#concussions

[stevesbipanic]

Steve's only 25 when it all catches up to him.

It starts off small, things people wouldn't even be able to tell is an early sign of something wrong. Misplacing keys, forgetting which day he has his shifts, what time he's supposed to get Robin. Robin notices though.

Robin knows Steve always keeps his keys on the hook next to Eddie's by the front door, that's where he always finds them, he's not misplacing the keys, he's forgetting the hook exists.

Robin knows Steve has the same shifts every week, they never change because they line up with Eddie's at the record store nearby. Robin knows Steve isn't forgetting what time he's supposed to pick Robin up, he's forgetting Robin moved away a few months ago after she graduated college.

Robin keeps noticing when the kids start calling her because the little things are becoming big things.

Robin notices when Dustin calls and tells her Steve thought he and Suzie were back together, "Like how crazy is that we broke up two years ago, I don't think I've even mentioned her lately."

Robin notices when Lucas calls and tells her Steve asked when his next game was, "The season ended months ago, he came to the finals."

Robin notices when Max calls and whispers softly, "He asked to take me to the skatepark, Robin, I told him I had to help mum. He's forgotten I'm blind Robin."

Robin wished she'd noticed sooner, maybe years ago when Steve was getting knocked around a lot. She wished she'd screamed in the face of those Russians to take her instead. She wished a lot of things when Eddie called her.

"He's in hospital, Birdie, he collapsed at work."

Robin is back in Chicago for the first time since she graduated. She wished she'd visited sooner.

"Do you think the feds are gonna let me go soon, Robbie? I mean it usually doesn't take this long for them to bring me the NDAs."

Robin hopes Steve doesn't notice her eyes going glossy as she runs her fingers through his hair, "Don't worry Stevie, I'm sure they'll be in soon, Dusty is probs just arguing over something in his."

"At least he isn't having to explain he raised a demodog. Did I ever tell you about that Robbie?"

Robin smiles softly, "Yeah but tell me again, don't want to forget any of it."

Eddie gives Robin the gist of what the doctors said, Eddie didn't understand much, a lot of technical words and shit. Too many concussions, more than they knew about most likely. They say it'll probably get worse with no timeframe of how quickly it'll happen, there might be good days, there will be a lot of bad days.

The first bad day comes a week later. Steve barely remembers Eddie, trapped in a time when Eddie was just the kids DM. Eddie sobs in the corridor in Robin's arms. The next day it's like nothing happened and Steve gets discharged. They tell Steve, this time Eddie is the one to comfort him.

"I don't want to forget you Eds."

"It's okay if you do, sweetheart, I'll still be here."

It's Robins idea to start writing everything down. Eddie, Nancy and the kids all help. Filling journals upon journals of stories and pictures of Steve's life to help on the bad days. Steve has to quit his job, Robin moves back to Chicago, they make it work.

On bad days depending on how far back Steve is Dustin or Robin or Eddie will read through the books with him, filling in the gaps of what he needs. On the worst days, Eddie leaves the pile of journals on the bed with a note and waits downstairs to see if Steve will join him later.

They make it work for a few years. Steve celebrates his 30th birthday with perfect clarity. He writes himself an entry in the journal next to a big group picture with Steve and Eddie's matching rings showing.

That July, over a decade since Starcourt, Steve is in hospital again. He'd collapsed at breakfast. Eddie had thought it was going to be one of their good days, Steve had woken up fine, all his memories in tact if a little fuzzy. He'd made them coffee and giggled at Eddie's singing while he made them eggs and just like that it all came crashing down.

Steve's brain is shutting down. They don't know if he'll make it past Christmas. There's more bad days after that. More days with books left on the bed. Most days Steve doesn't even come downstairs. On the good days, Eddie always calls off work. He'd rather be fired than miss a single second of Steve smiling at him like he does, so full of love.

They have Christmas, the whole family comes, they have to bring every chair from around the house and squish in around the table just to fit but it's perfect. Steve sits between Robin and Eddie, face bright and full of love and life. Everyone gives him the tightest hug as the night closes, all lingering, afraid of letting go.

"I love you, dingus."

"I love you too, Robbie."

Later, upstairs in their room, Steve and Eddie go through all the journals, laughing softly at each little note the kids have left. Steve writes his little journal entry, a tradition of good days, and curls into Eddie's arm whispering soft loving words to each other before falling asleep.

Steve never wakes up.

The funeral happens shortly after, all of the family is still in town. Robin holds Eddie afterwards as they go through the journals together. When they get to the last page, they struggle not to smudge the ink with their tears.

Dear Eds and Robbie,

I don't know how many more good days I'm going to get so I'm leaving this here for you now. I love you both so much, you're equally my soulmates and I want you two to look after each other while I'm gone.

Robs, go travelling with Nancy, ok? Thank you for looking after me all these years but it's time for you to go look after yourself. Go see the world for me, tell me all about it wherever I am when you get back.

Eddie, I'm sorry we didn't get as much time as we hoped, I hope you know that even just a day with you has been worth a lifetime with anyone else. Go follow your dreams, write music, perform, show the world how amazing I know you are. I give you full permission to fall in love with whoever you meet along the way, I don't want either of you guys to be alone.

Thank you for giving me a life worth remembering.

Your Dingus,

Stevie

[akihatohnoofficial]

banging your victim’s head against a wall until they get so woozy they’ll accept anything

[battleangel]

A History of Violence

I wonder if Kris Jenkins who was recently drafted in the second round by the Bengals, same name & same position as his father who was a Pro Bowler who played 10 seasons for the Panthers, Patriots & Jets, ever bothered to read what his father told the New York Times in 2011 about what it was like playing in the trenches in the NFL?

Kris Jenkins - View of Life in the NFL Trenches

Article Excerpt

"N.F.L. fans, people outside, they have no clue what goes on. This isn’t like playing Madden. This isn’t like being the popular kid in high school. When you do those things in the real world, and it don’t work out, you still have your health. The thing about football is you’re directly playing with your life, the quality of it and the longevity of it. The stakes are up there.

You ever been in a car crash? Done bumper cars? You know when that hit catches you off guard and jolts you, and you’re like, what the hell? Football is like that. But 10 times worse. It’s hell."

Nothing is questioned, nothing is learned.

Cycle and history of violence from father to son continues.

The son will just repeat everything his father went through.

Life in the trenches, on the line.

His fathers New York Times article was only written 13 years ago — did his son even bother to read it?

Article:

"The debate about concussions wasn’t there yet. I’ve had more than 10, including college and the pros. Nobody cared. And that’s the thing. We play football."

Are we as an audience, as fans, as a nation of football loving fanatics so blasé about the same violence that was visited upon the father being visited upon his son?

Does that not even get us to collectively pause before checking pre-season match ups in preparation for Week 1 next month?

America's collective Christmas in September — footballs back!!!!!!!

Do actual thoughts ever creep in amongst the unbridled ebullience, enthusiasm and unchecked joy of, "Football!!!!!!!!!!!!".

Or is the unthinking emotion inherent in football fanaticism across all levels, players and non-players alike, the point?

The pure emotion and the short circuiting of logic.

Its probably not a great idea for me to go bash my head against that dudes head 70 to 80 times a game, every game, every season.

But, its football!!!!!!!!!

So, nothing else matters?

Unlike rules now protecting quarterbacks and other positions from helmet to helmet hits, absolutely nothing has changed for offensive & defensive linemen and running backs — you're still smashing yourself head first into a concrete wall — as a running back, 20 to 30 times a game and as a lineman, 70 to 80 times a game.

No matter how much the NFL lies about this and tries to pretend the issue is concussions, its not — the existential issue threatening the sport of football itself is the repetitive SUBconcussive head impacts involved in every blocking and tackling play in football.

They are absolutely unavoidable and occur literally over a thousand times every single season.

It is these repetitive subconcussive head impacts — average 1500 hits to the head per season in high school, football & the pros — that 10 to 15 years after their playing careers are over, can cause neurological disorders and conditions like CTE, Parkinsons disease, Alzheimers disease, ALS and dementia in former players.

We have seen the movie before.

Im pretty sure Will Smith was in it.

And even that movie was nothing but masterful subterfuge from the NFL as they named it as their eternal smokescreen — Concussion — instead of what actually turned Mike Websters brain into CTE mush — Repetitive Subconcussive Head Impacts.

Doesn't have the same Hollywood ring to it, does it?

But it doesn't make it any less true or the NFL any less deceptive.

The NFL's own disability paperwork for former players says players can be compensated as early as 36 for early-onset dementia.

Is a game really worth someone losing their literal mind at 36?

When do we question the every day violence inherent in every tackling and blocking play in football?

Article:

"I remember one game, at Carolina, my second year. We played Arizona, and the double team weighed 780 pounds combined. They just kept double-teaming me, hoping I would fold and cave in. I didn’t. But that was probably the most painful day I had.

From the double teams, over the years, I wore the left side of my body down. I was past hurt.

I was at the point of numb. Like my body was shutting down nervous systems, so I didn’t have to deal with pain.

The numbness started at the very beginning. I couldn’t feel part of both arms. I couldn’t feel part of both legs. It was worse on the left.

I’m just starting to get feeling back in my left side. Look, football is no joke.

But I’m going to say this much: somebody has to be the grunt. That’s why there’s no better position on the field than interior defensive line. Forget quarterbacks or specialists. They’ve got it easy. If we don’t come to play, nobody else on defense can do their job. We’ve got the toughest job on the field. We don’t care about our facial hair. We play a grimy position.

Piles, oh, my God, they’re brutal. I’ve had my ankles twisted. I’ve been bit. I’ve done stuff. I’ve tried to break guys’ elbows, pinching people, twisting ankles, trying to bend up their arms, pop an elbow out. Why? I had to fight back."

Tackle football is cognitive dissonance & constant dissociation.

The inherent violence of football is never seriously questioned nor is it held up under a critical lens.

The most violent, punishing plays are casually dismissed post-game by players waving their hands and saying, "It was just a football play."

Yeah — thats actually the exact problem.

Ah, pile ups. Just a good old fashioned rugby scrum.

Nothing dehumanizing, nothing to worry about.

As long as its not my dick being grabbed at the bottom of a pile as I dig my way through my second bag of Fritos Scoops, safe and secure on my couch, while those dumb fucks kill themselves for an oblong shaped ball for my entertainment.

Exploitative, much?

The spectacle of the pile up.

The brainwashing so clearly evident when grown adult men who would be ashamed to act this way publicly over anything else suddenly leap in unison into the air like feral animals as Troy Aikman shouts with unfettered glee, "The ball is loose!!!!!!".

So is our collective humanity in watching a several ton mass of flesh undulate, eye gouge, scrotum twist, bite, spit and hurt each other for...what?

Us? Them? Football?

Article:

"Mentally, we’re conditioned to be tough. We’re conditioned to feel no pain. The only injury I ever felt while playing was when one of my knees tore. That’s the only time I felt pain and was like, O.K., that hurt.

But Mondays, you wake up, and it’s hard to get out of bed. It hurts wherever you got hit. I remember one time getting hit by Edgerrin James. He put his head in my chest. I woke up, and I couldn’t even move, because it felt like my chest was going to collapse. It was sore for days. All you want to do is get the blood circulating.

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub."

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub.

That's brainwashing.

A dissociative brainwashing ritual to dissociate the self from the pain & violence of the game.

It's like Junior Seau when he referred to himself in third person when he was mic'd up for NFL Films before every single hit for the duration of an entire game.

Very creepy if you can find it on youtube.

It literally sounded like he was programming himself to hit, then he would hit the hole, collect himself on the ground and do it.

Hard. Goddamned hard.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

If thats not brainwashing, what is?

Article:

"The brain fog? It still hasn’t stopped. It feels like you’re punch-drunk, like someone hit you over the head. It’s like you knock yourself stupid. When you have to concentrate on things, then it becomes an issue. My head gets foggy to the point where I really can’t function."

And yet you put a helmet on your son's head and you sent him out to play the same position.

Like father, like son.

Just like fathers in the military who have sons who "follow in their footsteps".

Often, articles will speak of a newly drafted player's heritage and lineage in the sport and if his father had a storied career, the hyperbole of the newly drafted son "being born to play" is routinely trotted out.

Smacks of eugenicism, genetic determinism, militarism, rigid heirarchies, dynasties.

Capitalist masculine toxicity.

Article:

"We know it’s going to hurt. We know because pain in football is consistent over time. You’re still hurting in the off-season. You’re hurting when the next season starts.

I mean, guys play hurt, but it’s a choice. They do a pretty good job now, with all the scrutiny around concussions.

On the line, it’s still painful. By the end of the year, half an offensive line might be getting shots, draining fluid from their knees. Most stay away from cortisone now, because it’s degenerative.

Everything gets off center. Bulging disk. Herniated disk. For linemen, it starts in the lower back. Throws everything off."

What did Jason Kelce recently say on his podcast with his wife?

His back is so fucked up from playing football that he cant bend down to pick up his 1 year old daughter nor can he hold her while standing.

Kelce also played on the line as the center for the Eagles.

Is it worth it?

Should children be playing this game?

Should anyone in its current incarnation?

Has science shown that the risk of repetitive subconcussive head impacts causing neurological conditions & disorders is too high for any child to assume?

What about teenagers in high school who are legally minors and not adults?

Should they be able to assume risks as teenagers that can mentally incapacitate them later in life as soon as their 30s?

Potential suicide due to CTE in their 20s?

1500 hits per season every season starting in high school.

So, that's 6k hits to the head in four years of high school football.

Another 6k more hits to the head in four years of college football.

12k hits to the head before the pros not counting youth football prior to high school which is ages 5 to 14 aka Pop Warner.

Even 5 year olds endure on average 336 hits to the head every season in Pop Warner.

5 year olds!

Kindergartners!

Ask yourself where else you could hit a 5 year old child 336 times in the head over the course of a few months without being arrested and jailed?

Is it really okay just because it's football?

Does that truly justify that amount of head impacts to a 5 year old child?

Wouldn't we call that abuse if it was happening in the Boy Scouts or any organization other than Pop Warner?

Should it be happening at all?

In service of whom and for what?

Football? Glory? Masculinity? Manhood? America? Pride? Militarism?

All of the above?

Article:

"I can’t blame anybody for my death. I made the choice to play football. I made the choice to walk through the concussions. I could have stopped. I could have said, my head hurts. It was my choice, as a man."

But who told you that playing through permanent brain injuries is what makes you a man?

Can't we blame that person?

Your father and your coaches from youth, high school, college all the way to the pros?

Militaristic views of masculinity kills boys and young men for the game of football.

It's a militaristic war game that simulates combat yet kills people in slow motion for real.

The violence suffered by players in football is as celebrated as militaristic ideals of what soldiers suffer through in war: valor, courage under fire, physical courage, endurance, stoically fighting through unimaginable injuries & pain, the quarterback heroically leading his squad as their captain marching his troops down the field to victory just like any military commander complete with a chevron like system that awards stars for each year or season of service very similar to how stripes function in the military.

This militaristic ideal of masculinity is endlessly promoted, encouraged, rewarded and valorized in football just as it is in the military.

Football is Americas killing fields.

High school players — teenaged boys, not adult men — die every year playing football.

Over a million boys play high school football each year and only a handful die or suffer permanent, disabling and/or catastrophic injury.

Would you be so glib about the numbers though if it was your son or your brother or your boyfriend or your best friend who died playing high school football?

What if they were permanently paralyzed from the neck down playing college football?

It's easy to treat the above numbers as a statistic or rounding error when you can close out of the Facebook support page for the now dead or disabled high school or college player and get ready for Chiefs/Ravens next month.

What if you couldn't just X out of the Facebook page because you had to quit your job to take care of your disabled son for the rest of your life?

Or what if your brother killed himself from having CTE from playing college football?

The reality is, we can drop a "sad crying" emoji on a Facebook status and move on — the families of the young boys and men sacrificed to this sport definitely can't.

Go ask Tyler Sash's mom if she's "moved on".

Hasn't science proven at this point that tackle football just doesnt work the way it is currently played?

Why are we okay risking future Junior Seaus, Mike Websters, Justin Strelczyks, Phillip Adams, Tyler Hillinskis with every boy and young man that straps on the pads and helmet and charges on to the field?

Is it 10% of players that get CTE? Is it 20%?

Is it more? Is it half?

More than half?

The truth is we wont know until a CTE test is developed for living players.

Pop Warners Chief Medical Director is working with the FDA to develop the test as I type this.

Why do you think that is?

The NFL's own study funded through a university admits that NFL players are 19 times more likely than non-NFL players to develop neurological conditions and disorders.

19 times!!!!!

As long as its not your brain getting scrambled right?

And you can just sit there and watch the leagues reigning back to back MVP and reigning Super Bowl Champ slowly deteriorate their minds while accumulating permanent brain damage for your entertainment.

Pass the chips.

Article:

"We consider football a gladiator sport because we understand you’re going to get hurt. You’re putting your life on the line.

You might not die now, like in an old Roman arena, but 5, 10 years down the road, you could. You know that.

I wouldn’t change anything.

During my career, I kept my mouth shut. This now, speaking out, it’s about telling you my life. There’s no agenda, no vendetta. This is what football’s really like.

The first warning is the first meeting you have with an agent, when you realize this is real. My choices count at this point. I’m going to be prostituting myself for the next 18 years of my life.

That’s the first warning.

The next one is that good old combine.

That’s when you realize, when you march in that room half naked, I’m a number now."

No, thats when you realize that the NFL is MODERN DAY SLAVERY.

It's a modern day meat market.

6% of the US population is Black male. 75% of the NFL is Black.

0% of the owners are Black. Only 2 out of 32 coaches are Black.

Almost all of the NFL owners are white with very few exceptions and exactly none of them are Black.

The NFL is a modern day plantation.

Article:

"I loved New York. I loved playing there. I loved the spotlight. I was fine in New York, but I also played for Eric Mangini. We started 8-3, Brett Favre, all of that. Everybody told Mangini, stop with the long practices, you’re killing us. You practice too hard. We’re on turf."

36% of all injuries that occur in the NFL are due to turf & 1/4 of all concussions are a result of players heads slamming against turf.

So...

Why won't the NFL replace turf with grass in their stadiums as the NFLPA has been asking for for years?

Because they're cheap as hell and would rather injure their own investments then pay for grass.

The owners & the league have the same exact disregard and disdain for their own players.

The NFL has agreed to switch out turf for grass for the World Cup because the soccer players refused to do what NFL players are forced to — fuck their bodies up on turf.

It proves the NFL and owners could do it and, in fact, they did do it so they could host the World Cup in their football stadium — unless it's actually for the players in their own league.

In that case, you're shit out of luck.

Should have played soccer.

Article:

"What you hear from guys like Ray Lewis, James Harrison, what they’re saying is we’re well aware what we’re signing up for. The violence, we love it. The madness, we love it. We love measuring ourselves in it.

Those guys express themselves with their pads. You soften the game, you’re taking away their freedom of expression. Nobody wants to see flag football, and now, you might as well give guys flags, tell them to hug afterward, all that."

Did he even read the beginning of his own article???

Constant cognitive dissonance is the distillation & essence of tackle football — by the players, the audience, coaches, trainers, medical personnel, announce team, play by play, color, pre-game & post-game hosts, team & network journalists.

I see no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I hear no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I speak no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

Article:

"The violence is what I remember. Like against Buffalo in 2009, when I had the game of my career. Or the time I slapped a lineman out of the way in Houston with one arm. Winning, the physical part, the mayhem, finding the line between insanity and sanity, that’s the exact reason why you play. That’s the reason fans like football in the first place.

A guy like James Harrison, he’s possessed, and that’s the guy you love to play with, love to watch. He doesn’t need to be babied."

Protection from permanent brain damage & trauma, fans bloodlust, coaches unreasonable demands, neurological disorders & conditions, neurological symptoms including suicidality, depression, memory loss, confusion, irritability, volatility, aggression, amnesia, mental incapicitation, deteroriation & decline is being "babied"??????????

Article:

"The N.F.L. is too big to fail. If that happened, it would be a slow death. It’s still the ultimate game. For us, it’s like legal prison rules. You have to protect your manhood, your well-being. You’re going to be challenged. You’re going to be tested."

"You have to protect your manhood."

Protect The Shield.

Brainwashed into the cult of American masculinity.

Just like all the other 2.6 million young boys & adolescents playing youth football.

Another million playing in high school.

100k playing in NCAA college football.

1600 play in the NFL.

All brainwashed into the cult of masculinity.

Millions of young boys and teenagers sacrificed on the altar of tackle football, Americas true religion.

Article:

"There aren’t too many places a 400-pound guy with an attitude can go and beat the crap out of somebody and not get locked up for it. I have a violent streak. I have to fight it out of my system. We signed up for it. All of it. We’re not trying to be sane or rational."

What does an 8 year old playing tackle football for Pop Warner sign up for?

Tradition, rigid authoritarianism, toxic masculinity, ideals of manhood worth sacrificing your body, mind, memories, personality, self and literal life for.

A 13 year old football player committed suicide after an egregious hit and post concussion symptoms that lasted for over a year in 2018.

He played through the hit and practiced in pads the very next day — think that might have made his concussion worse?

Prior to the hit, he was a straight A student, a voracious reader, erudite, sociable & well-liked.

After the hit, he became withdrawn.

He lost vision in one eye. He lost his balance frequently.

He was unable to read for more than a few minutes at a time.

He started tackle football at 9.

He played two ways as a linebacker and running back and was known as a ferocious hitter who never complained of pain.

He attempted suicide, was hospitalized, seemed to be improving, then the second suicide attempt was tragically successful.

Dead at 13 for the sport of football.

When is enough enough?

Football is a game, it's a magical talisman, it's a sport, it's a crucible, it's a maker of men, it's the distillation of manhood and masculinity, it's what being a man is.

It's worth bashing and battering your brains repeatedly.

It's worth your mind.

It's worth not knowing who you are at 50.

It's worth you committing suicide.

Just remember to shoot yourself in the chest so your brain can be donated and studied.

[melit0n]

Knock Knock (Let Me In)

- Synopsis: "Come out, bitte, I am not here to harm you-” His voice is right by your door. His footsteps are a death toll and you swear you hear bells ringing.

You make the mistake of trying to push yourself further into the woodwork of the desk; the scrape of the desk’s worn legs is quiet, almost unnoticeable. But to the trained ears of König's, ever diligent to hear the movement of an enemy, it is as loud as a gunshot in a valley.

- Oneshot inspired by the song: Labyrinth by Oomph

- Obsessive! König/Reader

- Word Count: 3.6k

- Warnings: Vomit and nausea, stabbing

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46510003

Left, right; straight ahead. That was the phrase that echoed in your bleeding head as you scrambled through the darkening hallways of the military complex, the lights flickering above.

Each frenzied step you took, the halls contorted, the doors elongated, and the tiles warped in a mosaic of wood, alabaster and blinding white.

Left, right; straight ahead. That was the way to the exit, if your own mind didn’t dare to fool you. Yet, as the hallways ebb and flow with your choked inhales and exhales, left becomes right, right becomes left and straight ahead becomes your subconscious shouting–shrieking–at you to turn around. Turn around and stare your end in the eyes. Turn around and lie down and just take it. 

Something in your muscles, something primal and more prey than human, keeps you moving.

Eventually, fatigued, you limp like a wounded animal into a side corridor, unlit and ending in a wooden door with a brass handle that shines like cat eyes in the midst of the darkness. It allows your eyes to rest, if only for a moment. 

As your dirtied hands rest on the tiled wall, the cold of the white plate pierces your flushed skin. You don’t know whether it’s a reprieve or another painful burden to bear. 

Your stomach yearns to retch anything you’d eaten in the past hour; the vile taste of vomit lingering on your dry tongue. Waves of nausea do nothing but add to your fear and misery as you try to catch your breath. 

You don’t dare close your eyes, whether it be in fear of passing right out, or opening them and seeing him, you are unsure. Every time you blink, the foreboding ink of unconsciousness seeps further from the corners of your eyes.

Through the red-black blur, you half believe you’re walking on the ceiling. 

Lethargically, you blink what might as well be a death sentence away from your vision. The adrenaline eases and the ache in your legs grows stronger every second you stay still. 

Shakily, you glance back down the ever-moving hallways and notice mud–is it mud?–stains running down the corridors. 

Mud stains leading directly to you. 

With a gasp, you struggle to pull on the laces of your soiled boots, fingers fiddling drowsily with the worm-like laces. Eventually, your fingers undo the knots and you toe off each boot–easing your aching feet–and shove them into a dark corner. 

You urge yourself to stand back up, failing as your socked feet slip on the smooth tile. Only do you get up when your ears strain to hear another pair of footsteps, much heavier, stalking the hallways. Hallways you know he has walked a thousand more times than you have. 

Bravely, you peek your head out of your stygian hideout, wiping at the blood that trickles diligently into your eye. Despite your muddied vision, not even your concussion would stop you from seeing that man, if you could even call him that. He's larger than anyone you've ever seen, probably ever will see. König is a piece of Wildspitze chipped off in what could only be some God’s rage.

You think, once upon a time where fairytales were still passed by tongue, he might’ve been a God’s favourite creation. But now, chased and haunted by a face you have never even seen, you can’t help but scoff at how far he’s fallen.

His face–if he even has one–is covered by a thin, black mask, bleach stains running down his funeral shroud like tears. Maybe there had been peachy skin under his eyes, once, but now they are ringed in black paint to conceal whatever humanity he had left from the world. Inhumanly, he stalks–cat-like–through the halls, following your trail and almost frothing at the maw.  

“Du kommst hier nicht mehr raus.” König’s calm voice reverberates in the spotless halls as you clasp your hand over your nose and mouth. You hope, you pray, that it is enough to hide your panicked breathing. You feel each drop of adrenaline, adrenaline you had lost only a moment ago, seeping back into your bloodstream.

It keeps you terrified. Keeps you frozen with fear, and everyone knows that prey becomes bold when backed into a corner.

His footsteps fall quietly against the tile, following each dirtied footstep you left behind for him. He feels his breath pick up with anticipation. For the boulder König is, he is almost utterly soundless. Silent. Silent as a old Church on a Monday: pews empty and wax candles unlit. 

But you know. You know he’s coming closer. And you know, if you don’t do something, you’ll end a corpse carefully cradled in his tight embrace. Maybe, you think, he’ll make a saint out of you. 

Even in your lethargic stupor, you make a decision. A dumb decision, very much so, but a decision nonetheless. Your eyes meet with the shine of his combat boots, and in that moment, you push yourself up and forcefully ram your body into his. 

As your bleeding head crashes with his tactical vest and all the knick-knacks he stores there, you feel your brain rattle in your skull and your eyes sink, deep, into your sockets. Tears well in your eyes as he grunts in surprise, free hand reaching for you as you make a break for it, bolting down the halls that never really seem to change.

Left, right; straight ahead. 

Your feet may now slip on the tiles, but at least you don’t leave a bloodied trail, like a wounded rabbit to a fox. 

König’s strangely amused–probably somewhat delighted as well–laugh rings like a death knell in your ears. Another spike of fear and adrenaline forces your muscles to move faster when you hear him start to run. You spite whatever God who made him that graced him with the frame of a bear paired with the swift feet of a hare. 

The halls are moving again, and you can’t tell if the tiles are moaning in pain each time you step, or if those sounds are coming out of your own mouth. Each breath feels like Hellfire in your lungs, smoke and ash pouring out of your throat with each exhale. You know you’re not built for running, let alone fighting, but you pray for your burning lungs and trachea to take all the Oxygen they can take from the flames that run rampant in your chest.

“Du kommst hier nicht mehr raus, maus.” He repeats like a mantra, even through the ringing in your ears and the fire burning in your lungs you hear it. 

Runners always say they feel the most alive while on their feet, the wind cooling their flushing faces, but as you run through the endless intertwining hallways breathing in stagnant air, you feel like death. 

For a few short moments, you wonder if you already are dead. Dead and gone for the sake of what you could barely call love. Maybe this is purgatory.

The frantic bird that flutters inside your chest tells you otherwise. 

You close and open doors erratically, slowly losing sense of what you’re doing (left, right; straight ahead). You gaze, panicked, at the different offices, storage rooms, gyms- and everything looks the same. In fear, you feel you’ve gone in one big circle. Left, right; straight ahead is a mantra of your own that keeps you sane, even if you’re losing sense of what it means. 

Had you ever known that love could turn so quickly to madness, you would’ve never even looked at him. Never would’ve opened your mouth, never would’ve complimented him, never would’ve spent a moment feeding into his desires.

What had he even done to deserve such a manic obsession?

What had you done? What action, what word had made you his everything?

All you ever did was treat him as a human. A call sign, never given a first or second name, but a human nonetheless. 

His endless wants, nagging needs, had distorted the very vision of your life, subtle delusions implanted into your own head. If he had managed to turn your own mind into a morbid hellscape of all he had done and said in your name, you didn’t want to even attempt to try to imagine what his own looked like. 

“Lauf', vogel, lauf', so schnell du kannst." König hissed from behind, listening intently for your socked footfalls. He hears each door you erratically open and close, in pathetic hopes of escape.

A frantic bird with broken wings trying to escape a cat. 

Delighted in the chase, his legs move faster as his dark blue eyes dart between the hallways and the haphazardly opened doors. He fingers the hunting knife gripped in his gloved hands, shined and sharpened. 

Fox and rabbit. Cat and bird; that was all it was to him, hunter and prey, with you unable to turn the tables. 

He searches and searches, but, like a mouse, you manage to slip right out of his paws. His footfalls slow as he catches the little breath he lost, but he doesn’t worry about losing you. You’re a smart little bird, he knows that. Smart enough to know that you can’t run forever. That leaves one last obvious option: you’re hiding. Hiding and trying to catch your breath. 

After all, it’s been a while since he’s heard a door slam open.

As the ash in your lungs piles upwards, and vomit that tastes suspiciously like blood trickles out of your dry mouth, you know that the chase is almost up. If you want to run further and have a chance at escape, you must rest, even for a moment. The ink in your eyes is back, and metal fills your mouth as everything spins. You continue to run, if only a little further until you reach somewhere to hide: office, gym or private quarters, you don’t care anymore. 

Finally, your lungs can bear the cinders no longer, and you slow as you jog down one last hallway, filled with doors: on the wall, floor and ceiling. You reach for the doorknob closest to you. It moves up and down frantically and you have seven fingers on each hand. When you finally grasp it, the brass is cold on your shaking hands, and it takes the will of a hungry scavenger to open the door and close it quietly behind you. 

Tired, sweaty and concussed, your eyes wander around the office. A shined, oak desk sits proudly in the centre along with piles of files, a lamp–which seems to change colour every time you blink–a dulled letter opener, a laptop and other knick-knacks that move place every couple of seconds. Two bookcases loom over you; the scent of old leather books and sandalwood easing your panicking nerves. Briskly, you search the room for a place to hide. 

You end up behind the desk.

“Du weißt nicht mehr, wer du bist, Taube; du weißt nicht mehr, was liebe ist- I can help…” Echoes in the hallway and wiggles its way under the crack of the door. König’s eerily calm voice, despite being muffled, traces its fingers up your spine and lets a shiver rack your body. 

And whose fault is that? Who are you to say you understand love anymore, either? You whisper inside your mind. You squish yourself up against the cold oak of the desk, wishing to disappear into it. 

“Dein Spiegelbild hat sich entstellt, niemand ist hier, der zu dir hält…I will be with you, Maus, you know this.” König’s voice grows ever closer. What is most likely a whisper from his mouth screams in your ever-ringing ears, yet cradles and caresses your face the way only a lover can. 

”Come out, bitte, you know I am not here to harm you-” His voice is right by your door. His footsteps are a death toll and you swear you hear bells ringing. 

You make the mistake of trying to push yourself further into the woodwork of the desk; the scrape of its worn legs is quiet, almost unnoticeable. But to the trained ears of König’s, ever diligent to hear the movement of an enemy, it is as loud as a gunshot in a valley. 

You freeze.

Your whole body stills; you even compel your heart to stop beating, because in this ever-growing silence, even through that solid wood door, you know König can hear it. 

The quiet descends quickly, punctuated by the slight squeak of König’s well-shined boots on the floor- and he is right outside. 

Your body–your bones, your muscles and your veins–tense up as you prepare to run for it again. Your eyes move quickly around the room, searching for anything you could use to defend yourself. 

The letter opener gleams in the light seeping out from the cracks of the door. Although dull, it’s good enough; it’s something that you can jab into his eye if it comes to it. You wonder if the Gods will spite you, or maybe cheer you on, for blinding their favorite creation.

“Knock. Knock.” He purrs out, punctuating each deafening knock. He knows what he’s doing.

You grip the letter opener, sweaty hands struggling to find a proper hold on it as you imagine red staining the blade. In the dimly lit room, the colourful–is it green? Is it blue?–lamp is your only source of light, hope, in a way, as his shadow grows in the darkness, looming over the desk. 

“Let me in, lass' mich dein geheimnis sein…” The doorknob slowly turns with a squeak as dread and horror lurches from your stomach, up through your ashen throat and settles in your mouth in the form of a muffled sob. 

You had forgotten to lock the door.

Opening, the door squeals. Squeals like a dying mouse. The squeak of König’s well-loved hunting knife over the walls of the office sets something off in you. Something you push down, deep down, until the time is right.

“Knock, knock, lass' mich rein, lass' mich dein geheimnis sein.” He repeats over and over again as he runs the tip of the knife along the walls. 

He knows where you are, you know it: he knows exactly where you are. You’re sure he can see you. A part of you just wants him to get whatever he wants over and done with, stop with the teasing you know he’s only doing for his own enjoyment. 

A wild animal hunts because it needs to eat. A predator hunts for pleasure. 

That’s all it really is, isn’t it? Nothing more than a game of cat and mouse. Either way, you’re sure this’ll end with the blade of his knife stuck somewhere in your skin and his hands caressing your face. 

As the shadow of a Devil looms over you, the only thing you can bring yourself to do is look up fearfully. 

His dark blue irises stare down at you, stare with an emotion that was maybe once genuine love, and you can almost feel his bleach tears drip onto your tired face.

You wonder what he lost for his face to be eternally stained with sorrow. 

The knife leaves deep grooves in the desk, his hands shaking from the pressure he–almost unknowingly–puts in. 

Tears are slowly running down your face. You don’t feel them. You feel nothing but fear, and with adrenaline renewing your pulse, you finally allow yourself to move. Reaching up, pushing yourself up off the desk to stand, you put as much brute force into stabbing him as possible. You aim for his throat, the thing always that bleeds death other than the heart, but end up stabbing him in the shoulder, just missing his collarbone. You hear the flesh split and watch as it sinks through layers of shirts and vests, skin and muscle. You didn’t know if there was bone there, but you don’t think you could bear it if you felt the tip of the letter opener reach it. What you did know was that there was a major artery there, but even if you wanted to get out of this alive, you’re happy you don’t feel the blood, his blood, squirt out of the wound onto your face. 

König grunts out in pain and surprise, strong arms grabbing you from behind the desk, pulling you over, as you keep hold of the letter opener stuck in his shoulder. He almost disregards it: a fucking letter opener jammed into his shoulder, like a rock in his shoe. Just a bearable annoyance to him.

As he holds you close to his dark green tactical vest, the smell of iron, sweat and cologne burns your nose. You struggle in his vice-like grip with all you have, coughing up ash and blood while your head pounds and you see two of everything. 

“Calm yourself,” He mutters calmly, trying to get control of your hands. “Vögelchen-”

“Let go of me!” You scream out hoarsely, grabbing onto the handle of the letter opener once more and forcefully tugging it out of his shoulder. You watch as blood seeps into his layers of clothing, feel how his breath hitches against you as you tug it out. The blade drips crimson, liquid life.

You look into his eyes, his shining dark blue eyes with dilated pupils that you’re sure don’t belong in human sockets, before attempting to stab it into his throat once more. 

His gloved hands grip harshly onto your wrists as your weapon sits millimetres above his jugular, inching backwards as he forces your hands away. A sob claws through your throat along with more blood as he takes it from your grasp, throwing it across the room as you try and force your way out of his arms. 

Left, right straight ahead; you’re going to get out of here, just remember, left, right straight ahead.

“Nobody can tell you which doors are the right ones, my lost Voge.” He seems to hear your thoughts, and he tries to soothe you, his voice caging you, as you struggle with all your might as your eyes dart erratically to find some way of escape.

“Let go!” You sob out.

“You are in the labyrinth-” He growls out now, hoping to subdue your struggling as he points the shining hunting knife to your neck. 

“-Please!” You beg, tasting salt on your tongue. 

“Keiner kann dir sagen, wer die guten und die bösen sind, my lost Voge- I can, I will; you know I love you and will care-” He spouts more half understood German at you.

“And you point a knife to my throat?”

All is suddenly quiet. 

Quiet like those frigid Churches. 

Aside from his heavy breathing, he is silent. Up in his own mind, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. Maybe which way to carve you up.

You stare dead into his cat-like eyes. The paint has rubbed off them slightly, probably from sweat and breathing underneath the balaclava and mask. You feel his tightening grip around your wrist and the squeak of his leather palms. His eyes follow the tears that dribble quietly down your cheeks and the sweat that shimmers on your neck. 

“You- you often…you have often,” He stumbles for a moment, trying to find the right word, “Verbannt me from you-”

 “-Stop König, you- we don't have to do this. Just let me go-” 

“-Yet I feel your heartbeat against my chest. Can you not feel mine? They beat in tandem, Taube.” 

You stare, dumbstruck. 

No. 

No you cannot. 

How does he expect you to over the layers of clothing, let alone his tactical vest?

When you start struggling again, the hunting knife is pressed harder against your throat, and you let out a whimper in pain as you feel it slice through a small layer of your skin. Not enough for you to bleed out, bleed out like a lamb to slaughter, yet enough that moving your head up and down was now painful in more ways than one. König’s dilated pupils follow the trail of crimson quietly, intently. 

You watch him, watch for any erratic movements as you see his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

He’s…smiling. Smiling at the sight of you bleeding. 

You think, no- you know, he’s delusional. Delusional to the stage of him building a second ego, a second skin, another version of you that loves him. One that may have once lived in your bones, but now only exists inside his head. 

You think he’ll do anything to convince you that that is the real you, too. 

He moves both your wrists to one of his hands as you begin struggling again, using this as an opportunity for escape as hope blossoms in your chest again. Yet, you find yourself utterly surprised when he uses his now free hand to lift up his hood and tug the balaclava up.

A scar runs from the start of his jaw, through his chapped lips, and stops just before the beginning of his nose. He smiles at you, and of course, he has dimples. 

Of course Devils have to be handsome. 

His calm yet brash voice, yet again, reverberates in your chest, “Wenn ich in deine seele tauche, und dich für meine lust gebrauche, dann werd' ich deine Sinne blenden; only you can finish the game yourself.”

Suddenly, his lips meet yours and you struggle against his grip, cries of denial muffled against him. He drops the mask over your head, and for a moment you’re unsure if your concussion finally caught up to you, or if the lamp went out. 

One hand now holds a gentle grip on your chin, and the other still holds your wrists tightly; thumb slowly caressing the flesh. 

It’s soft, for a few moments, until he grows needy. Asks for more when he was never given permission to take. He presses you against the desk, wood digging into your back as he bites your lip. It becomes wet, more teeth than tongue, more unbridled want than love.

You can’t tell if he sighs or moans, lewdly, into it.

As you stare wide-eyed into the void where his face should be, you wonder if love was meant to taste like brimstone.  -------------------

Well, this was fun. I hope whoever reads this enjoys it as much as I did writing it! I haven't written properly in a while, so, I guess you could also call this writing practice as well as self-indulgent. I apologize if I messed up with any of the German; I'm going off of song lyrics and translators.

Translations:

Du kommst hier nicht mehr raus = You can’t get out of here

Maus = Mouse

Lauf', voge, lauf', so schnell du kannst = Run, dove, run as fast as you can

Du weißt nicht mehr, wer du bist, Taube; du weißt nicht mehr, was liebe ist = You don’t know who you are anymore, dove, you no longer know what love is

Dein Spiegelbild hat sich entstellt, niemand ist hier, der zu dir hält = Your reflection has been distorted, there is no one to stand by you

Bitte = Please

Lass' mich dein geheimnis sein = Let me be your secret

Lass' mich rein = Let me in

Vögelchen = Birdie

Voge = Dove

Keiner kann dir sagen, wer die guten und die bösen sind = Nobody can tell you who the good guys and the bad guys are

Verbannt = Banished

Wenn ich in deine seele tauche, und dich für meine lust gebrauche, dann werd' ich deine Sinne blenden = When I dive into your soul, and use you for my lust, then I’ll blind your senses

[backpackingspace]

Bets on if I have a concussion or not going once going twice

[xfilesinamajor]

Really hoping that in tomorrow's episode they include Glen's traditional stuntman funeral. First because he deserves it, but more importantly because I'm convinced there's still some connection or secret to be unearthed at Concussions.

[littlemagicalstardust]

Some unfortunate news (Old photo from AEW) The Conglomeration's Willow Nightingale got a concussion during a match in CMLL last night. :( (As a precaution she has been removed from the next two matches she was scheduled for in Mexico) I hope she recovers well and it's not too serious of a concussion.

[mindblowingscience]

The study adds to the growing body of science that suggests that “cocoon therapy”—bed rest in the dark with minimal mental stimulation after concussion—isn’t good for patients. Instead, when done under the guidance of a trained clinician, exercise is preferable, says Landon Lempke, a research fellow with appointments at the University of Michigan Concussion Center and the Exercise and Sport Science Initiative, both housed in the School of Kinesiology and first author of the study in the journal Sports Medicine. The observational study monitored more than 1,200 college athletes at 30 institutions nationwide before injury and at injury until medical clearance. The study wasn’t designed to establish a causal relationship between exercise and concussion recovery, but the findings are in line with previous smaller, randomized controlled trials identifying similar relationships. Athletes who began light exercise within 48 hours were considerably more likely to see symptoms resolve than those who did not exercise, with about 2.5 days faster symptom recovery time. Athletes who started exercising roughly eight days or later after injury were significantly less likely to experience symptom recovery than those who did not exercise, and took about five days longer to recover.

Continue Reading

[fantasyismyonlyrealescape]

Whumptober 2024: No. 6 - Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Title: Time Lost

Characters: Kevin Owens & Sami Zayn (Zowens)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word Count: 648

A/N: Another addition to Whumptober. Cheers!

Summary: Sami Zayn, not at 100%, insists he's fine and wrestles in a match, getting himself injured further. Kevin is there to make sure he actually seeks out medical this time, not that he has much of a choice with a concussion.

Cross posted on AO3 under user wrestlinginjeans.

Sami Zayn loved working through pain. Well, maybe that was too far of a stretch. He didn’t love it, but he never would turn down a match if given the choice. Wrestling was his life and it was everything that he had ever dreamed it would be. Laying down on the mat now, staring up into the far too bright and artificial lighting positioned above the ring as his whole body throbbed to the beat of his heart, he couldn’t help but question his mindset.

After an unknown amount of time, Sami was usually better at keeping track of time, he felt strong calloused hands on his arms then under his arms, helping him up and towards the ropes. Sami squeezes his eyes shut against the pain and the nausea, breathing in harshly through his nose. By the time he regained some degree of composure, and he opened his eyes, he found himself being assisted up the ramp and through the curtain, surprising himself at the amount of time he had just lost.

A persistent sound louder now was repeatedly nagging him from his left side. It took him far too long to recognize that it was a voice calling his name. He tried to turn his head in the direction of the sound, feeling distinctly like he knew the voice so intimately but couldn’t quite place it. The voice sounded far away now.

The next thing he knew, he was laid out on one of the trainer’s benches. How did he get here? He had no recollection of the walk from the curtain to where he presently was. He tried to place what the skips in his memory could mean, but he couldn’t quite make sense of it all.

A wet cloth is pressed to his head then, concentrated on the right side of his face where his hairline started. It felt cool and comfortable until the biting sensation of alcohol took over and overwhelmed his already overloaded mind. His uncoordinated hands tried to reach up and bat the cloth away only to have the same calloused hands as before grab ahold of his wrists and pin his arms down firmly. The rest of the ministrations were lost on him as he floated somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, riding the waves of pain that seemed so at home in his body.

He awoke to a voice, a different one this time, speaking softly as he found himself back in the land of wakefulness.

“… three bruised ribs, numerous superficial bruises and cuts as well as a grade 2 concussion.” 

(What? Who were they talking about?)

He tried to move his arm to cover his eyes, to block out the light that filtered through his eyelids, only to take a sharp breath at the flare of pain which only got worse as the breath jostled his battered ribs.

“Sami!” he hears the voice from earlier call, the one that belonged to the calloused hands as he tries to curl into himself. He doesn’t remember much after that, until he wakes again this time in another location.

He comes to on what feels to be a bed and the first thing he notices is a warm hand resting on his chest, a hand that he would recognize anywhere.

“Kev…?” Sami asks, his voice nothing more than a croak as his throat burns from having not spoken in so long as the hand rises and falls in sync with Sami’s breathing. Kevin mumbles something incoherent, before opening his unfocused grey eyes and upon seeing Sami’s hazel orbs peeking out from underneath heavy lids, immediately sits bolt upright in the chair he was leaning forward towards the bed in.

“Sami!” and the smile that forms on Kevin’s face at seeing his friend awake is enough to make all the pain that Sami was experiencing go away if only for a moment.

[macgyvermedical]

Hi :) I hope you're doing well and are on the mend. For the low effort asks, would you be okay giving me a rundown on how concussions work? If you have a post about that already, then I wanna know what happens if you get the wrong type of blood in a transfusion.

(Feel free to leave this unanswered if it's a bit much)

Am wishing you the best in your recovery ❤️

I have done one about concussions, you can read it here.

I have also done one on transfusion reactions, you can read it here.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Crash

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Thank you to @that-one-thespian for letting me borrow Archer! This is for @augusnippets Day 6: Car Crash

Contains: Car crash, concussions, hurt/comfort

~~~

Everything was fine until it wasn’t.

Tires screeching.

Glass cracking.

Lights flashing.

Spinning and spinning and spinning.

Voices clamoring.

“Sundrop? Sundrop, can you hear me?”

Altair furiously blinked away the disorientation, locking onto Archer’s steady voice and worried face like a lifeline. Relief instantly spread across his boyfriend’s face when their eyes met. Good; he should never look so distressed.

It occurred to Altair, belatedly, that the world wasn’t still spinning. It just felt like it was. That wasn’t good.

One of Archer’s hands found his. Altair held it tight, as though otherwise they might fly apart. “Are you alright, meadowlark?”

Altair did a quick check of himself. Splitting headache, but nothing else seemed injured. “Might be concussed. What happened?”

“We got hit. You were thrown from the car. Don’t move; the paramedics were on their way.”

The steady, calm cadence of Archer’s words was as reassuring as it always was. Still Altair made a face; he didn’t want paramedics. He just wanted Elze’ith to look at him.

Archer chuckled. “I know, meadowlark. Elze’ith will be here soon as well, okay?”

“Fine.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of Archer’s hand, grounding himself on the familiar, cool metal. “You okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”

Altair doubted that. But that just meant that when the paramedics came, he would have to make sure they looked at Archer with as much scrutiny as they looked at him. And it meant that when they finally returned home, he would have to wrap Archer in his wings as the reality of what had happened finally hit him.

Until then, he would have to settle for holding Archer’s hand. But that wasn’t so bad at all.

[akihatohnoofficial]

rose is a girl of taste. she knows how much more appealing you’d be to fuck with a dent in your skull and your words slurring and your eyes unfocused and you complaining about how you don’t feel so good before your speech becomes unintelligible.

she would just go back to scrolling through []’s blog and ignore me let’s be real

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Steve: My toxic trait is that I don't believe in concussions and I just walk them off like a pro

Eddie:

Eddie: Nope, you're seeing a doctor

[angels-whump]

Concussions are not overdone if they’re the most based whump trope ever

[peapodfics]

Maybe it wasn't planned after all

By sineater_bunn

Concussed Dazai, Hurt/Comfort, and Skk!