#cw multiple deaths

[billowingangel]

America doesn't like Fireworks

Here's a headcanon/projection I have for America. I also thought I already posted this but I actually dreamt that…totally not a sign of #mentalillness

content warning: mentions of multiple real life deaths, great war and world war two are mentioned, mentions of ptsd/shell shock.

i'm not fully sure those need a warning but just in case I wanted to provide them.

At first America loved fireworks to celebrate the fourth of july. He had loved the display of colors and patronism his citizens showed! He was a freshly indepent nation when the fireworks began in 1777. He thought they were beautiful, amazing, spectacular, and a wonderful sign of what the future would hold.

He also greatly prefered fireworks to the guns and canons set off during the 4th and was happy that after 1812 that phased out.

When Independence Day became an offical holiday in 1870 he cried with joy. That year he watched the firework display with an intense feeling of pride in his heart.

But then it began to change for him. In the years between 1903 and 1909 there were 44 deaths due to fireworks and even more injuries. He began to feel a bit of unease over the citizen's love for fireworks.

Then the Great War happened...So many young men came back from the war shell shocked. Hell, America even had some shell shock for a while. That first year after the war and the fireworks going off, he felt all those men's fears and his own fear.

That was a major turning point for him.

It didn't help that between 1928 and 1942 there were another 56 deaths in factories and stores due to fireworks. And then after World War Two, the sound of fireworks began to make America's heart race.

After a few years America decided he would leave his big house in Washington DC and go to another one of his houses. This house was further away from any firework show the city was doing. He wouldn't feel anxious and would be able to celebrate his independence/birthday in peace and quiet. But by that time it was the 1980s and more people were doing fireworks in the comfort of their backyards. The noise and smoke that filled the street of America's suburban house terrified him. Were they under attack? He had rushed to investigate only to find people with fireworks and firecrackers.

America gave up, it was probably just him upset by this whole mess. Those who had shell shock probably got used to it by now, correct?

But then in the 2000s he began to hear more talk, more talk of veterans struggling with the fireworks. Dogs struggling with the fireworks. Pets, kids, many more people then he assumed were scared of the loud fireworks. And in a way it explained to him why at the turn on the 1900s he began to have a change of heart about fireworks, a feeling of unease and uncomfort. Because despite how much he partied or celebrated on July 4th he still just didn't feel right, that something was wrong.

Then more and more states began to ban the setting off of fireworks for personal use but that wouldn't stop the citizens despite the growing number of people who found discomfort with them. America wouldn't go anywhere in the South around the 4th of July mostly staying in States that had the strictest bans on fireworks. By this time his fear of fireworks had greatly decreased especially since he realized the cause, it wasn't all his feelings but Americans feelings as well.

He even began to host some birthday parties where you could see the city sanctioned firework show. Firework shows were different to him then just the random ones in someone's back yard, those were expected, well controlled, a professional was doing it.

America hopes that one day he'll be able to like fireworks again but that probably wouldn't be until people stopped doing it on their own or when people and animals stopped being upset by it. Both those cases seem unlikely, so America will just grit his teeth and accept the firework tradition.

I even used some sources for this *insert surprise pikachu* History of Fireworks Firework Accidents and Deaths I couldn't find out when it became the norm to do your own fireworks but I assumed at least by the 80s. I also believe states began putting in place bans/laws about personal fireworks in the early 2000s but don't quote me.

[tommyssupercoolblog]

Plurality in YouTube series: 😊🌸🌈🫶 we're just chilling ✨😋 casual representation you know ^^ just normal everyday life thinggs 🌈🌈 we accept you 🌈😋🌸🫶🐱

Plurality in Hollywood: THIS WILL KILL YOU AND ALSO EVERYONE ELSE. SEE THAT SYSTEM?? SERIAL KILLER DANGEROUS SO SCARY KILL COUNT ONE MILLION ORPHANS. 🔥🔥🔪🔫😱👹👹 "ALTERS" WILL RIP YOUR SKIN OFF AND WEAR IT 💀💀💀 DO NOT TRUST THESE CRAZY BITCHES YOU'RE A CRAZY BITCH YOU SJOULD BE ON JAIL 👮‍♀️🚓🚔 MONSTER U R A MONSTER EVERYONE WATCG THE FUCJ OUT BEFORE THEY GET YOU!!! They'll fuckin GETTTTT YOUUUUUUHUUUU crazy bitch LMAO die all of you die forever no more systems 🖤❤️‍🔥 go fuck yourself freak

[deluxewhump]

the bahkauv: part three

Prev

CW: hurt, more hurt, no comfort yet but a glimpse of it. Brief verbal threat of noncon, pliers as torture device, muzzle, broken bones, ear and hand whump, nonhuman whumpee, burning alive, immortal/quick healing whumpee, slight language barrier, brief thoughts/ideation of death and mortality, multiple whumpers

Hunters camp (before):

At first, the hunters thought the Bahkauv was a vampire. It made sense, in the confusion of the moment. Vampires were far more common than its kind was anymore. That and it had fangs.

At the camp, they soon realized the Bahkauv was not a vampire. This revelation did nothing to protect it. Close enough, they said. It was still a non-human creature, and had a long history of attacking, robbing, and even killing humans.

The first day in captivity, nothing happened. The Bahkauv twisted and pulled at its restraints, trying to no avail to find some give in the ropes that bound it hand and foot. How naive it had been. It had no idea the depth of the hatred these humans had for it, and for the vampires they didn’t kill outright.

One of the hunters caught it trying to manipulate the knots and beat it with fists and boots before putting its first muzzle on its face. At first it had been angry, hissing and spitting at the hunter’s hands that were wet with its own blood. That got it a backhand that made its ears ring and its head ache. The bit was sharp and huge, shoved to the back of its throat so it gagged and secured so tightly it thought it would choke. Humiliated, it had shrunk against the clapboard wall and sulked.

Pride would soon be a forgotten luxury.

The next day, two hunters came for it, dragging it stiff and sore from its first beating out into the yard along with a couple of screaming vampires. The sun was climbing in the sky, which was why the vamps were screaming and carrying on so. It felt an intense gratefulness that it could not burn from the sun as they could. One of the hunters grabbed its muzzle and turned its chin to force it to look.

“You see that? You think you’re better than them, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

Another hunter joined the first. He had a mocking, self satisfied grin. “Let’s teach it a lesson in humility then. What are we waiting for? It was going to tear Byron’s throat out before we netted it.”

“Look at these. Is this fur?” the first hunter stroked one of the Bahkauv’s ears with the pad of his thumb. It shuddered at the unexpected touch. It was not affectionate, or kind, but it happened to be very gentle, and its ears were as highly sensitive as its sharp canines. It recoiled in disgust from the hunter’s hand— and its own reaction to it.

“It appears human when it’s not attacking. Except for a few details. The fangs are one. The ears. And of course it’s utterly vicious, despite being relatively intelligent. Can’t teach it a thing.”

“I bet I can teach it something,” grinned the first. It took the Bahvauv’s fur-lined ear between its forefinger and thumb again, this time pinching so tears sprung to its eyes and it bit back a surprised gasp of pain.

“Don’t be shy. Let’s hear a pretty little whimper at least. You’re going to make a lot of noises here.” The hunter pinched the sensitive skin and cartilage harder, his nails breaking skin beneath the soft layer of orange fur. The Bahkauv grit its teeth as best it could around the bit, and would not make a sound.

“No?” The hunter took something from the belt at his waist. Cold metal replaced fingers. Though the Bahkauv didn’t know it yet, it would come to know the word pliers very well. Such a simple tool, and so effective. Humans love tools— pliers and muzzles and fire. The teeth of the pliers bit down.

The Bahkauv screamed around the bit. It tried to pull away, but the hunter had it firm by the muzzle.

“There we go.” He gave the pliers a few sharp tugs, eliciting high pitched yelps. Its delicate ear was caught between the mean metal teeth like a fishhook.

“That was a healthy scream.”

“It’s an angry scream,” said the second. “That will change. If you take that thing clean off, you can dry it out and send it to your kids for good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.”

It made an indignant sound, half-scream and haf-growl, saliva tinged with blood dripping from its muzzle.

“Well shit, that’s a good idea. I already ruined this one for now, it’s got a hole in it. I’ll get the other one.”

The hunter had been right that its silence wouldn’t last. It screamed as it was parted from its left ear.

—

It did not take the camp of hunters long to figure out that it regenerated itself quickly. Its ears grew back slowly, as did its fangs when they were later pulled. Everything that had a human appearance healed faster, though all the more painfully for it.

The first time they burned it, they didn’t know if it would survive. Neither did the Bahkauv. When it did, and its skin began to immediately repair itself, they were delighted. The Bahkauv was horrified. If that could not end its suffering, what could?

It was put back in its cell at dusk. It was unnatural for a creature like itself to dwell on death, but after being burned alive all morning and afternoon, over and over, with no more than an hours’ reprieve in between, it began to despair.

“Don’t cry,” crooned one of the hunters from the door of its cell. It scrambled into a sitting position, startled. It had thought it was alone.

“You were a favorite today. We all feel so much better for having played with you. A real morale boost. Look how quickly all that pretty hair has grown back. Your nature works hard to protect your disguise as human, doesn’t it? If I cut myself, the blood would clot and the skin would eventually knit back together. But not like you.”

The Bahkauv pressed its back tight against the wall as the hunter approached. This man was one of its torturers earlier that day— a younger one, not twenty five, tall and broad chested, with colorless blue eyes and close-shaved pale hair. He slipped a pair of pliers from his belt— the teeth were thick and blunt, not sharp like the ones they used to cut its ears. “And who knew you could speak? Do you understand, or did you just learn a few words like a talking parrot?”

The hunter squatted in front of it. Its heart pounded wildly, the staggering, paralyzing fear from the day returning and overriding its exhaustion. He took one of the Bahkauv’s hands in a strong grip. The pliers covered the first knuckle of its pointer finger, still pink and healing from the fire. It crunched down, shattering the first knuckle so it felt like gravel inside its skin.

It wailed, wildly trying to wrench its wrist from the hunter’s grip. It was so weak— like in a dream where it could not run or fight back. Healing and burning and healing again had sapped all its strength. Its anger at the hunters had long been replaced by desperation. Why did they want to hurt it so badly? How could it get the pain to stop? When it couldn’t, it stopped wondering why. It knew why. And this hunter was about to remind it.

“God, you sound like a person. You look human. That makes them hate you more, do you know that? It’s uncanny. Except for those devil eyes, you could be a boy of twenty summers, or less. Some of them even wonder if you’d be worth fucking. I think a lot of them wonder, and who could blame them? But no one wants to be the first to try it.” The pliers traveled to the next knuckle and perched there, waiting, on its freshly formed skin.

“No,” the Bahkauv whispered, tears flowing, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth, raw and chafed from the bit that was always shoved to the back of its throat. “No. Pl-please.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Do you know those words? They’re the only ones you used all day. All goddam day, even in such unfathomable suffering. I could smell it every time your flesh melted, and still you only said no, and please. But do you understand?”

It was beginning to. Its own mother tongue was not human. But it had the same capabilities for language as the humans. More, even, and could infer with greater accuracy things the humans thought and felt as they spoke, which helped decode the words.

“A thing like you shouldn’t beg, anyway. It won’t work. You don’t deserve our mercy.”

Muscles flexed in the hunters thick, tanned forearm as he squeezed the plier handles together. Another crunch, and a second knuckle was destroyed under their powerful metal bite like glass broken inside a cloth sack. It shrieked so it thought its throat would tear open, pounding its foot uselessly against the wooden floor. The hunter narrowed his blue eyes as its scream tapered off into raw sobs, shaking its head no, over and over.

The pliers retracted and settled over its middle finger, on the first knuckle. The Bahkauv keened in dread, looking into the hunters face and finding not a flicker of regret or a glimpse of mercy. It knew hurting it entertained each hunter in different ways, but it pleased them all none the less. Each crunch of the tool was cataclysmic, and it was hard to imagine how at any point today it would have chosen this immediately to get the fire to stop, because now it did not think it could handle another crushed bone. And it had many more knuckles.

“Either way,” sighed the hunter. “Tomorrow we will burn you again, and see if you know any more words, little parrot.”

__

After they made camp, the three friends slept around the dying fire in their bedrolls. Francis tied a rope to his own waist and looped the other end around the Bahkauv’s collar so it slept six feet away from him. No more escape attempts. If it moved, he would feel it, and they both knew it.

The men slept. The Bahkauv tried to lie awake and alert, but its exhaustion was too great, and soon it slept too. The howling of wolves woke all of them in the wee hours of the morning. Disoriented, it leapt awake, scrambling along the length of its rope. In the hunters encampment, this would have led it to a solid wall it could press itself against, but now it led to Francis. It bumped into him and whimpered, waiting for a backhand or a cuff to the ear.

“Hey. It’s alright,” Francis told it gently in the darkness. Why were their voices so soft and blameless when they spoke to it? It had been waiting all day and now all night for the first blow, the first violence or pain from its captors, and still it had not come. It was like waiting for the pliers to crush another bone.

“They won’t come much closer. You’re alright. You’re safe with us. They sound kind of beautiful, don’t they?”

Stephan and Arthur got up out of their bedrolls to settle the horses, who were stamping their hooves and whickering nervously.

It hadn’t meant to crawl so close to its captor, but once again it was not punished for doing so. Something was different about them than the hunters, but it didn’t know enough about humans to assign much meaning to this observation. It was true the unmistakable sounds of the wolves had frightened it awake, and made the fine hairs on the back of its neck stand up. But it wasn’t afraid in the way it understood fear now. That kind of fear was reserved for humans, with their tools and fire and deliberate malice. But what a strange thing to say. Safe with us. Like they would protect it. It could not imagine humans as protectors.

Still, it slept closer to Francis til first light, with three feet of slack in the six foot rope.

-

Tags

@paperprinxe @whumpsday @i-eat-worlds @handsinmotion @stormchaser819

@annablogsposts @clickerflight @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud @scoundrelwithboba, @blood-and-regrets

[aarontveit]

DEATH TO SMOOCHY | 2002 +dir. Danny DeVito.

[chimchiri]

You know, I still adore horror movies. I've mellowed out a lot over the years (used to watch a lot more disturbing horror movies when I was younger) but I still adore them.

That said. I now finally, finally get why people look up warnings and use doesthedogdie.com. Rationally, I understood it before. But now I can relate.

Because dear lord, I would have LOVED to know about that scene in "The Lobster". I am convinced that if the doesthedogdie.com hadn't existed before, this movie would single-handedly be the reason why this website would be created.

For anyone unfamiliar: doesthedogdie.com is a website where you can check for different triggers in movies. Initially it started with dog death (as the name implies) but there are also many other triggers you can check for (e.g. different forms of abuse, abandoment, violence etc). There are no images and the questions are answered by the community in text form. Sometimes people leave timestamps which is nice as well.

[mrdrhenwardhykle]

Phone Guy version of yesterday's post!

Ref to Clocktower

[ozzieinspacetime]

Thinking about the INSANE moral grey area of the thg victors at the minute,, these scared, small children killed 23 (or 47) other equally scared, small children in order to make it out alive. Every year afterwards the wound that is the games gets ripped open and they have to go about closing it up all over again. They can never escape the blood of the other scared little kids on their hands. They are being punished by the Capitol, made to watch other kids do what they did, for something the Capitol made them do in the first place. If they want the kids to die because they don't want them suffering the way a victor does for the rest of their lives, then they're uncaring & complicit in the tributes death. If they get the kids out, they're signing the tribute up for a life of misery. No winning. No moral high ground. Just a train ride that never stops.

[wyvchard]

Augusnippets Day 19

Prompts for today: collared/branded/chipped

Prompt/s used: Chipped

Content Warnings: Unhealthy dynamics, excessive surveillance, manipulation, multuple whumpees, a whumpee knows what's going on, hints of carewhumper, mentioned death

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He opened his monitor and put on his headphones as the other man connected his earpiece in his ear.

Things were silent as he watched through the body camera. The sanitary white walls was suffocating akin more to a dusty room than the polished product it reports to be.

His beige eyes took in the sight as he counted down the steps, not paying attattention to the wisps of green hair occasionally poking out in the screen.

There is a job that needs to be done. Quickly.

The other man entered the room, looking around and saw her typical white hair sticking out the monitor.

"... Don't get that chip." The severe tone caused her golden eyes to shift into something akin to honey.

"What do you think will stop me from getting it, mister?" She remained seated, turning her head towards them as she paused her hands from typing.

"Well-"

"Whether I get it or not is not up to your or even his decision." The resignation in her tone sent shivers down both men's backs. "His... protection can only go so far."

"...What are you on about?"

"I'm telling you. You interfered too late."

Silence filled the air as she held up a hand before focusing back on her work.

"... You got chipped? Since when?!"

"... How do you think they died?" The bitterness spilled on her tongue as she closed her eyes. "Be careful on your way back. They're keeping an eye on me. Oh. And tell that guy I can sense his influence on you."

He took a sharp breath as it seemed like she saw right through him. "This is between the two of us. Leave my brother out of this. You can hurt me in any way you see fit but it's just the two of us."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." He muttered, still knowing she can't hear him. "I have my own reasons to hate him."

[angryjojofrog]

"Will you take me out on a date after i recover?"

After TillT fell ill because the death of his mother, as well as the responsibility as the CEO, were too much to handle, Ascalpelus swore to visit him at the hospital every day to support him

At this point they both already knew they have feeling for each other but never verbalized it, despite flirting with each other and holding each other's hand

They did eventually go on a date as you can see :]

GIRLS!!!!

[savior-of-humanity]

😴 and 😨 for any of my muses, aimed at Y'shua?

@maykrisms I was gonna write two separate ones but I decided to be particularly evil and combine them :3c

cw for child/animal death + graphic description of dead bodies/people dying (the part where it starts is under the read-more)

--

The dream always comes to him when he's at his lowest.

How he ends up there always varies; sometimes, he's lost in the darkness of between space and time, cast there by Samuel's machinations. Sometimes, he accepts the Khan Maykr's offer. Sometimes, he simply gives up. But in the end, the how and the why never truly matters, only that it always leads to the same conclusion.

He's home.

Not the Fortress of Doom. Not among his Night Sentinel brethren. Not even the dingy barracks back in the UAC. No, here, there was only one home; the one back on Earth, his Earth.

Every time he comes here, every single detail was always unchanged and unmarred; the garden, the little paddock for Daisy, the books and other trinkets that lined the shelves. But most important among them were his family - always waiting for him, as though he'd never left. The memory of their warmth, their love, was something he allowed himself to all but drown in; the gentle kisses of his lover, the giggling laughter of a child whose face or name he could never remember, the soft and silky fur of Daisy as she rested in his lap.

It was perfect.

It was always perfect. It was always too perfect. But he didn't care, not when it was so easy to let himself be consumed by the blissful fantasy of his dreams. But in the end, the curtain must be drawn back - and the dream must die.

Y'shua had never ran so fast in his entire life.

Around him, everywhere he could see, smell, hear, taste, there was only Hell on Earth, and the unimaginable suffering that it wrought. The sky was choked with smoke and ash, covering everything in a dim red haze. The air rang with the sounds of distant fighting from military and police and whoever had the bravery to pick up a gun and fight the Helltide, interlaced with inhuman noises that were all-too familiar. And, above it all, was the constant din of the sound of human suffering; wailing, screaming, the gnashing of teeth.

There was nowhere he could even look without witnessing death and despair in some form; people frantically trying to rescue their friends and loved ones from the rubble of collapsed buildings, only to be picked off by demons. People running for their lives only to be run down like game, screaming and kicking and begging and sobbing as they were ripped apart and eaten alive. Men, women, children, even the animals were not spared from this barbarous cruelty. The streets ran with blood; there were multiple instances where he almost slipped and fell on a smear of human gore beneath his foot.

He wanted so badly to help. To rescue them all from this nightmare unending. But there was nothing he could do for them, not as a single man, even one who had crawled out from the shores of Hell itself. So he did the only thing he could do; run, and never stop running, only until he finally reached his home.

The house was mostly intact. The door looked to have been torn straight off its hinges and thrown all the way down the entry hallway, with huge claw marks carved into the door frame and walls. He ignored that awful sinking feeling in his stomach, tried to shove his growing fear to the back of his mind aside; he could not allow himself to fall into despair and terror, not when he'd come so far. So he distracted himself by searching the whole house.

Belongings were strewn about and in various states of destruction, with no signs of a fight save for one clue; there was the body of a lone Imp in the living room, a gaping hole where its chest cavity once was. Clear and obvious handiwork of a shotgun, which made his heart flutter with hope. He checked the indoor pen where Daisy was usually kept; she was nowhere in sight, but multiple bags of feed were missing. There was only one place they could have gone.

Y'shua descended the stairs to the basement.

The basement would've been the only remotely safe place they could've gone to, as it had a built-in emergency bunker as well. It was well-stocked, it had a few guns kept down there, and it was designed to withstand some of the worst Nature could throw at it - earthquakes and tornadoes and the like. But, when it came to Hell on Earth, was anywhere safe?

The pungent and horribly familiar stench of blood hit him first before he saw the shelter door. He stopped dead in his tracks on the bottom step of the stairs; he couldn't see inside the room from where he was, but he could see that the solid-steel door leading to it, much like the entrance to his home, looked as if it'd been severely dented in an effort to beat it down, before the culprit simply tore it apart.

Dread and terror sunk their talons deep into his heart, and he found his feet frozen in place. A part of him couldn't bear to take another step, couldn't bear to confirm the fears clouding his mind - and the other part knew there was no point in walking away without an answer.

He took the final step down, and looked inside the room.

. . .

He was too late.

They were stripped of meat down to the bone, and the bones themselves crushed for the marrow inside. They died, painful and violent and most definitely fearing for their lives. There wasn't even anything left of Daisy, just a single severed foot on the floor that'd more than likely been carelessly tossed aside.

The dark and empty sockets of their bloodied skulls stared back at him, as if to ask, why weren't you here when we needed you most? Why didn't you save us? But did they know, too, that they were just a figment of his imagination? A memory given flesh? Surely, they didn't know that no matter how fast Y'shua ran, no matter how efficiently he slaughtered everything in his path, no matter what he did, there was nothing he could do to save them.

The only thing he could do, trapped in the despair of his deepest nightmares, was scream.

[chimera-kraken]

、

[tommyssupercoolblog]

POLL TIME!!! BECAUSE IM CURIOUS!!! (poll is under da cut :3)

CW for death, the afterlife, and fusion mention.

[genderfluid-draws]

[ID copied from alt: A rough pencil sketch from the perspective of Arthur lying on his office floor. His left hand is stretched out in front of him toward a book. Beyond the book, Parker lies on the floor, his hand reaching toward Arthur. End ID]

Arthur, comfort was left on the floor of your office back in Arkham.

Malevoversary day 1: Parker Yang

[marsixm]

big spoiler cw for the finale- i understand why a lot of people didnt feel like it made sense for how ed was acting during izzy’s death scene, like it didn’t feel earned or whatever bc they’d been at odds w each other since last season, but for me, and understand i’m not saying my personal experience making it make sense for me is trying to give undue writing cred or whatever, but i had a very difficult relationship with my very transphobic/bigoted mother. she made my life a nightmare a lot of the time. but i had to care for her in death. i had to watch her die for months. it was a waking nightmare, and it had a profound effect on me. it was complicated. it made my relationship to my memory of her very complicated. (and even if it hadnt been a months long ordeal i was caught in the middle of i’d probably still feel similarly) and that’s how ed dealing with izzy’s death feels to me. just like him having to kill his father, it was the right thing to do, but it still left him with difficult emotions. when ed says “you’re the only family i’ve got left” to izzy, after all the bullshit they put each other through, i get it.

[rec-flies-away]

I'm going to be all alone and probably homeless in 3 months and I'm terrified

My partner has been forced to care for me all alone with no external help for years. His care of me is the equivalent of 3 full time jobs. He and his body cannot take it anymore. He told me he will move out and back to his parents in May. That's in 3 months.

We are both heartbroken. We just want a life together. We love each other so much. We don't feel complete without each other. We both just want a life together, that is okay. We could have had such a good life with each other if we weren't forced in this situation by the system. We are so upset and terrified about what will happen in 3 months that we can't find any words for it. We cry and cry and hug each other and cry more and I feel his hugs and I cry even harder because in 3 months I might never get to hug him again.

I have no idea what to do. I can't live alone. I can't eat, drink, toilet, or sleep on my own. Left alone it will only be a few days before I die. I would lie stuck alone in bed in my own pee and poo without any drinks or foods and slowly die of thirst. I'm so scared. I'm so terrified.

I don't want to die. And if I somehow find a way to survive, but never get to have my partner in my life again, that would be worse than dying. A life without him in it is not for me. I can't.

I am in so much pain and so much fear I have no idea what to do or how to describe it. Every good thing makes me sad because I will lose all of it in 3 months. I don't have anyone else to take me in. There is nowhere for me to go. I'm so scared.

My partner is my only communication partner who even gets close to fully understanding me. Without him, I don't even have a voice. No one else has loved me like he does, either. No one else has been so kind and gentle with me. Without him I have no communication partner and no person I'm actually attached to.

I'm terrified. My life has an expiration date. It's 3 months away.

[wethecelestial]

they should invent a grief thats uncomplicated and purely cathartic to experience. has anyone thought of this before