face was grave.

Stan quickly backed away as if he were facing a loaded gun, but Dr. Matthews didn’t seem to notice. His iron gaze settled on Fiddleford. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Dr. Matthews finally seemed to realize that his cigarette was going to waste. He tossed it on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Please,” he said again, sounding ready to break, “please, Mr. McGucket, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You are in the Society,” Fiddleford said as the memory faded. “Stan was right.”

“And if I’m right, that means you sold us out,” Stan said, the bubbling anger apparent in his voice. He took a threatening step towards Matthews, looking ready to throttle him. “You were the one who broke into Helen’s house. You were the one who attacked us.”

Matthews didn’t even look in Stan’s direction, but a flash of irritation flashed across his face, like the other man was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. “No,” he replied plainly. “I wasn’t the one who broke into Helen’s house.” He turned his attention back to Fiddleford. “I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to come back to the sanctum.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Stan growled. His fists were balled up by his sides, ready to fly.

Matthews ignored him and continued to plead with Fiddleford. “Please, sir. Ivan is out of control. You have no idea the kinds of things he’s been doing in your absence. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow. Ivan? Out of control? It seemed impossible. If there was one person that Fiddleford trusted to keep the Society alive while he was gone, it was Ivan. He may have been young, but he was mature, intelligent, and could read people like they were open books. He was dedicated, perhaps a little too overbearing in regards to Fiddleford’s health, but he meant well.

Stealing another glance at Stan, seeing the murder in his eyes, knowing it came from a place of righteous fury at being assaulted and manhandled and victimized by the group the old man before them belonged to, Fiddleford realized that tonight had proven to be a night dedicated to showing him he didn’t know anyone as well as he thought he did.

“Look, Doc,” Stan barked. “Whoever this Ivan character is, he can figure out his own shit. Fidds isn’t going back to Jonestown with you. And if you don’t start running as fast as you can back the way you came, you won’t be making it back either. So get the hell out of here.”

Matthews finally turned his gaze on Stan, and said, “Do you really want me to leave, Stanley? Even if I’m the only person who can help you rescue your brother.”

Stan’s face fell in shock, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“He’s in poor shape,” Matthews added. “Ivan has not been kind to the man he believes responsible for our group’s troubles. Your brother doesn’t have much time left, and we have no time to argue about it.”

Before Stan could even open his mouth to speak, Fiddleford heard the front door slam open, and Helen’s voice call out, “Ford?”

Matthews’s eyes went as round as dinner plates, and slowly moved towards the sound of the voice. Fiddleford looked over his shoulder and saw Helen standing there, framed in the weak porch light, wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, her hair hanging wildly around her face. Her glasses were slightly crooked on her face, her dark green eyes wide behind them. She looked like a madwoman who’d just stumbled her way down from the attic. Her gaze jumped between each man on the lawn in front of her, all standing stock still, watching her watching them. It was like a macabre stage production.

Finally, in a low voice, Helen said, “Ed...what the fuck is going on?”

Fiddleford couldn’t exactly explain why, but when he saw a glimpse of Stan and Dr. Matthews’s faces, he knew that facing Helen and trying to explain all this to her was going to be more painful that anything he’d ever done.

------

Glass Shard Beach had never been so cold. It leached through his clothes, his skin, and settled into his bones, making him shiver and quake like a newborn deer. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stave off the chill as best he could, but his limbs felt rubbery, and wouldn’t obey his commands. All he could do was lie prone on the sand, as hard and frigid on his back as a slab of marble, and stare up at the steely gray sky. A harsh wind blew across his face, sharp enough to cut. It was going to storm.

A pale yellow light entered Ford’s vision, and suddenly, a slit pupil was staring back at him. Fear pulsed through him as Bill materialized completely before him, his unwavering gaze boring into him like a drill to the forehead. He wanted to run, but whatever was keeping his arms plastered to the sand was doing the same to his legs. He could only lie there, limp and useless.

“Geez, Sixer,” Bill finally said, his body flickering in time with his nasally voice. “I’ve seen you look pretty bad before - and I mean, like, really, really bad. But this? This is almost depressing.”

One of Bill’s black stick arms came to the spot his chin would be if he had one, his single eye furrowing in thought.

After a moment, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait!” he said. “Did I say ‘depressing’? I meant ‘absolutely hilarious’!” Bill let loose a peal of mocking laughter, his floating body turning lazily in the chilly breeze of the beach. “I gotta hand it to you, Sixer, you fail abysmally at a lot of stuff, but making me laugh at your ineptitude sure ain’t one of ‘em!”

Bill righted himself, and leaned down so he was right in Ford’s face. “I mean, look at you,” he said. “You tried to make up with that dumb hayseed after he saw me in an indecent moment - super rude, might I point out, guy needs a talking-to about knocking first - and look where that got you! All alone, on some bald weirdo’s basement floor, selling out your friends and brother as soon as things get a little too hard for you. This is almost funnier than you thinking dismantling that portal is gonna stop me! Which, let’s be real here, was already pretty darn funny.”

Shame boiled behind Ford’s cheeks. “I-I will stop you…” he ground out.

“Hey, it talks,” Bill said. “And is completely delusional, apparently.” He chuckled again. “Look, Fordsey, I’ve got a life outside of you. And one bad break-up isn’t gonna stop what I’ve got in store for your world. You don’t make plans as big as mine without having a few safety nets. Now, to me, you’re nothing more than a dancing monkey, here to amuse me when I take a break for some time punch.”

Suddenly, Bill shot out a hand and grab Ford’s index finger, yanking it back violently. Ford let out a strangled cry of pain.

“And speaking of amusement,” Bill said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I think that Ivan guy had the right idea. Breaking fingers sounds like a riot. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl. It’ll almost be as fun as that time I flung you down the stairs!”

Ford felt like weeping.

“Now, let’s see, where to start. Hmm...eeny...meany...miney...yooooou…”

Someone was shaking him, and Ford opened his eyes with a shout. He inhaled heavily, gathering up as much air as he could in his burning lungs. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for years. His hands shook under the ropes binding him to the chair.

As Ford’s vision cleared, it dawned on him that he was still in the dark room in the inner sanctum of the Society of the Blind Eye. He was slightly unsettled that the sight filled him with a strange sort of relief.

“Are you alright?” a voice said. Ford looked up, and realized that a robed figure was watching him from the shadows. In their hands, they held a tin bowl full of water. When the figure realized Ford was looking intently at the bowl, they said, “I thought you might need some water. I came in and you were talking in your sleep. So I woke you up.”

Ford recognized the gentle voice of the follower from before. The one who’d so gently inspected his injuries and tried to comfort him. The one who’d convinced him to give in to Ivan’s demands to save himself. Ford’s fists balled, his hands still shaking, but now in anger instead of fear.

The figure took a step towards him, and Ford snapped, “Don’t come anywhere near me.” As if suddenly glued to the spot, the figure stopped moving. Ford could feel them watching him from under their hood. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll take anything you give me,” he continued. He was acutely aware of how his voice cracked ever so slightly, indicative of the strain his mind was under, but he didn’t care. “You probably planned that little stunt earlier from the beginning. Bait me with some kindness so I’d roll over and do whatever you wanted. I’m on to your game, so you can just get the hell away from me.” His voice broke miserably, and he screwed his eyes shut against the shame that shot through him, his breath coming out in ragged heaves.

He heard footsteps approaching him and was suddenly aware of a human presence very close to him. He opened his eyes again. The figure set the bowl gently on the ground, and let out a quiet sigh. “What happened with Ivan was never my intention,” they said. “I truly did want to help you. I don’t like seeing people in pain. It’s just my nature.”

“You’re a liar,” Ford spat back, but he felt his anger petering out quickly. He was just so tired. The chill that he thought was just a product of his dreams suddenly squeezed him like an icy fist, sending a powerful shiver down his spine.

The figure sighed again, then reached up and grasped their hood. Before Ford could ask what they were doing, the hood was tossed back, and a young black man, roughly his own age, was staring back at him. His features were careworn, and he looked about as tired as Ford felt. “My name is Darryl,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

Ford gaped for a moment before he breathed, “Wh-why would you...”

“I thought actually seeing a person under here - a real, living person - would maybe make you feel a little safer. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear, I wasn’t playing earlier. It’s literally my job to fix up injuries like that one.” He gestured broadly to Ford’s head. The wound near the base of his neck took that moment to throb dully.

“I really did want to help,” Darryl added. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dented tin cup. “And now, I’m trying to again.” He dipped the cup in the bowl at his feet, filling it with water, and held it out to Ford. “Do you want a drink or not? It’s whatever you want to do.”

Ford looked at the cup, then back up at Darryl, trying to read his face, see anything that might indicate subterfuge. But he saw nothing. The bright brown eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze with a strange, soft command, reminded him of Stan. Limply, he nodded. A brief flicker of relief crossed Darryl’s face as he moved closer and put the cup to Ford’s lips.

Ford hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water was snaking its way down his throat. It was lukewarm and had a bit of a metal tang to it, probably from the town’s old pipes, but it tasted amazing to him. Darryl took it away far too soon.

“Sorry,” the other man said, setting the cup aside again, “but I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you some more in a minute.” He reached down to his belt, and pulled loose a threadbare blanket. “I know it’s not much, but I figure anything is better than nothing in this damp little space.”

He laid the blanket out across Ford’s chest, tucking it in a bit at the arms. Despite how worn it looked, the blanket did help, and the aching chill that had settled in Ford’s body began to lessen.

“Now, let’s try to get that horror show on the back of your head fixed up,” Darryl muttered, more to himself than to Ford. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handkerchief. As he stooped down to pick up the bowl, Ford saw a glint of gold on his left hand in the dim light. Looking harder, he realized it was a simple golden wedding band. It made sense, honestly. Darryl wasn’t much older than him, and Ford was an outlier when it came to relationships. Of course most men his age were settling down, marrying and having children. But it raised a question in Ford’s mind, one he couldn’t help but vocalize.

“Why is a young married paramedic in a memory-wiping cult?”

Darryl froze. A flash of panic flickered across his face, as he muttered, “I wanted to forget. Same as everyone else.”

“But I want to know what,” Ford asked. “I know this entire group thinks I’m some kind of dangerous madman, but I’m not. I tried to tell Ivan before, I go looking for the unexplained so I can explain it. You can protect yourself if you know what you’re up against. And if you told me what made you...join, maybe I can help you understand it.”

Finally, Darryl turned to face him. Ford had expected him to be angry, or at least defensive, but instead, his face was drawn and sad. The bright brown eyes now looked a thousand miles away. In a quiet voice, Darryl said, “Only demons I’m running from are my own, Dr. Pines.”

Despite himself, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The Society only has a few rules. The people who want their memories erased have to be willing. We don’t tell anyone who isn’t a member about it. And, most importantly, the only memories we erase are paranormal ones. That was something McGucket was always very firm about.”

“But Ivan told me that the memory gun can get rid of anything.”

“It can, but McGucket never wanted to use it for what he called the “everyday” stuff. He always said those are the sorts of things humans were meant to handle. It was the most important rule. But Ivan hasn’t been following the rules for a good, long while now.”

“He’s been erasing other memories now?”

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t Fiddleford do anything about it?”

“He didn’t know. Ivan realized that the more McGucket used the gun on himself, the more it rattled his brain. There’d be days when McGucket would wander around, looking like he didn’t know where he was. We’ve found him outside more than once, curled up next to the garbage cans because he was trying to figure out how to get home from here.”

Ford thought of Fiddleford in that alleyway, looking so thin and haggard and, most of all, lost.

“Ivan’s been taking full advantage of it,” Darryl continued. “McGucket can’t argue about ethics when he doesn’t even realize that Ivan is working against him, so Ivan has been offering to erase any bad memories, in exchange for loyalty.”

“But why? What does he gain from it?”

“I don’t know, entirely. Maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he just liked to be in control of people It sounds crazy, but from the looks of things, I think he’s amassing an army.”

“For what?”

“Like I said, I don’t know entirely. But whatever it is, he’s obviously not gonna let a little thing like humanity get in his way.”

Darryl dunked the handkerchief in the bowl of water, scrunching it up in his fist to squeeze out the excess water. As he began moving behind the chair, Ford said, “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

Darryl hesitated a moment, then walked briefly back into Ford’s line of vision, reaching a hand down into his robes. Ford heard a clinking of metal as the other man pulled forth a simple metal chain from around his neck. Attached to the end were two dented dog tags. “Private Little, of the 113th Infantry Brigade,” Darryl said simply. “One tour in South Vietnam, 1969 to 1970.”

Sympathy settled in Ford’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Oh…” he mumbled.

“Not to offend or anything, but I’m guessing you didn’t serve.” Darryl gave him a wry look as he ducked back out of sight, behind Ford.

Ford felt the soft, cool handkerchief being gently pressed into his neck. He tensed only for a moment, expecting pain, and was amazed when none came. He felt himself relax. “No,” he replied. “My dad did, but that’s about as close as my brothers and I got. College kept me out of the draft. My older brother had asthma, so he was exempt. And I’m not sure how Stanley managed to avoid it, but I’m sure it had something to do with fleeing to another country.”

Darryl chuckled a bit at that, and said, “Wish I’d had the brains to do that. Would have saved me a whole mess of trouble.”

“What happened?”

The handkerchief stilled for just a moment. Finally, Darryl said, “We got ambushed. It happened so fast that sometimes I have a hard time believing it happened at all. But my dreams always remind me. They just mowed us down. Ten seconds, tops, and it was over. I took a bullet right to the knee cap. Dropped where I stood. My buddy, Hank...he took one to the gut. He must have hung on for half an hour…”

Darryl trailed off, and Ford didn’t urge him to continue. Oddly enough, he thought of his father. He knew Dad had served, but beyond the basic facts, he never told Ford or his brothers about his tour of duty. It wasn’t until Ford was at least eleven that he accidentally stumbled across the Purple Heart his father had been awarded, stuffed away in a box in the hall closet.

He thought of when Shermie came back from the recruiting office, and how Dad’s shoulders seemed to slump when his older brother informed everyone that he was medically unfit for military service. It was the first time Ford ever remembered his father being excited about something.

He wondered what memories his father would want pulled from his head, if he was given the choice.

“And that’s why you came to Ivan,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Darryl responded quietly. “For a while, I managed to live with the memories. Believe it or not, the job helps. I see a lot of blood and death, but at least now I can do something about it, ya know? It’s not like with Hank. It...it kinda helps me cope. Does that make sense?”

Ford thought of the portal back home, how he sequestered himself for hours with it, this living testament to his failure, how accomplished he felt when he managed to make any kind of headway with it. He nodded and said, “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Loud noises are the things that tend to upset me now,” Darryl continued. “Cars backfiring, slamming doors, that kind of thing. Had to stop going out on the Fourth of July. But those are things you can live with. After my daughter was born…that’s when the dreams started. Vivid shit, almost perfect recreations of that day in the jungle.”

Darryl squeezed more water from the handkerchief, and added, “By the time Ivan found me, I was desperate. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t sleep. It was affecting my job, which used to be one of the only things that kept me grounded. And at home...I knew seeing me this way was hard for my family. Even if I hadn’t done it for myself, I would have done it for them in a heartbeat.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Darryl dabbed tenderly at the base of Ford’s neck, then gave a small grunt of satisfaction before he ducked back into Ford’s field of vision. His face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Darryl,” Ford said. “I’m sorry you ever had to feel like this cult was your only option.”

Darryl gave him a sad smile, and said, “Thanks, man.”

Another question suddenly dawned on Ford. “Wait,” he said. “If the reason you joined the Society was to erase those memories, then how do you still remember them enough to tell me?”

“Because there’s something wrong with the memory gun,” Darryl said gravely. “McGucket thought it would be a permanent process, but other members have started remembering whatever it was they erased. And that scares them more than you ever could.”

“That’s why Ivan wants Fiddleford back so badly.”

“Exactly. He’s getting desperate. The only thing he’s got to ensure people’s loyalty is that memory gun, and if it doesn’t work, then the others have no reason to stick with him. To fix it, he needs McGucket.”

This was so much worse than Ford ever thought. His original idea was that Ivan wanted Fiddleford back simply because he was their leader. But all Ivan was interested in was Fiddleford’s engineering skills. Fiddeford wouldn’t just be worse off if he was dragged back to this hellhole. His very life could be in danger, once Ivan had gotten what he needed from him.

“We have to stop him,” Ford said firmly.

“I know,” Darryl said. “If he’d go after two people who mean absolutely nothing to him, think of what he’d do to McGucket.”

Ford’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t being arbitrary when I said that Ivan would go after Helen and your brother. I know he will because he already has. When Helen and Stan went back to her house, someone was waiting for them. A Society member, trying to find Fidds.”

“What?! Who?”

“I don’t know. They managed to fight whoever it was off. As if anyone needed another reason to be afraid of Helen Bergstrum when she’s mad, now she’s slashing faces with car keys.” Darryl shook his head a bit. “But Stan got a pretty nasty blow to the head. They called me in to patch him up. That’s when I realized what Ivan had done.”

“Was he alright?”

“Yeah, I stitched him up. He was a little dizzy, but no worse for wear. But it made me realize that Ivan has gone too far.” He cast his gaze back up at Ford, the brightness in his eyes verging on fiery passion. “I don’t really understand why you do what you do, Dr. Pines. It even kinda scares me a little. But you never intentionally hurt innocent people. Dr. Bergstrum is a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be terrorized in her own home. And your brother? Anyone who’s willing to throw down just to protect his friend is cool in my book.”

Darryl looked down into the bowl of water he still held in his hand. Ford wondered what he saw staring back at him.

“So,” Ford said, “what are you proposing?”

Darryl looked up, directly into Ford’s eyes. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, Dr. Pines, and then I’m getting you out of here.”

-----

Helen drummed her fingers against the sticky kitchen table. Across from her, doing everything he could to avoid looking her directly in the eye, was Ed Matthews. Her friend, her colleague. A man she’d worked with for almost seven years, who gently teased her about her interest in the paranormal. Who’d been there when life was almost too much for her.

The man who helped a memory-wiping cult break into her home and violently attack her.

Stan and Fiddleford sat in chairs between them, on the side of the table. Their eyes bounced between Helen and Ed, as if they were watching a pair of bombs, primed and ready to explode.

Helen didn’t blame them. That wasn’t very far off from how she felt.

“Helen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. You have every right to be.” Ed’s eyes were tired as he lifted them up gingerly to meet Helen’s glare. “But I promise you, I’m done lying. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Helen narrowed her eyes, fighting hard to keep her voice level and her fists from swinging in rage. “I’m counting on it, Ed,” she muttered. “I figure any explanation you give me has gotta be a pip.”

Ed ducked his head, away from her withering stare, ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out even a syllable, Helen cut him off and said, “You lied to me.” She was ashamed how her voice wavered ever so slightly. “You lied about Fiddleford, about that girl, about the old man...how? How could you do this?”

“I didn’t want to,” Ed said miserably, putting his head in his hands. “But you have no idea the kind of power the Society has. The kind of power Ivan has. And what could have happened to me if I didn’t play his game.”

Helen stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose brow was furrowed heavily, lost in thought. He was obviously trying hard to remember anything to do with this Ivan character, to see if there was any validity to Ed’s claims.

Until then, there was no way they could trust Ed.

“Helen, you of all people understand who absolutely insane this town is,” Ed said emphatically. “I know going to the Society was wrong, but it wasn’t until I actually saw for myself what drives people to it that I finally understood.”

“What exactly did you see?” Stan asked carefully.

Ed sighed, and replied, “My house isn’t that far beyond the lake. My wife loved the sounds of it at night.” He paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly very, very far away, but he quickly shook his head and continued on, “But then she started saying she...heard things out there. Low, rumbling noises. Almost like growls. I dismissed it as a dream, but she insisted there was something out there until the day she died. One night, not too long after her funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the dock. That’s when I finally figured out what she was talking about.”

Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all leaned in, like scouts hearing a spooky campfire story.

“Poking above the water, staring right at me, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.”

“So there really was something out in the lake,” Helen breathed. “That girl really did see something.”

“Yes,” Ed said sadly. “As soon as I heard her talking about seeing something in the lake, I knew exactly what she was talking about. So Ivan went looking for them.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide with horror. “You wiped their memories without their consent?!”

Ed flinched, like a chastened child. “I didn’t,” he said. “Ivan did.”

“And you just let your band of hooded freaks target a scared teenage girl?” Stan said, the contempt in his voice barely masked.

“You make it sound like I personally put the gun to her forehead,” Ed retorted. “I would never have told Ivan about her, about any of my patients, but I didn’t have to. Gossip travels fast in this town, and it wasn’t long before Ivan found out and went after the girl and her friends. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s like I said, I was too much of a coward to admit that what Ivan was doing was wrong. He has the entire Society convinced that the townsfolk are better off living in ignorance, even if we have to show them that by force.”

“How could he do this?” Fiddleford suddenly cried out. Helen, Stan, and Ed all whipped their heads around to look at him. He was angrier than Helen had ever seen him, and didn’t seem to notice at all that everyone’s attention was no on him. He raked a hand through his hair, grabbing up a clump of it halfway through and squeezing, as he continued to babble. “I thought Ivan understood why I was doing this more than anyone. I...he...he upheld the Society’s rules more than anyone. I just...I don’t understand where this all came from. It doesn’t seem like him at all.”

After a moment, Ed said, “Tell me something, sir. Do you remember the last conversation you had with Ivan before all this insanity began?”

Fiddleford gave him a confused look, and said, “Of course I do! I...we...oh, my god…”

Slowly, realization dawned on Fiddleford’s face.

“You don’t, do you?” Ed asked.

Fiddleford squeeze his hair tighter in his hand. “I...all I really remember is that Ivan was upset. He was yelling about something. But after that…” Fiddleford’s hand fell from his hair. He looked so very small as he muttered, “After that it’s all a blank.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Helen’s mind. “You must have caught him wiping the memories of that old man!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, then said, “It adds up. It explains why you were in such piss-poor shape when Ford and I found you. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Ivan shot you. And you’ve been surrounded by reminders of your past all day, so you’ve been recovering faster.”

“But...why?” Fiddleford asked helplessly. “Why would Ivan want to go behind my back?”

“For the obvious reason,” Helen said. “Because he’s doing something he didn’t want you to know about. He knew you’d never approve of whatever it is he’s doing, and he was right. So he wiped your memories.”

“And that’s how the Pines brothers found you,” Ed added. “You must have wandered out of the sanctum again.”

Helen quirked up her eyebrow, confused. Sanctums? If this cult of Fiddleford’s wasn’t actually pretty frightening, she’d laugh at how pretentious they were.

Her confusion must have been pretty clear, because Fiddleford said, “Sometimes, after using the gun, I’d be a bit, well, mixed up. I’d wander outside and sit in the alley, though not always intentionally. It helped me think, get my thoughts in order. And that’s where I must have gone after Ivan wiped my mind.”

Fiddleford plopped heavily into his seat, obviously overwhelmed by all that he’d just discovered. Helen didn’t blame him. She felt a bit like doing that herself. But she needed more answers. Turning back to Ed, she said, “But how did they get into my house? You were the only person who saw us today, who knew we were with Fiddleford. And I got some pretty good cuts in on whoever it was. Since you don’t have any cuts on your face, it couldn’t have been you.”

Ed sighed again, and reached into his robe sleeve. Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all tensed immediately, ready to jump at whatever Ed had hidden inside.

But all he pulled out was a shiny, silver house key. An exact copy of the one Helen had used to unlock her front door, and then slash at an intruder less than ten minutes later.

Helen felt like she was going to be sick. She cast her glance back up at Ed, searching for answers. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Yes, she was definitely going to be sick.

“You…” was all she managed to mumble before she had to stop. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t be able to hold down whatever was threatening to come up.

“I don’t know who attacked you, Helen, but this is how they got in,” Ed said. “I made a copy back around Christmas, when you and the kids went to Salem to visit your parents. You asked me to house sit for you.”

The world tilted around her. She shakily stood from her chair, her legs wobbling dangerously. Stan and Fiddleford both looked ready to jump from their chairs at the next move she made.

She was going to be sick or she was going to faint. She couldn’t tell which anymore.  

Ed was still talking. “I had been meaning to make one for a while before then. Ever since what happened with the baby-”

Something snapped inside her.

She couldn’t hear Ed anymore. Her heart had launched itself directly into her ears, and all she could hear was it hammering away, feeling like it was ready to burst. Somewhere far away, a tinny noise that she vaguely registered as Stan’s voice asked, “What baby?”

That was it.

Lurching like she was possessed, Helen flung herself at the sink, and with a painful spasm, vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. The only thing she’d had in her stomach for the last few hours was a can of beer. Stomach acid followed shortly after, leaving a burning trail up her esophagus.

She felt a touch ghost across her back, and heard the distant voices of Stan and Fiddleford, talking to her, trying to get her to say something, anything, to indicate what was wrong. She couldn’t answer them. She had no air to answer them with. Their voices became even more muffled as she concentrated on her heavy breathing.

She tried to force down the pain that blossoms in his abdomen and lower back. She knew there was nothing there that could be causing it. She knew that the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg wasn’t really there. And she knew Daisy’s panicked voice, stammering into the phone that her mother needed help, was just a phantom in her mind, played on a loop by her sadistic, traitorous brain.

She knew all this, and it didn’t help a damn bit.

Suddenly, she felt two calloused hand prying her grip from the sink, and gently guiding her away. They didn’t let go until she was sitting again, probably back at the kitchen table, and even then, the presence behind her didn’t fade. It stayed at her back like a supportive column. Another set of hands, these softer, gentler, grabbed up hers and held them. She heard a kind voice, with a soft hint of an accent speaking to her, piercing through the memories and the droning. It took her a moment to realize it was Fiddleford, and that the sturdy presence behind her was Stan.

Fiddleford was saying something, and slowly, the cacophony in her brain faded, abd she could make out words. “...just gonna slow your breathing down a bit, that’s right. In and out. In and out. Come on, Helen, you can do it. In...”

Slowly, laboriously, she followed his instruction. She took a shaky breath in.

“And out.”

She obeyed.

“Atta girl,” he said encouragingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze.

Helen’s cheeks burned with shame. Daisy had been right. She was a mess.

She cast a sidelong glance over at Ed, who looked positively mortified, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something. Helen wished he wouldn’t. He’d already said quite enough.

But he finally spoke anyway. “Helen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I...I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. I had no idea...I didn’t know that this was still so…”

“Doc, cool it for a minute,” Stan said sternly. “Let her breathe.”

“How’re you feeling?” Fiddleford asked her, his grip still tight and reassuring.

Like shit. Like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Like a hysterical, useless load. Like you guys are never going to look at me the same way ever again, her thoughts screamed.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, disgusted by how small her voice was. “I...I guess I’m not as okay with this as I thought.”

“Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked. “Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she said. To prove it, she pulled her hands free of Fiddleford’s, even though the loss of the comforting warmth made her ache inside. She ignored it.

“Do you maybe wanna...I dunno, talk?” she heard Stan ask from behind her. She could almost picture his face, drawn tight with worry and care. He’d been shooting Ford that look all day, just waiting for the minute when his brother fell apart. And the fact that he might be looking at her that way made her almost feel sick enough to vomit again.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said sharply. “It was just a miscarriage. They happen to millions of women every single day.”

“Oh, Helen…” FIddleford put a hand to his heart, looking ready to cry. The shame that had pooled in her cheeks spread, prickling along her skin like poisoned barbs. She ducked her head down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“It was two years ago, Fiddleford,” she muttered. “Don’t go all weepy on me. I’ve had time to come to grips with it. Obviously not as good a grip as I thought, but it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”

“But what about…” Fiddleford began.

She cut him off, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly slammed right into Stan’s gut. “That was just a freak thing. I’m stressed and I’m tired and all I want to do is go bash this Ivan bastard’s face in and get Ford home.” She pushed past Fiddleford, still looking dewy-eyed, and headed out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I also need some air. Come get me when you guys have a plan put together.”

She could feel their eyes on her back, even as she left their line of sight and headed towards the front door. She had to get out, and practically sprinted to close the distance between herself and the door. She flung it open and, as soon as she was out in the cold, wet night, she inhaled as deeply as she could, then shut the door behind her.

She stood there for a few minutes, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to force her mind to calm. It wasn’t working. She needed something to take the edge off.

Her gaze drifted, and in the dim porch light, she saw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the railing.

They were probably Stan’s. She’d thought the smell of smoke on his jacket was stronger than usual.

Helen hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years, not since before she’d gotten married, and with all the new literature constantly coming out about the hazards of cigarettes, she’d felt it hypocritical to ever start up again. But now, she didn’t care. She needed one like she needed oxygen.

She snatched up the pack and pulled one out. The lighter was flimsy and cheap, and took a few clicked to finally hold a flame, but eventually she got it. As she took a few puffs, she heard the door open behind her. She hadn’t smoked enough of the cigarette to turn around and face whoever it was.

“I told you I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. She didn’t care which one of them it was, or what they had to say. She was not going to just sit there and listen to them talk about how sorry they were and ask why she’d never told them and all that other shit she’d been hearing from anyone who ever found out.

All except Richard. After he found out and dealt with it for a few months, all he said was goodbye.

“I didn’t say anything,” Stan said behind her. “I mostly came out here to try and save my cigarettes. I already smoked a couple after my little spat with McGucket, and I figured if you found them, that’d be the end of them.”

Helen didn’t reply. She just exhaled and let her muscles relax.

They stood for a moment in silence. Stan didn’t make a move toward her or speak. Helen barely even heard him breathe. Then finally, he said, “I wish you could have told me when you were ready.”

That was one she’d never heard before. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was looking out into the woods, his face somber.

“Even if you’d never told me,” Stan continued, “at least then it would have been on your terms. It might have been an accident, but Doc Matthews had no right to bring it up like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Helen turned around the rest of the way to face him. “If I had my way, no one would ever know,” she said. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise.”

“That’s understandable,” Stan said. “It obviously still really bothers you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Helen said, leaning back against the wall, tapping the ash from the tip of the cigarette. “People look at me differently when they know. Suddenly, I’m not a doctor or a woman who’s raising three kids by herself because her husband is a jack-off. I’m the woman who had a miscarriage, and I’m someone to be pitied. And being pitied is a fucking nightmare.”

“I get that,” Stan said. “But I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like what just happened didn’t scare the shit out of me. It’s not that I think you’re someone to be pitied. It’s that I’m worried about you, and wish you trusted me to support you in this. People like me and Fidds and Ford? We get what it’s like to live through something no one else can understand.”

Helen sighed, and said, “Stan, there are thousands of people who understand what I went through. Last time I checked the statistics, 10-20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. What happened to me was practically commonplace. It’s nothing compared to what you and your brother and Fiddleford have been through.” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “So...why does it still bother me?”

She saw Stan inch closer to her. Her voice was getting tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She was too exhausted not to cry. “I’ve gone to the support groups,” she muttered thickly. “I’ve read the books. I’ve even done a little of the therapy. But every morning I wake up and it’s still there. It’s not always like this, but it’s there. And if I can let something like this rattle me so much, for so long? Then when good am I to you? What good am I to anyone?”

Stan was flush against her side right now. Without even thinking about it, she let her head fall, until it landed on his broad shoulder. His jacket was damp and soaked her hair a bit. She didn’t care. The tears that trailed down her nose were going to make it even wetter anyway.

“Helen,” Stan said softly, “it doesn’t matter what happened to make you feel like this. It might not be a homelessness or cults or weird demons, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was horrible, and it happened to you. That’s all the reason you need to still be affected by it. There aren’t any rules that tell you when you’re supposed to be okay with something.”

She didn’t answer him, she just took another drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling as she brought it to her lips.

After another beat of silence, Stan said, “That bastard walked out right after it happened, huh?”

She nodded as blew out the smoke. “A couple of months, give or take. He said he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with me. Later, I realized he’d probably been looking for an out, and the baby was his excuse.”

“Piece of shit,” Stan muttered.

“I was gonna have a girl,” she muttered. “I wanted to name her Christina.”

She felt Stan move his arm down, and cup her hand in his. It was warm. She tossed the half-finished cigarette over the railing and into the bushes.

“You could have at least had the decency to finish it,” Stan grumbled, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t you know those things give you cancer?” she replied. “You should be thanking me.”

“You wanna head back in, maybe lay down?” Stan offered. “We’re trying to put together a bit of strategy. Ed’s offering to take us to bust out Ford, and we need to hurry.” She heard the worry creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to keep things casually for her sake. “Apparently, he’s not in great shape.”

“I’m coming with you,” Helen said firmly. There was no two ways about it.

“You sure?” Stan asked. She could see the doubt in his eyes, and she wanted to smack it out of him.

“Never been more sure,” she replied. “I feel like a pretty good catharsis for me right now would be to beat in the face of the fuckwad who caused me all this misery. And since Richard moved to California, that only leaves this Ivan bastard.”

Stan smirked a little, and said, “Alright then. I’m not gonna stop you. You can even take my bat. It’ll give me an excuse to brush off my knuckle dusters. And give your house keys a rest.” He punctuated that last comment with a playful check of her shoulder. She couldn’t suppress the smile.

She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good person, Stanley Pines.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. He began leading her back into the house. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Now let’s go knock around some cultists.”

Helen pushed down the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, nodded, and followed him in.

-----

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[entomotheist]

Christians opposing abortion:

Tired of hearing the same old arguments against repealing Roe v. Wade? Annoyed with us liberals and our echo chambers, safe spaces and self-righteous circle jerking? Frustrated that we can’t seem to understand that these unborn beings are human lives, and should be protected? Hungry for some facts? 

Then please, take these: 

1) Abortions have been proven to occur at the same rate whether they are legal or not. Legality has a negligible effect, if any, on whether or not women decide to terminate a pregnancy. However, it does impact mortality rates of the women themselves. I’ll say it again, in big letters so everybody can see it:

Legality has no impact on abortion rates

Abortions happen at the same rate whether they are legal or not

The same amount of unborn children are dying whether it is legal to kill them or not

The only difference is that when it is illegal, the process is unsafe, and many, many women will die - more lives will be lost, more FAMILIES will be shattered. From this source: https://www.guttmacher.org/report/abortion-worldwide-2017 2) The single biggest thing proven to reduce abortion rates is *ACCESS TO CONTRACEPTION*. (Sex education is another biggie - but abstinence-only education only exacerbates the problem, no matter how much sense you think it makes.) 3) The most common reason for why women decide to terminate (outside of health reasons, which were not included in the study this data was taken from) is financial - cost of healthcare, cost of providing for another child, access to health insurance are all factors. Therefore: Roe v. Wade does not increase abortion rates, but does stop women from dying horrific deaths. If you want to stop it, don't try to ban it - address the problem at the source, before life has even been conceived. Spend your energy pushing for access to contraception, instead of damning women who find themselves in situations they never thought could happen to them. 4) Another common reason for why women decide to have abortions is social stigma. So, if you've ever sneered at a young mother, a single mother, somebody with "too many" kids, somebody you think has made some bad decisions on that front: you're a part of the problem. Don't feel bad, just fix this - in yourself, and if you catch it in others. This about pro-choicers: these are not people who would even necessarily have abortions, themselves. They don't hate babies, and they don't like abortions or want them to happen. Many of them - like me - do see the unborn as alive, sacred, and worth protecting. In fact, no one likes abortions, not even people who have them, or even people who perform them. They're expensive, tragic, gut-wrenching, stigmatized, emotional, life-altering, and painful. They can be dangerous even under the most optimal conditions. They are truly a last resort. People who are pro-choice are not the enemy of babies. What we want is a culture and economy where people have the resources and education to make better family-planning decisions, and where when mistakes are made, resources are available to help families get back on their feet financially, so that abortion is not perceived as being necessary. When these approaches are implemented, and as abortion rates continue to go down, we can discuss what the next steps are - and whether or not they need to be taken, if we find ourselves in a blessed place where the only abortions that happen are in cases where they are absolutely medically necessary. The caricature I see painted over and over of the stereotypical women who has dozens of abortions over and over again is not one I have ever seen in real life. I have talked to many women who have had abortions. I have watched them break down when they see their unborn child in the eyes of someone else's daughter. I have watched them wrestle with the decision as to whether to kill their unborn child or put their entire family in poverty. I have talked to people who'd grown up in the foster care system who have said over and over that they would never, ever, in a million years wish their life on any innocent being. I have heard from people who have been raped by their fathers and who have had to make the call to end the life of a baby that they desperately, desperately wanted because of defects that would equate their quality of life with 24/7 torture for the few short weeks they survived. The flippant baby-killer stereotype, statistically, has to exist - but for every one of her, there are dozens, maybe even hundreds, of the others. These people are not idiots or killers - they are people you know. Maybe people closer to you than you think. While their decisions aren't any business of yours, mine, or anyone else, you might find that if you step away from your megaphone and present yourself as someone who can listen, you will hear stories that they might have been afraid to tell you before. THIS is the Christian thing to do - not standing outside an abortion clinic screaming at women who are experiencing the worst day of their lives whether you're out there or not. Judge not, that thou not be judged.

The Christian thing to do, if saving these unborn lives is truly important to you, is to push as hard as you possibly can for contraception, family planning resources, non-abstinence-only sex education resources, better healthcare, better assistance for struggling and impoverished families, and improvements to the foster care and adoption system. This might be going a bit to far for some of you, but support LGBTQ+ rights to adopt; they are four times more likely than straight couples to adopt.

https://www.guttmacher.org/report/abortion-worldwide-2017 - I also linked this under 1) up above because this provides extremely thorough and useful data. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3729671/ - results from a survey on why women have abortions. (Note that participants with "fetal diagnosis or demise" were not included in this survey, so this does not account for women who aborted for medical reasons.) https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2791734/ - the Netherlands has a remarkably low abortion rate. This is the results of a study of why. Note that I haven't gotten a chance to read this in as much detail as I want to, yet. If any of you would like to try to refute any of what I've posted above, this might be a good place to start looking for data - who knows, maybe they've proved me wrong! If they have, please let me know. I know I seem firmly-grounded in my point of view, but if there is something I'm missing, it's important that I know, because this is an important topic - lives are at stake. https://www.lifelongadoptions.com/.../lgbt-adoption... - where I pulled the statistic on LGBTQ+ adoption

[enzaime-blog]

A Family's Hope Is Restored!

New Story has been published on https://enzaime.com/a-familys-hope-is-restored/

A Family's Hope Is Restored!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=5&v=_a33x5XgznI

After a fall, 9-year-old Danica was left with metal rods, which had been implanted years before to stabilize her spine and had broken in the accident, floating dangerously close to her brain stem. Danica and her family traveled from Ohio to Johns Hopkins to receive life-altering, complex reconstruction surgery from Neurosurgical Spine Center Director Nicholas Theodore, M.D. Danica is now able to ride a bike for the first time ever.

The first sign of something wrong with Danica Snyder’s spine came at age 13 months, when she cried out in pain when turning her head a certain way during diaper changes. Then, while posing for a family portrait at 18 months old, Danica’s head kept falling to one side.

Danica and her mother share a special moment.

“Everyone said she had torticollis,” says Danica’s mother, Monica Kaye Snyder.

Torticollis, or “twisted neck” in Latin, which can occur due to positioning in the womb, can be corrected with stretching exercises at home. But physical therapy recommended by Danica’s pediatrician was not only not improving her condition, “she was getting worse,” says her mom. She then took Danica to a neurologist near their home in Uniontown, Ohio, who ordered a CT scanof her neck, which offered no clues to her problem. Then, she took her child to another neurologist, who ordered an MRI scan that revealed the culprit.

“We saw the Chiari malformation,” says Snyder, referring to a congenital defect in which brain tissue extends into the spinal canal.

Danica was referred to an Ohio hospital, where pediatric neurosurgeons were surprised to see excess bone along the right side of her cervical spine pulling her head to one side, signs of a rare condition called atlas assimilation. Indeed, vertebrae C2 and C3 were starting to fuse with the base of her skull, a condition no amount of physical therapy could fix. Complicating matters more, her brain stem and cerebellum had already started to drop into her spinal canal, compromising the flow of cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) surrounding and protecting Danica’s skull. The bones at the base of her skull needed to be opened up, a procedure called decompression, to allow for proper flow of CSF.

“There was no flow at all on the right side of her brain,” says Snyder.

Surgical Intervention

Surgeons successfully decompressed Danica, then age 2, but her crossing with Chiari malformation was far from over. Neurosurgeons scanning her six months later found further descent of brain tissue into her spinal canal and instability where the spinal cord meets the brain—the craniovertebral junction (CVJ). She needed to be decompressed again and have her spine stabilized with spinal instrumentation.

Danica underwent another decompression operation, but surgeons recommended she wait until she reached age 6 for fusion surgery. Seeing 3-D imaging of Danica’s Chiari, Snyder says: “I knew that wasn’t the answer. Part of the brain that had fallen was already dead.”

She found a neurosurgeon and spine surgeon who together would do Danica’s fusion surgery. After the surgeons stabilized the CVJ with metal rods and sewed in a cerebellar sling to keep her brain from falling again, they restricted her to a wheelchair and no physical activity for at least six months. Also during that time, she would have to wear a brace 24/7 for at least six months to help immobilize her spine. She ended up wearing it for a year.

“That was a very long journey for a young child to have no motor development activity,” says Snyder. “But we see now how that shaped Danica into who she is—a reader, musician, a functionally bright kid.”

But Danica also wanted to be like other kids, to play with them on the school playground when she was told she would have to sit on the sidelines. One day she said no, walked toward the playground and fell.

“I believe that’s when the hardware broke,” says Snyder.

Indeed, Danica and her mom then heard clicking and popping sounds of metal on metal when Danica moved her head. She lost stability in her spine and, worse, the broken rods were endangering her brain. To further complicate matters, Danica’s last two surgeons had retired. Snyder tried to remain hopeful but knew there were few experts in the country who could manage a very complex patient like Danica.

“I didn’t know where else to go, where to get another opinion,” she says. “We were worried no one would take her case.”

Technological Advancements Guide a Complicated Case

Then, she learned that one of those experts, neurosurgeon Nicholas Theodore, was moving from Arizona to Baltimore and The Johns Hopkins Hospital, which she knew well from working for many years in the Baltimore-Washington area. But he had just arrived and had not even settled into an office.

“He didn’t even have paper clips,” says Snyder. Nonetheless, Theodore’s longtime assistant, Julie Zeuch, said, “Send me Danica’s files.” Then Theodore, who had deep experience treating patients with motor vehicle-related traumatic spine injuries in Arizona, called. “He said, I’m honored and humbled to take this case. This is what I do,” recalls Snyder.

Indeed, Theodore had performed some 150 of these high-risk procedures. But as confident as he was, Theodore knew this revision spine surgery would be no walk in the park. He would be operating on the CVJ, the holy grail of spine surgery, what Theodore calls “high-priced real estate.” And this anatomy had been altered by broken rods and previous surgeries, obstructing his visual field.

“If you haven’t seen this before, from a surgical perspective, it’s kind of daunting,” says Theodore. “It’s like being in the middle of New York City and someone takes your map away and you don’t know where you are.”

To navigate this terrain, he took advantage of intraoperative imaging advances at Johns Hopkins, positioning Danica in an O-arm CT to obtain real-time 3-D images during the procedure.

“In this case, the technology was critical in determining the location of the broken rods, spinal canal and other critical structure all covered in semihealing bone,” says Theodore. “The imaging gave us immediate feedback where everything is.”

The imaging and Theodore’s surgical expertise were important in another regard too. In a previous surgery, the end of a spinal drain catheter had broken off and now threatened Danica’s brain stem. Using the intraoperative CT, Theodore knew exactly where it was and was able to neatly remove it instead of making a large opening in the dura—the membrane covering the spinal canal and brain—exposing the spinal cord and fishing around for it.

“We were able to make a very small opening, dissect the catheter away from the brain stem and take it out,” says Theodore.

To stabilize Danica’s severely unstable CVJ, which posed a risk of pinching her spinal cord and incurring severe neurologic deficits, Theodore meticulously removed and repaired the broken hardware in the six-hour operation. He also harvested a 3-inch piece of the girl’s top rib for additional support. This is natural bone, explains Theodore, which gives patients a higher rate of healing than cadaver bone.

“Also, the rib has a nice curve to it and fits perfectly between the base of the skull and the upper cervical spine,” says Theodore. “It’s as though God invented it as a piece to fill in this piece of the jigsaw puzzle.”

A Collaborative Win

Danica’s outcome?

“The pain she was having before is gone; she’s doing quite well,” says Theodore. “If she does end up having a solid fusion and everything heals perfectly, I think the future is bright for her. I think it is now. I’ve had pretty good luck in these revision operations.”

Theodore adds that the credit for such outcomes goes to the diverse skills and collaboration of Johns Hopkins’ surgical teams.

“This case underscores our different expertise and team approach history. It’s not one guy doing everything,” says Theodore. “This is one of those areas—complicated spinal problems—where we come together for the benefit of the patient. That type of collaboration is another reason I’m here.”

For Snyder, Danica’s recovery “was everything we had hoped for. She had zero pain after her surgery, and now she’s doing so well. We’ve had amazing support in the community and at school. She’s very loved.”

She attributes her outcome not only to Theodore’s surgical skills, but also to the way he interacted with Danica and infused her with confidence.

“The day before her surgery, Dr. Theodore came into Danica’s room and went right to her and spoke to her like there was no one else in the room. He asked her how she was feeling and talked about her operation, which gave her a lot of confidence going into the surgery,” says Snyder. “He made all the difference in restoring a childhood that she honestly never had.”