#but the real question is. are the bradshaw parents going to be alive in this au

[nixies-creations]

Music Producer Bradley x Rancher Jake

"You know, baby," Bradley starts as he passes Jake a towel to dry his hands, "I definitely didn't have a cowboy kink before I met you." Jake hums, eyes flicking to Bradley before focusing on hanging the towel back up on its hook before turning to lean back against the counter. "Oh?" Bradley nods as he moves in to crowd up against Jake, hands moving to grip the counter on either side of Jake's hips as he tilts his head down enough to press a trail of kisses against his scruff covered cheek before capturing Jake's lips in a soft, tender kiss. "Yeah, baby. Definitely didn't have a thing for the rugged, sweaty, hard working type before I met you." "Should I apologize for opening your eyes to how sexy I can be?" Jake asks, lips curled into a smug smile as he moves to wrap his arms around Bradley's shoulders. "Definitely. You should definitely apologize for using your wile's to make me fall in love with you," Bradley agrees brightly, eyes sparkling as he moves his hands down to grip the back of Jake's thighs to lift him up onto the counter. "You finished with your chores?" Laughing, Jake moves to hook his legs around Bradley's hips, drawing him in even closer to that they are pressed flush together. "Ol' Jerry told me to take the afternoon off since he knew you got in last night. Seems to think his boss could use a little time welcomin' his husband back from bein' outta town." "Remind me to buy Jerry something to say thank you."

[seitmai]

This chapter was a masterpiece, but wtf am I supposed to do with my life now?!

“The cops are gonna ask questions,” she mutters. “There’s gonna be--there’s gonna be bodies, Coyote. Bodies mean like…God, like…a murder investigation. If Bradshaw wakes up--I mean…what are we gonna tell the cops? Who are we gonna tell ‘em did it?” 

Omg finally someone said it!!! This question was on the forefront of my head since knowing that Bradley was possessed

And he doesn’t have the strength to tell you everything he saw. Bob cowering and scrambling, but not being quick enough. Finding Paul hiding under the bed and chasing him through the woods. Slamming the rock against Coyote’s skull. Quietly bringing the ax down on Reuben’s skull, one swift motion that ended it all. Hovering over Mickey as he cried your name of all names. Burying the ax in Jake’s back when he tried to save your life. Looking into your eyes and watching the light beginning to recede. 

Chills

He can feel it now. His parents are just behind him, watching you hold him and stroke his hair. His father’s hand is on his shoulder. They’re waiting for him. They want him to come home.

Screaming, crying, throwing up

The lovesick orphan finally gets to go home 😭

With wide, watery eyes, you gaze down at him. His mustache needs to be trimmed and his cheeks need to be shaved. His brows are slack and his eyes are shut. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ll ever find anything as brown as his eyes ever again. You’ll look for it forever, you think. His cheeks are pale and his lips are shut. Still so handsome despite it all. 

Nothing compares to those baby cow eyes 😭 🥺

“My back,” Jake utters weakly. “It’s killin’ me.” He’s alive. Jake is alive. 

For once in my life I was right and not delulu, I felt it in my bones that he was still alive!!

Turning towards you, she notices a few tears streaming down your face. Sloppily and without grace, she presses her grubby hand to your face and wipes.

Kids sometimes are just so🥺🥺🥺

“That’s special,” you whisper to her. Rooster would’ve gotten a real kick out of that one. You can hear his laugh now--like he’s only off in the distance a little bit, observing. 

Honestly I felt that one in my bones to lmao Me 🤝🏻 Susie

When Bradley was revealed to be the (possessed)murder and the reminder that they slept together my mind was lik: gale for sure is pregnant and it will haunt her no matter what for the rest of her life and a whole ass human is a reminder her of her worst nightmare

Rooster also would not only have gotten a kick out of Susie's little trick but also if he was to become a dad and now he's just observing from afar 🥲🥺 

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐒. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟏𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

It’s familiar--achingly, strangely familiar. Packing the wounds on his wrists, watching the blood ooze through the cotton rapidly, applying pressure with your gloved palms and feeling the life cascade out of him like liquid silk. You’ve done this a few times before in the hospital, usually under the guidance of a doctor or two or three and with a horde of other nurses. 

But despite the familiarity, there are parts that feel strange. Like when you reach for the suture kit and it has a layer of dust over it from sitting in the nurse’s cabin for three summers--where you didn’t even so much as glance at it. Like when you go to spray saline over the wounds and come up empty handed. Or when you glance up to check on the patient and see Bradley there with his eyes shut, mouth ajar, and cheeks pasty. 

Doing these things that you do nearly every single day at the hospital, but on Bradley in the stuffy nurse’s cabin by yourself covered in your friends blood--strange is really the only way you know how to categorize it. If you had more time to process what was happening, maybe you’d use something stronger. Disturbing. Traumatizing. But no--even those words don’t pull enough weight to describe the deep, nausea you’re feeling.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” you mutter to yourself, working as quickly as you can. 

You’re on the clock now--every single moment of every single second is imperative to Bradley’s survival. You only have a few minutes to sew the seam of his wrists--the ones you put there--and then you need to start the transfusion. You’ll only have a few minutes to transfuse--then you must start compressions and mouth-to-mouth and inject the epinephrine, because you know that by then he will be gone. Totally and completely gone. And if you leave him like that for even a moment too long, he will be the kind of gone that you cannot bring back.

But your hands are shaking and your vision is blurring and you’re growing weaker with every passing moment. Still, you persist. You’re running on fumes. You’ve been running on fumes. You’ll continue to run on fumes until this is over and Bradley is back and you get the fuck away from Camp Arcadia forever. 

“Sit tight. I’m right here with you, okay? Don’t worry,” you mutter to him, just like you would mutter to a patient from behind a paper mask. 

If you had a free hand, you’d hold his.

Your face is hot, just like it always is in the hospital under the bright lamps and the fluorescents above you--but this heat is more intimate. It’s closer to you, made up of skin and dust and stale wood. 

Glancing up at Bradley again--his face so still and his chest so flat--you swallow thickly. 

You need to work faster. 

With an overwhelming sensation of burning covering your chest and neck, you feel that sick sense of defeat. You’re not doing enough. You’re not going fast enough. You have to work harder. 

“Stay with me,” you whisper to Bradley, brow furrowed in concentration. “Don’t fucking--don’t go anywhere, alright? You stay here with me.”

Outside, the air is cooler and less stuffy. The lake is lapping at the shore and the great oak trees are bending in the breeze as a wispy cloud drifts across the sky overhead. Despite this picturesque scene, Coyote and Phoenix stand with their backs pressed to another’s and their eyes wide open. Even their blinks are measured and fleeting.

The children are all tentatively stretching their legs as they stand in line for the restroom. They’re all tired eyes and snotty noses and knotted hair, very quiet and very sullen. The reality of this situation--of this horror and the dwindling number of camp counselors--has completely dawned on them. It sits on their cheeks hotter than the sun, brighter than the bitterly blue sky above them. 

Phoenix is watching them carefully, obsessively counting them. She knows, realistically, that you have Bradley contained. That he won’t get away from you. That this should almost be over. But there is still a piece of her, maybe a piece that was born when Bob died, that imagines another monster jumping out from behind a tree and making a grab for the kids.

“Two at a time,” Phoenix reminds them, her voice thin and her eyes dry. A few of the campers glance at her with red-rimmed eyes and ruddy cheeks. She clears her throat. “Stay with your buddies, alright?” 

Coyote hasn’t looked away from the nurse’s cabin yet. He can’t. Not only because he is expecting to bust the doors down at the first sign of trouble, but because he doesn’t know where else to look. 

He could look to his left and he would see the bloody puddle that had started this whole thing, sinking into the gravel beneath Bob’s arm. Just his arm. The arm that was severed from his body so brutally--the wound that got infected, the infection that killed him.

He could look to his right and he’d see the trailhead. The last place that Reuben and Mickey were seen. The mouth that will open up to the trails where their bodies lay. He doesn’t know how far they’ll be down the path, but he knows that they’re there.

He could look just to the left of the nurse’s cabin and see the mess hall. Yes, the mess hall with the buckshot doors and the bloodshed and his best friend’s body. He doesn’t have it in him to so much as glance in that direction. Not when he knows that Jake is there. 

He could look to the bus barn. He could look at your puke staining the gravel from when you dropped down and spilled after Bob died. Bob’s body. The blood. The slashed tires. The heat. The darkness. 

So, instead, he just watches the dark and quiet nurse’s cabin where he knows you are. 

“Anything?” Phoenix asks. 

She doesn’t uncross her arms or look away from the children.

“No,” Coyote answers. 

“Think she’s got it?” Phoenix asks, toeing the gravel, still counting the little heads internally. 

“Yeah,” Coyote answers. He sniffs, selfishly blinks a few times. “I think so.” 

It’s quiet for a few moments between them. 

“What are we gonna do?” Phoenix whispers. 

“We’re already doing what we can--!” 

“--No,” she whispers. Her eyes water. “What are we gonna do when this is all over?” 

Coyote shifts uncomfortably, his stomach unsettled. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The cops are gonna ask questions,” she mutters. “There’s gonna be--there’s gonna be bodies, Coyote. Bodies mean like…God, like…a murder investigation. If Bradshaw wakes up--I mean…what are we gonna tell the cops? Who are we gonna tell ‘em did it?” 

None of this has even occurred to Coyote. He has been in survival mode for days now, thinking only in the moment and never bounding ahead of his feet. 

“We’ll tell the truth,” he answers, but even he knows the weight the truth carries. 

“Right,” Phoenix says. “He was possessed. I’m sure they’ve heard that one before.”

“But it’s true,” Coyote argues. “How can they…how can they not believe us?” 

“Would you?” Phoenix asks. She scratches her nose and covertly wipes a few tears from her cheeks. “If you were Bob’s mom and dad…if you were his baby brother…would you accept that? Or would you want to see Bradley fry?” 

His eyes squeeze shut. 

“I didn’t even think about…” he trails off, shaking his head and swallowing hard. “I didn’t…I didn’t think this would ever end.” 

“Me neither,” Phoenix agrees. She shifts uncomfortably in the heat. “But it’s ending now. One way or another, it’s ending. And we have to figure out what we’re gonna do after it all.” 

“Ain’t that a bite,” Coyote mutters. His fists clench a few times around nothing. “He’s gonna go to jail, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah,” Phoenix answers. She sniffles again at the notion, not-so-covertly wiping her face of a few more tears. “I can’t believe it. This is a real nightmare. I keep waiting to wake up.” 

“Me too,” Coyote says, voice strained. 

Blindly, he begins to bat behind him. Phoenix, brows furrowed, looks down at his hand at the precise moment that he finds hers. He holds onto her tight, lacing their fingers together. 

“We’re alive,” Coyote whispers to her. “That’s what we should be trained on, alright? We’re still standing.” 

The epinephrine is gone now--all of it injected directly into Bradley’s chest, in the rough area of his heart. And with the last bit of your strength, you’re pushing down on his chest steadily with your hands locked. 

One. Two. Three. 

Then you stop, plug Bradley’s nose, tilt his chin up, and blow harshly into his mouth until his chest rises. And you blow until your own lungs are empty. 

“C’mon,” you whisper to him, sweat dripping down your back. “C’mon, Bradley. Wake up. Wake up!” 

This continues for minutes.

The repetition lulls you almost, despite your arms being tired and your lungs being deflated. You could do this for hours--you have done it for hours before. It doesn’t matter if your arms are tired--it doesn’t matter that you’re feeling faint. You can turn it all off, all the pain and fatigue, and operate on autopilot forever if you need to.

His body is still. The color is evading his cheeks. He is not waking up. 

“Don’t fucking die,” you beg him, shaking your head. Your cheeks are hot with tears. “Please don’t fucking die on me, Bradley. Please, please, please!”

The thought of Bradley being gone forever makes your knees feel deflated. The thought of losing another person, another friend, another lover makes you want to sink to your knees and decompose into the earth. You will rot if Bradley and Jake and Bob and Paul and Reuben and Mickey are dead. There will be no way for you to move forward past all this death--you just know it. 

You think about this summer in terms of Bradley’s life. All the stolen glances, the secret kisses. His hands on the curve of your waist. The rough parts of his hands against your cheeks as he tucked hair behind your ears. Him taking your Stephen King novel so you’d stop torturing yourself with nightmares--and how wrong you both were about the origin of them. When he pressed inside you for the first time, he was so gentle. He had his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes were looking into yours and his breaths were long and warm on your cheek.

He was so alive. So alive when all the campers huddled around him during the thunderstorm. When he cut the lakewater with his bare arms, grinning, gaining on you rapidly on your way to retrieve the canoe. When he sat around the bonfire and played his guitar, a little bit drunk and a little bit in love with you. When he nursed you through your nosebleed, holding you against his chest. When he sat in the nurse’s cabin and bled--even that was life in its purest form. 

You know that the color of life is blood-red. 

“Bradley,” you mutter again, pushing down on his chest. You want this life back so bad that you can almost taste it. “Bradley…please come back.”

There is no big change when it happens. No one is knocked over by a gust of wind and the sun doesn’t shine brighter and the clouds don’t disappear and the air doesn’t grow warmer. It is the exact same as it was when Bradley left--you don’t notice when he comes back, because he does so very quietly.   

Just as suddenly and silently as he went still, he is not still. 

You see it when you’re pushing down on his chest again--his lashes flutter. One time, barely there. Your head is spinning as you reach for his jugular to feel a pulse and yes, there it is. A weak thing, only a little bit of movement. But there it is.

“Bradley?” You whisper. 

Bringing your knuckles down over his chest, you push down. His shoulder just barely raise off the table. His lashes flutter again. 

“Hey,” you say, louder now, wiping your cheeks. You push down hard on his chest until his eyes begin to crack open. “Open your eyes…listen to my voice, alright? Can you hear me?” 

Bradley isn’t sure where he is for a moment. Blinking a few times, he tries to grow accustomed to the light glaring at him. Everything’s blurry and everything is hot. He can’t move. 

“Bradley,” you say. And you’re not sure why other than a feeling in your gut, but you know that the man blinking himself into consciousness, the man you just brought back, is Bradley. It’s him. “Hey! Rooster! Can you hear me?” 

Pain pulses through his body, thick in his wrists and his head. A groan falls from his lips as he blinks a few more times. His eyelids are heavy--so heavy that he wants to close them again. 

“Do you know where you are?” You ask, voice loud and clear. No. He doesn’t know where he is. And even though he doesn’t answer, you speak again. “Bradley, you’re in the nurse’s cabin. Do you know why?” 

It comes rushing back to him like a bullet slicing through the air and puncturing his brain. 

Oh, God. Everything he did…his friends…the ax…the woods…you…

Bile dribbles out from between his lips. You’re quick to wipe it away with your fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” he utters--and it’s the first thing he’s said now that he’s back in his body. He doesn’t know where he was before--that dark and damp and quiet place--but he knows he’s back now. And he knows what his hands have done. “Oh…I’m sorry…” 

Relieved and grieved, you sob. He’s just staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed and his face bruised and cut and red from the heat. You make quick work of untying him, unbounding his arms and legs. 

“Bradley,” you cry. Your body is shaking. “It wasn’t--Jesus, it wasn’t you, alright? We all know that. We all--he told us all. He fucked up. I…I ended it. It’s over, Roo. It’s finally fucking over.” 

Yes, he remembers it. He watched it all happen, voiceless and unable to move. He remembers his eyes on you when his voice echoed in the woods. 

Your side is so cold. Come to bed. 

He tries to swallow all his grief, but he chokes on it, coughing

“It’s okay,” you utter, turning his head to the side. He spews out some blood and bile. “Let it out.” 

And that’s the first time he sees you back in his own skin. 

His vision is still blurred and the pain is still ever-present and radiating across his skin and in his organs and God, he’s so tired. But you’re here now, a trembling frame dressed in blood and looking at him as if you’re truly happy to see him. 

“Bird,” he whispers with much effort. He wants to tell you how sorry he is, even if he knows it wasn’t him, even if you know it wasn’t him. But he can’t muster much strength. “Bird…”

“Shhh,” you whisper. “Don’t talk, baby.”

And then you’re falling onto your knees and finally, your body is at rest. Everything vibrates and your blood simmers. You stroke Bradley’s hair, tears pouring down your face at a rushed pace. 

Bradley’s still staring at you, unable to do much else. Tears fall down his cheeks and bile dribbles from his lips and his cuts ooze blood and his face is beginning to lose its color again. 

But right now, it’s you and it’s him. And the horror is over for now. You can finally rest. Bradley can finally see.

“I knew it wasn’t you,” you tell him, stroking carefully. He blinks at you again. His eyes are awash with grief. “We all…we all knew it wasn’t you. No one’s mad at you, Roo. I promise it. Cross my heart, hope to die. You weren’t the one who did it.” 

“They’re gone,” Rooster says, his voice soft and weak. “I did it…my hands…I couldn’t stop it.” 

“I know,” you whisper, nodding to him. “I know. We know.”

He hears you loud and clear. He knows what you’re saying. But it doesn’t lessen the burden on his shoulders--the burden of murdering these innocent people. The burden of traumatizing these children. The burden of making you hunt him. 

“I can’t…” he whispers. And if he was strong enough, he’d sob. But instead, he’s just choking on his tears. His fists clench. “I can’t live with what…with what I did.” 

“Stop,” you order. Your head is spinning. Scrambling, you reach for his hands and hold on as tightly as you can, sobbing and looking into his eyes. “It’s gonna be alright now. I…I brought you back. It doesn’t matter what happened when you weren’t--when you weren’t inside.”

“Yes,” he argues. His lips tremble. “Can’t…I can’t take it.”

It’s when Rooster takes a deep and strangled breath that you see the blood beginning to pool around Rooster’s wrists. Your stitches, the ones you did in haste so you could bring him back, aren’t holding. And Rooster is a bleeder. 

“Shit,” you utter, pressing down on his wrists, eyes wide. “Shit, I’m--I didn’t get these tight enough. God, hold on, alright? Just hold on.” 

“No,” he whispers. He hisses when you push down harder. His heart is hammering. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” You ask, brows furrowed as you reach for more gauze. You sniffle hard, packing his wound again, trying to decide if you have enough time to grab another donation bag from the fridge across the room. “Don’t save you?” 

“Yes,” he whispers. Bradley swallows. “I’m dying.” 

He knows just like he knows when it’s gonna storm. It could be a clear blue day and he could smell that smell--metal, pepper--and know it was coming. Death smells like flowers, he thinks. 

“Shut the Hell up,” you demand suddenly. He’s looking at you, watching you try and save him. How panicked you look. How much grief he’s caused. How much he’s changed everything. “Don’t fucking say that!” 

“I can’t…” he starts, his eyes growing watery. “I can’t live with what…with what I did…” 

“You didn't do it,” you argue. “Gwyar did! We all…we all know it!” 

Gathering more gauze haphazardly, you continue packing his wound. Your heart is racing. Fuck. Of course you didn’t do the sutures tightly enough. Of course he’s going to keep bleeding. 

You aren’t doing enough. You’re losing. 

“I saw it,” Rooster whispers. “I saw it all.” 

And he doesn’t have the strength to tell you everything he saw. Bob cowering and scrambling, but not being quick enough. Finding Paul hiding under the bed and chasing him through the woods. Slamming the rock against Coyote’s skull. Quietly bringing the ax down on Reuben’s skull, one swift motion that ended it all. Hovering over Mickey as he cried your name of all names. Burying the ax in Jake’s back when he tried to save your life. Looking into your eyes and watching the light beginning to recede. 

Before this summer, before this week, he’s considered himself a pacifist. He’s not down with the war, he’s never cared about wrestling or boxing, he didn’t even like West Side Story. But now there is real actual blood on his hands. People have died beneath his palms. 

He can’t live with it. 

“I did too, alright?” You say, suddenly defensive. You keep packing gauze, but he’s bleeding through it all in mere moments. “C’mon, Bradley don’t--don’t fucking do this. Please!” 

“I’m dying,” Rooster repeats. 

“I get it,” you say loudly. “I can’t--I can’t--I couldn’t fucking save you. I can’t fucking save anyone! I know! I’m trying so…I’m trying so hard. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what I need you?” 

Rooster’s eyes are growing heavier. 

“I…” 

“What was all of this for then?” You scream, eyes wide. Spit coats the corners of your mouth as you stare at him, head pounding. “Why…why did I work so hard to bring you back if you’re just gonna--if you’re just gonna go again? Why are you…why are you leaving me?”

You stare at him, eyes wide and hair frazzled. You’re like a wild animal. 

“Gale,” he whispers. He swallows hard--it’s all blood and bile. “I love you.” 

“Don’t,” you tell him. Trembling, you press harder on his wrists. “Don’t say that to me.”

“Stop,” Rooster whispers weakly. “Hold me.” 

It disarms you. A simple request. Something that is as easy as putting your arms around him and letting the blood soak the table. It would be easier than what you’re doing now, which is fruitless. You're beginning to understand that. 

“I can’t,” you whimper, bottom lip trembling. What you mean is: you can’t watch him die. “I can fix this, I can just get another bag of blood and--!” 

“Don’t,” he whispers. He’s trembling now. “Hold me.” 

And what he means is: you have to stop.

So, very limply, you pull your hands away from his wrists. Blood pours out fast and slick. Every fiber in your being screams for you to apply pressure, to pack the wounds. But you don’t. You just watch it for a moment. 

Then you pull yourself up and climb onto the table--your limbs are quivering and your movements are jerky and clumsy. You know that it’s the exhaustion. You haven’t slept or ate or drank anything in too long--far, far too long. 

You’re going into shock. 

Bradley’s body is shivering. That’s what happens to someone when they lose an extreme amount of blood--you know this. And you know that he must be cold. So, for what will be the last time, you pull his warm body against yours and hold onto him tight. 

“I’m cold,” he whispers to you. 

Holding him tighter, tighter than you’ve ever held him before, you nod. 

“You’re going into shock,” you whisper to him, blinking a few times. “You might get confused, too. You’re going to get tired. It’s…normal.” 

He nods, teeth chattering. Even covered in blood, even having done what you’ve done, you’re the softest and warmest thing Bradley has ever touched in his life.

You don’t say anything for a moment, just trying not to cry as you hold Bradley. The reality of the situation is dawning on you with every passing moment: Bradley is going to die. He is going to die right here in your arms and you lost and you couldn’t save him and it’s all ending right here where it started.  

It feels like a loss because it is. You lost. Simple as that. 

“I’m really cold,” he whispers to you, teeth chattering. 

Nickels gather beneath your tongue. 

It rubs its nose against yours. 

The perfume of an old friend floods your nostrils. 

Yes, it’s coming now. It’s here. 

“I know,” you tell him quietly, holding him closer. His body is warm for now. You hold him as tightly as you can--the way you should’ve held onto him all summer. If you could go back, knowing what you know now, you would’ve gripped him with every nail embedded in his skin. You would’ve held on so tight that you merged into one being. You would’ve never let go. “It’s gonna pass, okay?” 

He nods, coughing a few more times. 

He looks up at you and suddenly, you don’t look angry anymore. Your face is soft and wet with sweat and tears and old blood that he knows is not yours. He thinks this must be what you look like at the hospital--when you’re composed and busy and deeply empathetic.  

“Will you stay?” He mutters to you. 

The fear of going alone is beginning to gnaw on his toes.

“Yes,” you answer, two fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Of course I will.” 

Usually, when someone is dying at the hospital, you’ll talk to them. Calm them. Tell them it’s okay. Let them know that what’s happening is normal and natural. Let them go under your steady hands and watchful eyes. 

But you’re fighting every fiber in your being as it vibrates with panic. You want to shake Bradley and tell him not to go. You want to beg him to stay here with you. You want to pinch yourself until you wake up from this fucking nightmare. 

And it’s in this quiet, this quiet that is holding you still, that you suddenly hear the radio playing in the corner. It’s been on all this time--you never turn it off. 

Love Hurts by The Everly Brothers has just begun. 

The scent of jasmine floods Bradley’s nose--he knows it must not be yours. No way your perfume would still be thick on your skin after everything you’ve been through. No, it isn’t you, but it is a familiar scent. A scent that makes Bradley feel like he’s back in his childhood home, gripping the tire swing as his father pushes him, his mother watching on fondly from the porch with a glass of lemonade for Bradley. And yes, that’s it--his mother. His mother wore jasmine, too. He can smell it as if she’s standing just behind him, just out of his field of vision, stroking his hair. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you admit softly, tears pouring down your cheeks. 

“I can smell it,” Bradley says. “My ma…”

Delirium. He’s close. You hold him tighter. 

Love hurts, love scars

Love wounds and marks

You’re stuck in the middle of wanting to remember every bit of him and not wanting to remember his crumpled form like this at all. Those legs, once so strong, are folded on the table like a paper envelope. His arms limp. His eyes listless and glazed. His mustache matted with blood. His face bruised and swollen. 

“I wish we had more time,” you whisper to him. Your heart pounds as you stroke his hair. “I wish…I wish I’d have called you during the year. Or wrote. I was…I was scared it was only for the summer, you know? I was just…I was…” 

“If I have to go,” Bradley whispers. His vision is vignetting. Distantly, he can hear it: his father’s laughter. Louder than life, booming. His mother’s soft tutting. It’s growing louder. “I’m glad…I’m glad it’s here.”

“Bradley,” you whimper. You hold onto him tighter. And you’re sobbing now, but you know you must say something to him. You must comfort him. “Mable…Mable told me about her version of Heaven. It feels like…God, it feels like forever ago, but it was only a few days ago. She said that it’s like staying at a nice hotel. All the sheets are clean and the pillows are fluffed and there’s little chocolates. And…when you go at the right time, all your stuff is there. Like--for you, it’d be a guitar and your tapes and your cropped tops.” 

A smile cracks across Bradley’s dry lips. 

I know a thing or two

I learned from you

I really learned a lot, really learned a lot

“Do you think she’s bullshitting?” You whisper to Bradley, stroking his sweaty hair. His face is pale. He weakly nods and you smile sadly. “What is Heaven?” 

He can feel it now. His parents are just behind him, watching you hold him and stroke his hair. His father’s hand is on his shoulder. They’re waiting for him. They want him to come home.

Home. He’s missed home. The scent of cinnamon in the kitchen as his ma made that tea, which was always a bit sour and never the same color as it was the night before. All the photographs of his father lining the walls, more familiar to Bradley than his father’s real face. He remembers bits and pieces of his father--never enough to satisfy himself. 

Home has never been home without his parents. 

As his consciousness begins to fade and his ears begin to ring, he smiles. It is the last time he will ever smile. And he looks at you, his blood-covered baby, and his chest grows warm. 

“Here,” he mutters. You know he means in your arms. “You’ve got…a sweet touch, birdie.” 

His mother coos in his ear, her voice soft and excited and sweet. And his father is holding onto his arm, his grip solid and tight. With his final strength, Bradley turns his cheek. He sees them--real and solid as the oak trees lining the perimeter of Camp Arcadia. His mother’s hair is long. His father’s face is shaved. 

“This way,” his ma says. “It’s all right now.”

“This way…” Bradley mutters. 

You stroke his face. It is the last thing he feels on this earth: your fingers, sticky with gore, sinking into the stubble on his cheek. He was right all along--never bullshitted you. You do have a sweet touch. Sweet enough to make him close his eyes. 

He inhales, but never exhales. 

He is gone.

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

“Bradley?” You whisper. 

But you know. You don’t let go of him. You keep his body in your arms, his heaviness weighing you down to this earth. Deadweight. 

With wide, watery eyes, you gaze down at him. His mustache needs to be trimmed and his cheeks need to be shaved. His brows are slack and his eyes are shut. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ll ever find anything as brown as his eyes ever again. You’ll look for it forever, you think. His cheeks are pale and his lips are shut. Still so handsome despite it all. 

There is no urge to scream or beg or shake or weep. You just watch his face, finally at rest, and keep watching it until you know in your chest that he is gone and you are alone and life is never going to be the same.

It’s over. It’s all over now.  

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. With quivering lips, you press a kiss to his forehead. He’s still warm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

Something untethers then and there, when you choke on the final part of your sentence. Your soul and your body, your heart and your head, your consciousness and your trauma. It feels like you’re floating above yourself, watching as your body slips out from beside Bradley and lands on the wide-plank, blood-stained floors with a thud. Your hair is frazzled and your eyes are glazed as you grab the shotgun from the corner and wait at the door. 

Not a minute later, Coyote is moving the rock and ripping the door open. He’s been waiting for you--waiting for you to give any indication that you need help or that he’s alive or that you’re alive. 

And now that he’s standing here, panting, watching you, he’s not sure what he’s seeing right now. 

“Gale,” he says, voice dripping with the kind of relief he cannot afford as he pulls you into an embrace. You don’t even feel his arms around you from where you are hovering above yourself--but you see his biceps rippling from how tightly he’s got you. He looks at your face when you don’t hug him back and he’s going to ask you what happened when he looks over your shoulder and sees Bradley’s body laying in a pool of blood. He’s dead. He knows instantaneously. “Oh, Jesus…”   

Breaking past Coyote, you step into the sun. You ignore the campers all watching you, vaguely aware that your bloody form will genuinely haunt the deepest crevices of their brains and stalk their nightmares for the rest of their lives. You ignore Phoenix, who’s looking at you and Coyote with her hands over her mouth like she’s horrified--you’re sure she is. This is horrifying. 

“Gale,” Phoenix calls to you. But it falls on deaf ears. You’re stalking towards the mess hall like a zombie, like everything has finally caught up with you and has rendered you silent and comatose. “Gale!” 

And you watch your form, wilted and covered in blood, as you pull open the mess hall doors and walk inside the building. Everyone watches you from their spots on the gravel, confused. And everyone watches as Coyote holds his hands over his face and openly weeps.

It’s quiet in the mess hall. Kate Bush is still playing, but your ears are ringing like you’re shell-shocked. Maybe you are. You feel like this is the closest one can get to shell-shocked without having a bomb go off beside them. 

Jake’s where you left him. Blood has gathered around him and has seeped into the wooden floors. He’s still and quiet, just like Bradley. In the time you were gone, though, he turned onto his belly. Oh. You wonder if it was more comfortable for him.

To love someone so much that you’re ready to go as soon as they’re gone--it’s something you almost cannot fathom, something you don’t want to fathom. People die all the time, every single day, all around you. What if everyone gave up that way?

There are six bodies at Camp Arcadia and right now, you’re in the same room as the one you loved. There is one bullet left and right now, you’re holding the shotgun. 

“She was ready the moment my dad died, birdie.”

Watching still, you walk to Jake. His eyes are closed and his blonde locks are matted with blood. He’s not moving. Your knees hit the ground and then you’re laying down beside Jake, moving to be closer to his body. 

It’s all over. 

Bradley’s gone. 

No one else can be hurt. 

But you lost. You lost. It beat you. 

It’s all over now, though. 

There is still heat coming off his body--he must’ve left not too long ago. And it really rips you apart to think that he was alone when he left. He didn’t get the pleasure, the privilege of being held when his body separated from his spirit and he died. He just died by himself on the wood floors, scared and cold and with no one to warm him.

Wishing vehemently that he could hold you, that he could say something out of pocket that would make you roll your eyes and shove him, you scoot in close to him. If you don’t think about it too hard, you think he could still be alive right now. Just sleeping. For now, you’ll allow yourself to play pretend. 

The truth gnaws at your brainstem, though. This is it. He will be quiet and so will you. You’ll lay against his chest and there will be one bullet and you will close your eyes. 

Gripping the shotgun, biting your trembling lip, you rest your face against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and your voice sounds far away. “I’m really sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Like a rubber band snapping against your skin, you blink and suddenly you’re in your body again. Scrambling, you sit up on your hands and look down at Jake’s face. 

“Jake?” You whisper. 

Nothing for a moment. 

Delirium. You must be close, too. 

Sinking your head onto his arm again, your eyes begin to glaze over. 

You lost. You did lose. It’s over. It’s all over. He’s gone. Everyone’s gone. 

“My back,” Jake utters weakly. “It’s killin’ me.” 

Heart racing, you pop up and look at his face. And his eyes are open--most gloriously, splendidly open. Those aspen-colored eyes are rimmed with red and faded with pain, but they’re looking into yours. 

“Jake,” you mutter in disbelief. You drop the shotgun and it clatters against the floor. “Jake!” 

Jake is just about to say something else when suddenly, you burst. Everything that you bottled up, every single emotion you steeled, comes out of you like an atomic bomb. You’re sobbing, tears pouring out of your eyes and mouth wide open. You’re laughing, the sound strangled as it echoes in the hall. You’re screaming, reaching for his face. Everything is happening all at once, leaking out of you like blood. 

“It’s okay,” Jake says because he doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s…it’s okay.” 

And you’re just repeating his name, holding his cheeks, screaming and laughing and sobbing and Jake just watches. 

Coyote comes running at the sounds falling from your mouth. His mind races with possibilities: an animal getting to Jake and you walking in on it. Someone else sneaking into camp to finish what Damien couldn’t. You using the shotgun and missing.

But when he bursts through the doors of the mess hall, ready for a fight, he doesn’t expect to see you holding onto Jake. And he doesn’t expect to see Jake holding you right back. 

“You’re here!” You keep screaming at Jake, sobbing. 

Coyote’s knees wobble. 

“Jake?” Coyote asks. 

“That’s me,” he hears Jake slyly mutter, voice thin but there. 

He’s alive. Jake is alive. 

And then Coyote and laughing and crying, stumbling to your form on the ground and throwing his arms around you and around Jake.

You feel it coming into you slowly--a bit of hope. Just enough to keep you from holding the gun in your hands again, just enough to keep you from walking into the lake with rocks in your shoes. 

Bradley is gone. He died in your arms. 

But Jake is alive--he is here in your grip and he’s holding you and Coyote is holding the two of you close to him and you’re all laughing and crying. This is life right here. Hot breath and damp hair and rank pits and blood. 

“Lemme see you,” you utter, sniffing hard. 

You peel yourself away from his embrace and look at his back--the wound is deep and ugly. But you think if you take your time, if you disinfect and suture tightly and clearly, if you wrap it up real nice--he will be okay. 

“You absolute clown,” Coyote cries to Jake. “I thought you were dead!” 

“I did, too,” Jake assures Coyote. He smiles weakly and his throat is thick with love. “Am I…gonna die?” 

“No,” you say quickly. And even you believe it when you say it. “I’ve got you.”

♀

Now that you have all the time in the world to sleep, you cannot. 

Everything is very quiet now. 

It’s the kind of quiet it was the night of your very first nightmare. No cabin settling, all the frogs and bullfrogs have retired. There is no wind billowing in the trees. The birds are silent and there is not a twig to be snapped. 

Except this time, no peculiar feeling prickles you. Before, you felt like you were witness to something you shouldn’t have been. But now, as you gaze out across the black water, you think there is probably nothing in the world you shouldn’t be witness to. It’s a feeling that holds hands with your grief, trails after it like a forgotten friend.

The night sky is vast and endless as it stretches across this little world of yours. The air is cooler and the blood on your skin is comfortably dry. You still haven’t had time to shower yet--not while you’ve been taking care of Jake. 

He’s asleep now--you gave him a morphine tablet and he fell asleep in an instant right beside Coyote. And Coyote had looked at you, the one who sutured and cleaned and saved Jake, with a trembling lip. 

“He’s gonna be alright?” 

“Yes,” you’d told him, really meaning it. He was gonna be alright. “As long as we get him to a hospital soon.” 

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Phoenix had whispered from the door, body drooping as she leaned against the doorframe. “Let’s just…rest now.” 

“Yeah,” Coyote agreed. “It’s…over.”

It’s over. You have to keep telling yourself that. It’s over. It’s done. Nothing can hurt you now--or anyone else. If everyone were still alive, if everyone had survived the massacre and you had saved Bradley, then camp could just resume now. Sloppy joes in the mess hall. A talent show during the last week of camp. Bruised elbows from knocking into each other in the canteen. 

But it’s over and it feels like everyone is dead and now this is the after.

This is the beginning of the rest of your life. You used to think that the beginning of the rest of your life could be marked by different milestones: college graduation, the first day of your real job, the day you met Jake, the day you met Bradley. But, no--this is it. Each day after this one, like a line of dominoes wobbling and ready to collapse, will be the same. You will struggle and push and make it through just barely. Just barely. You will live with all this grief until you die. 

Each time your mind swims, when you begin to think about Bradley looking away from you just before his final breath or Paul’s gurgled pleading, you have to pinch your legs hard. So hard that your eyes water. Now there is a steady line of bruises clouding your thighs. 

How are you supposed to live in this after now? 

You hadn’t asked Phoenix or Coyote that. You’d held that question beneath your tongue like a hidden pill, allowing everyone to eat their first meals, watching as everyone finally came out from their hiding spots to stretch their legs and breathe in all that relief. 

“Are you sad?” 

Turning slowly, you blink through the dark to see Susie’s stout figure standing behind you. Her hair is messy and her clothes are wrinkled as she blinks back at you with wide eyes. 

You hadn’t even heard her coming--sneaky girl. Your heart squeezes when you think about kissing Bradley in the nurse’s cabin, his hand snaking under your shirt, his lips pressed against yours, his breath staining your tongue-- 

Another bruise. Your mouth waters. 

“Yes,” you whisper because you don’t see a point in lying. “It’s been a sad couple days, hasn’t it?” 

If Susie is surprised by the sudden gravelly quality of your voice, she doesn’t show it. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. “The bus was stinky.” 

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you nod. 

“I bet,” you mutter to her. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

Susie shrugs like you’ve just asked her why she didn’t finish her dinner or what she learned today in school. She toes the gravel. 

“Just couldn’t,” she answers. “I think I miss Mister Rooster.” 

Pinching isn’t enough--you bury your fingers in one of the existing bruises. Your jaw quivers. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. You know, logically, that you should comfort her. You’re the adult. Really, what you should do, is walk her back to her cabin and tuck her back in. But you can’t muster any strength to do so. You’re still reeling. You’re always going to be. “Me too.” 

Susie moves closer to you, humming. 

“I tried to get him to dance for you during lunch,” she says, sighing. “But he wouldn’t.” 

Tongue thick with grief, you just turn back towards the water. Distantly, a cricket begins to sing. 

“Oh,” you whisper. 

The simplicity of life only a few days ago seems as far away as home feels.

Susie sits beside you. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just taking in her surroundings: the still water, the big moon, the green grass, the rustling trees. 

“Do you wanna know a secret?” Susie asks.

Turning towards you, she notices a few tears streaming down your face. Sloppily and without grace, she presses her grubby hand to your face and wipes. And just the feeling of her little hand on your face makes you sink further into this earth--the one you will walk on for the rest of your life without these people that you loved.

“What’s that?” You whisper. 

Susie is certain she is going to please you with her secret. It pleased her mom and dad so much that they cried and hugged her and bought her ice cream. They told everyone about it and pinched her cheeks and laughed. 

“I can tell when people are gonna have babies,” she says, nodding with wide eyes. 

Ears ringing, you just nod. Grief sits heavy on your back. 

“That’s special,” you whisper to her. 

Rooster would’ve gotten a real kick out of that one. You can hear his laugh now--like he’s only off in the distance a little bit, observing. 

She nods. 

“What are you gonna name yours?” She asks. 

Brows furrowed, you shake your head. 

“Name my what?” You ask, perplexed. 

She rolls her eyes like you’re being ridiculous. 

“Your baby,” she whispers. Your blood runs cold. You just stare at her. She smiles and takes your hand, brows raised with excitement. “It’s a girl, you know!”

You walk her back to her cabin after that, too stunned and confused and scared and sad to continue your conversation anymore. 

When you’re back in your cabin, you’re near the point of collapsing. 

It’s quiet in here--and very dark. But still, through the dark, you’re able to find your footing and make it to the cot in the corner. Coyote is slumbering on the floor beside Jake, unable to leave his side. You understand. Hold onto what you can. 

It’s when you lay at the foot of the bed, curled up like a cat around Jake’s calves, that you’re able to steady your breathing. Your mind is still swimming and your heart is still racing, but it’s alright. You're safe. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. 

Jake wakes up when he hears you sniffle. He’s a bit out of it because of the morphine, but he feels good. Maybe not good, but better. Better’s the right word. 

As he blinks himself awake a bit, yawning, he realizes that you’re curled around his legs. 

“Gale?” He asks. 

“Yes,” you whisper. He notes the hoarseness of your voice and wonders if it’s from your lack of sleep. His heart pulses. “Am I hurting you?” 

“No,” he answers quickly. “Can’t feel a damn thing right now.” 

“Lucky you,” you whisper. 

Neither of you say anything for a moment. 

You adjust on the bed and the springs cry beneath you. This bed used to feel so uncomfortable--a shitty mattress and wool blankets. But right now, you’d consider this heaven on earth. 

Heaven. Earth. 

It all feels so fleeting. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jake whispers. 

A sad, sad smile tugs on your lips. 

“I lost,” you whisper. You don’t have it in you to explain to Jake what happened with Susie or what happened before when he was in the mess hall. You don’t know if you ever will. “I…lost.”

Jake swallows hard. Coyote told him that Bradley died--that you did what you could with what you had and it was simply not enough. 

“We lost,” he says. “But we didn’t, really.”

He means that at least you’re still alive and so is he. 

“I was supposed to save everyone,” you mutter. You sniffle. “God, I hate that word. Save. Like I’m some really very superhero. But that--that’s what I was supposed to do. And I couldn’t.” 

Jake swallows hard. He wishes that he could lean down and take you in his arms. 

“Who says you’re supposed to do that instead of Phoenix or me or Coyote?” 

“The oath,” you whisper. “Me.” 

“Those are some rigid standards,” he whispers to you. 

You sniffle again. 

“I feel like all I do is…lose people,” you mutter to him. 

And then you wipe your face and turn into the covers and inhale the skin and dust and mint that lives in the fibers of the wool blankets. 

“You saved me,” Jake whispers. “You didn’t lose me.”  

It stuns you--again. A few tears slip down your cheeks. 

“I love you,” you mutter and it rolls off your tongue like drool. “But it’s not enough.” 

That burns his lungs. But he nods. 

“It is for me,” he whispers. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye?” 

He knows you haven’t slept yet. 

Choked up suddenly, there is an inexplicable fear eating away at your skin. Little fleabites marking your bones. You’re too afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that you’ll die, afraid that you’ll live, afraid that you’ll miss something, afraid that you’ll miss nothing. 

When you say nothing, Jake knows--even through his haze--that you’re afraid. Finally collapsed on your bed, curled up like some sort of docile creature, still covered in blood. He can look at you like this. 

“Hey,” he whispers. You don’t raise your head. “I’m not so tired. I’ll keep watch, huh?” 

“You need to sleep,” you whisper to him. A few more tears roll down your cheeks. “You’re hurt.” 

“You, too,” he whispers. “And I got all the time in the world to sleep.”

It hits you all at once--sudden and heavy. You’re exhausted. The kind of exhausted that makes keeping your eyes open impossible. 

Jake leans down, groaning and gritting his teeth, just to touch your hair. It’s hardened and matted, but it’s a part of you. So he loves it.

“Sleep,” he demands softly. 

And you do.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I AM SO SORRY, IT HAD TO BE DONE!!!! DON'T CRUCIFY ME!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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[innerchilddailywrk]

25 Signs You Have a Wounded Inner Child

Feeling Safe Inner Child image

Pay close attention to these signs. They will help you learn the general extent to which your inner child has been wounded and the level to which you feel unsafe in this world. The more signs you say “yes” to, the more you need to seriously consider inner child work:

In the deepest part of me, I feel that there’s something wrong with me.

I experience anxiety whenever contemplating doing something new.

I’m a people-pleaser and tend to lack a strong identity.

I’m a rebel. I feel more alive when I’m in conflict with others.

I tend to hoard things and have trouble letting go.

I feel guilty standing up for myself.

I feel inadequate as a man or woman.

I’m driven to always be a super-achiever.

I consider myself a terrible sinner and I’m afraid of going to hell.

I constantly criticize myself for being inadequate.

I’m rigid and perfectionistic.

I have trouble starting or finishing things.

I’m ashamed of expressing strong emotions such as sadness or anger.

I rarely get mad, but when I do, I become rageful.

I have sex when I don’t really want to.

I’m ashamed of my bodily functions.

I spend too much time looking at pornography.

I distrust everyone, including myself.

I am an addict or have been addicted to something.

I avoid conflict at all costs.

I am afraid of people and tend to avoid them.

I feel more responsible for others than for myself.

I never felt close to one or both of my parents.

My deepest fear is being abandoned and I’ll do anything to hold onto a relationship.

I struggle to say “no.”

If you answered yes to ten or more of these statements, working with your inner child should be at the top of your priority list. If you answered yes to five or more of these statements, you should seriously consider reconnecting with your inner child.

How to Support Your Inner Child in Feeling Safe

Inner child healing image

Hold the hand of the child that lives in your soul. For this child, nothing is impossible. – Paulo Coelho

We all have an inner child. When was the last time you spoke or connected with yours? How often do you take the time to tune in and listen to your needs? Do you regularly make space to play and enjoy life?

As human beings, we are not linear or two-dimensional creatures. We are all multi-faceted and have multiple selves. Think about it for a moment: the ‘you’ currently reading this article is very different from the ‘you’ joking around with colleagues, isn’t it? The ‘you’ in the middle of the night is very different from the ‘you’ going to the movies with your partner or friend. The ‘you’ talking to your parents is very different from the ‘you’ talking with your boss.

Your inner child is an essential part of the intricate patchwork that makes up your identity. When you ignore or deny your inner child, he/she is doomed to wither away within the deep dark vaults of your unconscious mind.

Disclaimer: there is so much pain to be faced with inner child work. But there is also so much joy and so much vitality to be experienced. One of the most exciting and miraculous parts of inner child work is that often hidden gifts and aptitudes that we’ve long lost touch with emerge. Not only that, but many of our relationships improve, our addictions/habits lessen or fade away, and our connection with ourselves deepens. Self-love and acceptance are finally possible. I’m not saying you will experience all of these benefits right away, but you will most certainly experience something beneficial so long as you’re committed!

Also, I want to say here that these exercises are not intended to replace therapy, programs or groups for the inner child or child abuse. If you’ve gone through child sexual abuse, severe emotional abuse, or have a mental illness, seeking professional help is essential. This article is only meant to be a supplement. Finally, if you experience strange or overwhelming emotions while practicing the advice below, please stop immediately. Seek the help of a professional counselor before proceeding.

Remember that everything takes time. The practices below are not quick fixes. They’re not sparkly wands that will immediately make everything better. But they will give you the basic tools you need for feeling safe, secure, and protected at a core level. I truly hope you find something below that will nourish you and your relationship with your inner child. And remember, if you need more in-depth help, I recommend finding more inner child healing exercises in our Inner Child Journal.

Here are the summarized points:

Reflect on the timeline of your childhood

Write a letter to your inner child

Write a letter from your inner child

Share your pain with a trusted person

Loving and supportive affirmations

Do an inner child visualization/meditation

Be your own protector and nurturer

I’ll go more in-depth into these points below:

1. Reflect on the timeline of your childhood

You might like to get a piece of paper or document on your computer and divide your childhood into the following stages: Infant Self (0-9 months), Toddler Self (9 months to 3 years), Preschool Self (3-6 years), and School-Aged Self (6 years to puberty).

Within each stage, try your best to recall how you felt, what life was like, and how safe, supported, and accepted you felt. Keep in mind that feeling safe as a child didn’t always have to do with the family environment. Often the school or other environments that we spent a lot of time in shaped our inner child. Record any memories or physical sensations you had, even if they feel fragmented. Record the tones of voice, expressions, and words your parents or teaches used when interacting with you. Even if a memory seems silly or a reaction you remember having seemed excessive, please write it down. As an adult, it’s important to honor what your inner child authentically experienced, even if it seems ridiculous or exaggerated as an adult.

The more information and emotionally-charged material you have for a particular age range, the more you need to focus on connecting with that particular stage. I’ll share with you how below.

2. Write a letter TO your inner child

Imagine that you’re a wise, gentle, and loving wizard or fairy godmother. Imagine that you want to adopt your inner child. As you write the letter, tell your inner child how much you love them and want to spend time with them. Write in a way that makes you feel safe, cared for, and understood. Here’s an example from a letter I have written to my inner child:

Dear Little Ale,

I’m so happy you’re born. I am here to protect, love, and care for you. I want to help you feel loved and accepted for who you are. I want to show you that it’s safe to be heard, to feel, and to be seen. I want you to feel like you will always have a home with me no matter what. I want to help and guide you every step of the way. I love you so much.

Love, Fairy Godmother Aletheia

If you feel emotional during this process, it’s okay. Let yourself cry and be proud of your courage to express how you truly feel.

3. Write a letter FROM your inner child

Using your non-dominant hand (in order to bypass your logical side of the brain), write yourself a letter from the perspective of your inner child. For example, if you are usually right-handed, use your left hand to write. Using your non-dominant hand will help you get more in touch with the feelings of your inner child. Here is my own example of my inner child speaking to me:

Dear Godmother,

I want to find home. Please protect me. I don’t want to feel alone anymore.

Love, Little Ale

You can write back and forth between your Wizard/Fairy Godmother self and your little self. Creating this conversation often reveals a lot of surprising and buried emotions, and new information.

4. Share your pain with a trusted person

It is important that the pain you went through as a child is validated and heard by someone. Whether you seek out a caring friend, support group, or trusted therapist please understand that sharing your feelings is essential to all inner child work. Sure, you can do it alone. And you can do a lot of deep work alone in general. But in order to experience a ‘breakthrough’ or even just to heal deeply, sharing is important. We are social creatures who need others to hold space for us. Your pain needs to be lovingly validated. If the person you’re sharing your inner child work with is questioning, arguing, or trying to give advice to you, you’re not getting what you need!

Here, it is vital for me to emphasize the need to seek real caring and nurturing support. If you don’t have friends who are mature or capable enough of doing this, please consider finding a therapist or spiritual counselor. There are many affordable options out there. Investing in your well-being and mental health IS worth it. There are also many professionals out there who specialize in inner child work or hold workshops. Counselor and self-help writer John Bradshaw writes “I believe that group work is the most powerful form of therapy” when referring to inner child work. But one thing: please don’t share with your family members, even if they are caring. Family members who have not done their own inner child work are much less capable of dealing with yours. Defensiveness, anger, finger-pointing, and grief may result in sharing your feelings with family members, so please don’t do it.

Sharing takes tremendous courage and inner strength. It’s normal and okay to feel scared! Feel the fear, and if you feel ready, share anyway.

5. Loving and supportive affirmations

Loving affirmations are a powerful way to affirm your worthiness and support your journey in feeling safe. When repeated consistently, affirmations have a way of rewiring the brain and sinking down into unconscious layers of programming. Repeating such messages can result in deep change and healing at a primal level.

Here are some loving and supportive affirmations you can say to yourself throughout the day and during meditation:

I will stay here and support you.

Welcome to the world, I’ve been waiting to hold you.

I love you just the way you are.

I’m so glad you’re here.

I want to take care of you.

I want to spend time with you.

I want to hear your thoughts and feelings.

It’s OK to feel sad and scared.

It’s OK to be yourself.

You’re allowed to say no.

You are so special to me.

You have so much to offer the world.

I believe in you.

I will protect you against harm.

You can say these affirmations as many times as you need, whenever is necessary during the day. You might even like to use a special voice when saying these affirmations, such as the voice of a wise old man or a loving mother.

Also feel free to create your own loving affirmations! The list above will help you get started, but often the most powerful affirmations organically arise from your deepest needs.

6. Do an inner child visualization/meditation

You will need to dedicate about half an hour or more to this exercise. Find a quiet and comfortable space, and either sit or lie down.

Imagine that you are about to meet your inner child. You walk outside into your backyard and he/she is playing in a sandbox. What age is he/she? You walk up to your inner child and sit down. “Hello,” you might say, introducing yourself. You look into the eyes of your inner child. What is he/she feeling towards you? Curiosity? Trepidation? Shyness? Skepticism? Excitement? Respect your inner child and his/her boundaries. If he/she wishes to hug you or shake your hand, let that happen. If not, it’s okay. Your inner child may just need to warm up to you. You might next wish to ask, “What do you need the most?” If you are communicating with your infant self during this visualization, the response might come as a visceral feeling as opposed to communicating with your school-aged self who might respond verbally. If your inner child tells you what they need, provide a safe space for them. Let them feel heard, seen, understood, and loved by you. You might like to share with them how much you love and care for them, and wish them to be cared for. If your inner child wishes to be cradled, hugged, or held, embrace the opportunity. Once you feel that your mission to connect with your inner child has been completed, you can visualize yourself walking back into your house. Focus on your breathing, stretch your body, and open your eyes.

I recommend journaling about the experience. Journaling is a wonderful tool for self-reflection, deepening your self-understanding, and also serving as a way to document your progress. So take a few minutes to do it!

7. Be your own protector and nurturer

As adults, it’s important that we take responsibility for our emotional well-being. Feeling safe in this world is extremely important and essential for our inner child to thrive. Signs that you feel unsafe in this world may include:

Constant anxiety around others

Tendency to worry excessively

Inability to trust others

Inability to trust yourself and your abilities

Feeling afraid to do things by yourself

Harsh criticism of yourself

Fear of trying new things or going to new places

Assuming the worst in every situation

If you can relate to the feeling of constantly ‘being on edge’ in the world and around others, I strongly recommend focusing on feeling safe with yourself. Constant self-criticism, ignoring your needs, lacking personal boundaries, always putting others above yourself, and changing yourself to be accepted all keep you in a fearful state of not feeling safe.

While our parents or guardians may not have fulfilled most of our needs (or any of our needs), the beautiful truth is that we can. The concept is strange, even foreign to us, but we can be our own parents!

The benefits of re-parenting yourself?

Greater happiness and optimism

Improved creativity

Healthier mind, body, and soul

Stronger friendships and relationships

Development of essential life skills: acceptance, forgiveness, vulnerability, compassion, self-love

If you find it really hard to re-parent your inner child, seeking help from an inner child work familiarized therapist will be a wise investment. Therapists, after all, act as substitute parents. They can listen to and help coach your inner child, while supporting and strengthening your inner parent.

If you prefer to go solo, that is absolutely possible. However, please do seek out a support network if you can, whether online or in real life.

[loycereiber]

Lessons Learned from 50 Cent’s Bankruptcy

A federal judge recently discharged the bankruptcy case of rapper 50 Cent after he paid more than $22 million of his debt.

50 Cent filed for Chapter 11 reorganization in 2015, with debts of $36 million and assets of less than $20 million. The “Get Rich or Die Tryin’” artist, whose real name is Curtis Jackson, paid off a five-year plan early with $8.7 million of his own money and $13.65 million he received in a settlement of a legal malpractice lawsuit.

Jackson’s bankruptcy case started when a woman won a $7 million settlement against him in 2015 for posting a sex tape. Soon after, he filed for bankruptcy to help with that debt, as well as his failed business ventures.

But late last year, Jackson nearly was in hot water when he posed with stacks of cash on Instagram. A judge questioned if he was really declaring all his assets, but Jackson said he was merely living up to his perceived image — a famous rapper with loads of money around him — and that the cash was a prop.

In his response to the judge, 50 Cent said: “Just because I am photographed in or next to a certain vehicle, wearing an article of clothing, holding a product, sitting next to what appears to be large sums of money or modeling expensive pieces of jewelry does not mean that I own everything in those photos.”

Here are four things everyday consumers can learn from 50 Cent’s high-profile bankruptcy case.

Chapter 11 Isn’t Just for Companies — People Can File, Too

Let’s face it — none of us are like 50 Cent. We’re not celebrities and we don’t have his life, grandioses or not. But what lessons can we take away from his very public proceedings?

For most of us, it’s to know your bankruptcy and the rules, inside out.

Chapter 11 of the Bankruptcy Code usually involves a corporation or partnership, reorganizing to keep the business alive and pay creditors over time. But people in businesses or individuals also can seek relief in chapter 11.

For individuals, chapter 11 has some similarities to Chapter 13 bankruptcy, which is a reorganization of a consumer’s finances to pay creditors over 3-5 years. With the help of a bankruptcy attorney, chapter 13 filers work out a payment plan that allocates their disposable income into monthly payments.

Nearly anyone can file for chapter 11, whereas many small businesses are ineligible for chapter 13. Chapter 13 also is only available to debtors with regular income and subject to debt limitations — which, as of April 2016, were no more than $394,725 in unsecured debt (debt not backed by collateral, such as credit card debt) and $1,184,200 in secured debt (like mortgages and car loans).

Your Bankruptcy Case Can Last a Few Years, or a Few Months

A typical timeframe for a bankruptcy discharge varies depending on which chapter you file. For 50 Cent, he filed for bankruptcy in 2015 and had five years to pay off his debt, but paid up earlier this year.

Under Chapter 7, the debtor generally doesn’t pay back his or her creditors. Most people prefer to file under chapter 7, with common debts eliminated like medical bills or personal loans. Chapter 7 also is quicker than other bankruptcy proceedings, and typically lasts 4-5 months.

Chapter 13 filers who earn income that’s less than the state average for their family size enter a 3-year payment plan. Those who exceed the state average are bumped up to five years. The payment plan allocates consumers’ disposable income to make monthly, consolidated payments to creditors.

Chapter 11 can be a little more complex and expensive than chapter 13, and fewer types of debt are dischargeable. Special provisions do streamline these cases for small business debtors, though. Furthermore, Chapter 11 also does not require debtors to turn over their disposable income to a trustee, but the total value of his or her disposable income over a five-year period.

You Need to Be Completely Honest with the Court

If you try to game the system, as it initially appeared 50 Cent had when he posed with stacks of fake cash, you could be in big trouble. Luckily, he was in the clear.

However, people enter bankruptcy court to receive a discharge, and the biggest way to screw that up is to be dishonest. Other than having your bankruptcy case dismissed, you could be fined big time or end up in jail.

Section 727 of the Bankruptcy Code lists the various grounds for objecting to a bankruptcy discharge, including:

—lying under oath;

—destroying records or failing to keep adequate records;

—no good explanation for a loss of assets; and

—concealing or transferring property within one year before filing in an attempt to defraud a creditor.

You must tell the court about everything you own, plain and simple. If a bankruptcy trustee expects you may have left out assets, they’ll schedule a 2004 exam and ask questions under oath.

It probably goes without saying, but social media can ruin your chances at a successful bankruptcy if a bankruptcy trustee looks through your accounts and finds something unsavory. That includes posing on Facebook with assets, like a car that you own but haven’t told the court about.

Finally, if it’s found you have concealed or intentionally transferred property before your bankruptcy case, you can be sued. You can also lose all non-exempt assets without any debt relief.

You Can Recover After Bankruptcy

Say you’ve made it safely through your bankruptcy proceedings. You breathe a sigh of relief. (If you’re 50 Cent, you posted on social media immediately afterward.)

What next?

Outside of the impact of bankruptcy felt during proceedings, bankruptcy and debt solutions can impact your credit score, but not as largely as you might think. So don’t put off filing for bankruptcy. The sooner you get help with your debt, the better your credit score will be in the long run — which will help you be more likely to get a future loan for a house, car, or rebuild credit with a credit card.

Make sure to review your credit reports, as all credit card accounts should have zero balances after a bankruptcy discharge. When opening a new credit card account, put small balances on it and pay them off immediately. Also, make sure to live within your means.

And beware: those annoying collectors may still call. However, collectors who ignore the discharge order are violating federal law, under section 524 of Title 11 of the United States Code. A discharge effectively operates as an injunction against continuing to collect or recover from the debt.

Free Consultation with Bankruptcy Lawyer

If you have a bankruptcy question, or need to file a bankruptcy case, call Ascent Law now at (801) 676-5506. Attorneys in our office have filed over a thousand cases. We can help you now. Come in or call in for your free initial consultation.

Ascent Law LLC8833 S. Redwood Road, Suite CWest Jordan, Utah 84088 United StatesTelephone: (801) 676-5506

Ascent Law LLC

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Additional Bankruptcy Resources

Secured Debt in Bankruptcy

What is a Chapter 7 Bankruptcy?

Goin Public with Your Startup in Utah

Utah Bankruptcy Attorneys

Should Filing Bankruptcy be the Last Resort?

Bankruptcy Lawyer Salt Lake City

Source: http://www.ascentlawfirm.com/lessons-learned-from-50-cents-bankruptcy/

[ofcaerus]

Name: Asher ‘Ash’ Strike (they/them)  Affiliation: Old Olympus Occupation: Spy/Informant. Drug Dealer/Dancer for New Olympus. Faceclaim: Paulina Singer

BIOGRAPHY:

You go by Ash now, but that is not the name you were christened with - and this isn’t the first time you’ve shed your identity, only to have it remade new. You are made of fleeting moments and running shoes, a creature to whom lying comes naturally, always inventing falsehoods. Where some might do such wicked things in the name of survival, you’ve never been one of those desperate phoenixes - rising from the ashes. Instead, you’re a chameleon, changing your spots to adapt to your habitat. You can’t deny that it’s fun either.

Your parents call you Jane. You learn to scowl at that name - much the way you scowl at everything in your childhood. Traditional, they say, with approving nods. Plain, old Jane, you reply, bitter. It’s not as if your upbringing is hard - your parents are perfectly nice people, if not a little dull - and they make enough so that you never worry about money. Your mother is a school teacher and your father works in insurance. Your home has a white picket fence and a tree you can swing from - but your world is only as big as the town you live, 10,000 apiece. Even now, you can still remember each one of their names. There was Muriel your next door neighbour and Jack the first friend you made in Elementary. But they, like your parents, are so small. Your entire world isn’t big enough to fathom, nor fit, your desires. Simply put, you want it all.

You never manage to pinpoint exactly what that means, preferring to focus on the wider concepts - places, people and things. You draw your inspiration from works of fiction, your only outlet in this black-and-white life - and picture yourself in the shoes of your pretend heroes, living their lives. You suppose that your talent for lying and irresistible charm stems from there, mimicking their sentences until you could stole their voices for your own. Next step? Their stories. Had you been born on the West Coast, you might have been a child actress - prone to stepping out of your own skin and into those of others. Bored with your life, you often played games - to your benefit - and at the expense of the town dwellers. You snuck into the local bar, dolled up to double your age and drank whiskey without flinching. You stole cigarettes from seedy men and smoked in the school bathroom, doe-eyed when you were caught. You stole lipstick from the local store and deliberately got caught, seeing the limits to which you could push people. Deploying a variety of tactics, you got away with each act of rebellion. With time, even that game grew tiring, too easy. You wanted to sink your teeth into something real, into a challenge. 

So, at seventeen, you tear your college applications to shreds - and months before you’re due to graduate high school, you buy a one way ticket to New York City - with no intention of ever coming back. You had always liked the charm of teenage runaways, the romance behind pursuing a dream and leaving it all behind. The logic of reality would dictate that it wouldn’t work out, that you return within three months with your tail between your leg, but things have always slotted into place for you. You’re fortunate like that. So within moments of arriving, you drop into The Stardust Diner just off Broadway and sell a story about being an aspirational musical star. You call yourself Maria - just like the one from West Side Story. Maria is innocent, naive and a little air-headed. But boy can she sing. They give you the job - and you sink your teeth into your new life. You don’t just play the role, you become it. You make friends, kiss your co-workers and live off leftover pancakes and fries. But being the ingeune grows tiring for a while, so after nine months, you claim you’ve been casted and leave without a goodbye to all those you have known. All that’s left is a name badge in a shoe box at the end of your bed.

You sublet your apartment and move in somewhere else, where they don’t ask too many questions. You’re Jean now, a chain-smoking Parisian native. Getting to grips with the grit of the city, you live in Queens, working in a dive bar to make ends meet. You spend most of your days pouring beers and acting as a sort of therapist, listening to the woes of your customers – but their stories too. Such magical ones, that set your heart alive. You feel a little like Jane then, captivated by a fairy tale. You don’t stay Jean for very long, but not because the accent is too hard or the hair dye begins to ruin your hair. You don’t mean Jean because the adventure isn’t enough. You need more than beer bottles and crumbled cigarette packets, hook-ups and half lived adventures. You need something better. You’re not asking to become a magnate of Wall Street (it’s too structured), but would it be so bad to have a little of something else?

The night your life changes, the night you meet Zeus, you’re nameless. You’ve always taken great pride in your identity choices, musing for a long time – so when they ask for your name, outside the Warehouse (you picked it because it’s like nowhere you’ve been before, very Carrie Bradshaw of you) you don’t give them one, tapping the ash of your cigarette like you’re playing them. (You can’t shake the last vestiges of Jean, after all). I’ve been watching you, she said. You’ve got the world wrapped around your fingers. It’s true, you’ve spent your evening flirting with random strangers and scoring free drinks, the eyes of the world beholding your charisma. That’s what I’m looking for. Do you like adventures? You tried not to look too curious, to hide the spark in your eyes. Tossing the cigarette away, your breath was mist on the damp night air. Depends on what they are. The woman laughed. And what they can give you? Well I can offer you a slice of the world, served up on soliver – riches and powers and meaning. You hated to admit that you were drawn in by the sound of that – of playing out your own rise, dipping your claws into something with meaning. I’m in the middle of a war – one I intend to win. But to do that, I need someone to be my eyes and ears on the other side, someone from outside the inner circle. Someone with an air of innocence. Someone who wants to be there. You paused, being a bond girl had never sounded very appealing, but 007 themselves? Perhaps a spy could be fun. Otherwise, why would fiction salivate about it so? What do you have in mind? The woman smiled, or snarled, it depended on your perspective. How do you feel about getting your hands dirty? You shrugged, indifferent. Morals had never mattered much – you never thought they would. You know, I’ll need your name. You laughed. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.  

 Sure enough, when you turned up at the cusp of dawn, you were armed. Your name was Ash, a lucky name – and you were from New Jersey, just up the road. It was the closest to Jane you had ever been, fulfilling long held hopes. From that moment on, you never looked back. 

Zeus taught you everything about the world you were about to possess. Both the flower and the serpent, the rose and the thorns, you became everything under their tuition, the best version of yourself that you had ever been. You words were intoxicating, your aura undeniable. You gave them – and Old Olympus – everything, all the parts of you – Ash and otherwise. In return, she let you into her world – darkness and shadows, daggers hidden in the dark, fine white powder. With her patronage, you blossomed. Without it, you were done – and after one tasted, you never wanted to leave. This truly was the role of a lifetime. You thought you knew better than Alice. You thought you wouldn’t fall into Wonderland. After two months of careful training, you made your move, haunting Club Nyra until they noticed you. At first a bartender and then a dancer, it was months until you were taken to the one they called Hades. You had your eyes set on him from the start. A distant creatures, he gave nothing away. But he let you in. That was enough.

Since then, you’ve spent every waking moment crawling your way in, a pest who won’t let go. It’s been longer than you thought – the longest you’ve spent as anyone (you may be losing yourself in the role) – and you’re only just beginning to gain their trust, to be allowed into the inner circle of the group. A low-level drug runner and part time Dancer for them, you’ve not gotten the ultimate pay-off yet, the one that will strike the final blow. Zeus circles impatiently, craving each nugget of information. You’ve given her everything you have, chipping at New Olympus piece by piece. In the process, however, you’ve discovered something beyond belief – completely unintentional. You’ve found a conscious. New Olympus aren’t the backstabbing monsters Zeus made them out to be – and Zeus isn’t the hallowed King she likes to parade as either. There’s weakness. New Olympus have been kind, even welcoming – and you’ve started to feel unconscious working against them. Had this been any other role, you long would have taken off – leaving everything else, even yourself, behind. Instinct urges you to do just that, knowing you can’t keep playing both sides forever and dread having to pick one of them. But something else urges you to stay. You’re just not sure which side to stay on. You’d better figure it out fast – before someone else does.

[loycereiber]

Estate Planning for Single Parents

Estate planning is important for everyone, especially if you’re a single parent. Getting your finances in order is an important first step to ensuring your children are taken care of in case the unthinkable occurs. Estate planning will give you peace of mind. As an estate planning lawyer, I promise you that the time and effort you put into your estate plan will not be wasted.

As a parent, you might be worried about your children’s ability to manage an inheritance. You might be worried about their financial future. Proper estate planning will help assuage these fears.

Estate Planning Tips For Single Parents

Estate planning requires lots of preparation and thought before making final decisions with your attorney. Here are some tips to consider:

Create a list of assets and debts. Preparing this will make the estate planning process easier and more accurate.

Pick a child guardian and property guardian.

Meet with an attorney to discuss the different elements of estate planning.

Meet with a financial planner.

Make a last will.

If your lawyer recommends it, establish a living trust.

Estate Planning Questions to Consider

Who will take care of your kids?

This question is possibly among the hardest questions you will have to consider during the estate planning process. However difficult this decision may be, it’s a decision that needs to made. If you don’t choose a guardian for your child and pass away prior to your child becoming an adult, your kid could be placed in care of a court appointed guardian.

Who will receive your assets?

As a single parent you want to guarantee that your children will be the ones receiving your assets. This may seem like a no-brainer, but it’s something that needs to be put in writing to ensure that your money goes where you want it to go.

When and how will your children receive your assets?

Estate planning allows you to control when and how your children will receive money or valuable property.

Do you need life insurance?

Life insurance is a good, sound investment for everyone, especially single parents.

Should you consider a revocable trust?

Also referred to as a living trust, a revocable trust allows people to manage assets while they’re alive, but upon your death, the trustee you’ve named will be in charge of your assets. A good revocable trust enables people to avoid probate.

Understanding Child Custody Laws

Dealing with family issues can be difficult, and Alder Law Group understands the hardships child custody can bring, so we are here to help. Because child custody isn’t always easy on parents, we strive to serve you with compassion, discretion, and understanding.

Understanding child custody laws can make the situation easier on both the parents and children. First, child custody is the legal status given by the court for the caring and control of a child. Even if the parents of a child were never married, child custody is determined by custody sections in Utah’s divorce statutes. Most orders of custody are given to one or both of the parents of the child, and in some cases, custody is granted to another adult.

Types of Custody

There are two parts to child custody: Physical and legal custody. Physical custody relates to where the child lives, while legal custody determines which parent will have the right to make decisions regarding the child. When possible, joint legal custody is often the best option for the child’s sake.

Within these two parts to child custody lies sole and joint custody for both physical and legal. Take a look at what each entails:

Sole Legal and Sole Physical – If a parent is granted sole custody, the child will live with one parent and that parent will have the right to make choices concerning the child.

Joint Legal and Joint Physical – In this arrangement, the child can live with both parents and both parents are able to make choice regarding the child. This is most successful when both parents are willing to communicate and work well together.

In both cases of sole custody, visitation may be granted for the non-custodial parent. When joint custody is granted, the child must live in each parent’s home for 111 days of the year.

How Custody is Determined

The court grants custody to parents based off the best interest for the child. The court will grant a parent custody or visitation, also referred to as parent time, once it determines what is in the best interest for child. The best interests of a child are determined through a variety of factors, such as:

The parent’s’ conduct

The quality of the relationship between a child and parent

Which parent is more likely to allow visitation for the other parent

In some cases, the judge will ask the child for his or her preference, but this is not always taken into account when granting a parent custody.

There are also a number of factors that are considered when determining what type of custody will be granted to a parent. In granting joint legal or physical custody, these factors may include:

Which type of custody will best suit the child’s needs

The distance between the parents’ homes

The ability to cooperate between parents

History of child or spouse abuse

The parents participation in caring for the child prior to divorce

Visitation

Visitation, or parent time, is granted to the non-custodial parent. State law requires a minimum visitation time when parents cannot agree on their own schedule. Much like determining custody, the court will decide how much time with the non-custodial parent is in the child’s best interest.

Free Consultation with an Estate Planning Lawyer

If you are here, you probably have an estate issue you need help with, call Ascent Law for your free estate law consultation (801) 676-5506. We want to help you.

Ascent Law LLC8833 S. Redwood Road, Suite CWest Jordan, Utah 84088 United StatesTelephone: (801) 676-5506

Ascent Law LLC

4.9 stars – based on 67 reviews

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Source: http://www.ascentlawfirm.com/estate-planning-for-single-parents/