#cw: injury detail

[rotten-dog-teeth]

🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🍉🔞!!️ Do not ignore my message. It is an emergency. There is nothing left for us. Now I need your help to buy medicine urgently. It is very expensive, worth $600. An anaesthetic for the pain. He also needs to travel to continue the necessary treatment procedure. Please, you are my hope. Just donate what you can to my brother😭💔💔

Https://gofund.me/73d4b003

Donate to this person if you can!!

[charred-angel-ribs]

I started wheezing earlier, and when I exhaled it made a bird chirping/twittering noise, and would specifically make the noise thrice, and it immediately reminded me of Hannibal 2x08 Su-zakana when they find the bird in her heart.

The canary wriggled its way up from the chest into the throat, and began to sing as it choked.

Just a little something I thought was neat :). /lh /gen

[endlessartpumpkin]

"He hums, sleepily. His gaze is trained on the fireplace now, seemingly mesmerized by the flames dancing there. But when she drapes a blanket over him he drags his gaze up to meet hers."

A young Time and Malon from this beautiful fic by the amazingly talented and lovely @adrift-in-thyme! <3

[off-mozzarella]

Nice catch! :]

Here's a very self indulgent and low effort drawing I made in an attempt to keep my sanity lol

[wickedsnack-art]

Judgment of the Dread Wolf

[fantasydoctor]

prev - next

[black-and-yellow]

[asktheevilgeniusesson]

CW ahead: Character death&probable in depth depictions of injury. Blood. Minor/medium gore.

Neos backstory when he was sonic and how he died, wooooo!!

It was supposed to be just a normal mission for him and his friends. Sonic was running beside amy and knuckles, with tails flying overhead to get a scope of the battlefield ahead. Sonic was listening to his teammates and their ideas to hatch a plan, throwing in his own ideas and they were all brainstorming up an idea together, once they had a plan they ALL agreed on, it was time for action.

Sonic remembered the way the wind breezed through his quills, how alive he felt rushing through the green hills with his friends. How he and amy were so affectionate before the fight began with headbutts and on-the-run nuzzles. He was so.. content with his life of action. It felt like he belonged here. In a team. Where they all cared for eachother and listened to eachothers options and opinions. He never took it for granted, but.. he never knew how much he’d long for companionship again. How without it, he slowly went insane.

The blue blur spun trhough the grass, rushing taords the badniks terrorizing the flickeys as he and his team emerged from the trees in a surprise attack. Everyone worked in pure harmony, takin turns to whack a badnik the other had distracted or sending one to the other for a fun ‘home run!’ As they’d cheer when someone sent a badnik flying away. Saved flickeys assisting sonic with airtime and helping keep his speed up, how he heard the egghead angrily grumbling and yelling at them for trashing his robots. And how he’d get up onto the eggmobile and face the doc himself, they were good rivals back then. Loving to push eachothers buttons but never meant to cause catastrophic harm to one another. But today was diffrent. Not because of the doctor, but because of a rouge motobug.

Sonic had just been about to regroup with his friends to check on the flickeys and see if the doc accidentally hurt any of them, he wasnt speeding over, infsct he took his time. The one time in his life he didnt feel the need to rush.. and it cost him everything.

He felt it. A searing, sudden pain shoot through his chest. A gag where he tried to yell out. Red&emerald green eyes moving to see what happened as he felt his body lifted. A motobug held the hedeghog in its jaws. Large sharp metallic teeth sinking through his chest from the back and front. Eventually he got a scream to leave his mouth and then everything blurred together as his friends rushed to his aid in horror. The next thing he knew he was laid on the warm, comfortable green grass, friends surrounding him with worried calls to him to awnser them. Tails was freaking out, he was trying to find something to patch the wounds but he had no clue how to help sonics condition, he was a child. And the guilt sunk in. His baby brother.. he tried to tell him to look away but tails didnt listen and he could feel his brother’s warm fur squeeze him as he hugged his srm and sobbed for him to just stay awake. Knuckles was trying to keep the injury closed while amy was sobbing, screaming at the doctor to do something. Her screaming died out when sonics glove reached to shakily hold hers and he met eyes with his team. He couldnt recall what he said. But he knew he was encouraging them to keep saving everyone. Keep.. doing what they did everyday. To not let this stop them.. and to take care of themselves.

And the last touch he could remember, was their paws around his shaking body, holding him tight and begging him to hold on alittle longer. But the blood seeped into the warm grass. Staining bright green patches a deep crimson red. The motobug chewed right through his chest, leaving a gaping hole. Heart weak from the strike and he just… he couldnt. He wanted to stay and hold on for them but he just… the grass felt so comfortable. Their embrace felt so welcoming. He could hear something rageful in the back of his mind. Not his voice. Something.. ethereal..? He hadn’t a clue. But he knew he was a fool for going twords the light.

Gaping hole. A gaping hole.

The massive robot clutched his engine. The large ‘propeller’ chest cavity. It was no engine. It was no means of holding emeralds or anything of the sort. What it was? Was a mockery. His chest cavity and his back engine. Mockery of what he suffered. What he went through for going slow. The memories made his head and chest ache and hurt so bad despite him being made of entirely metal and wire. Through the pain, neo forced himself to put on his clothes. The large skirt, and the cut shirt. Covering the mockery of an engine with the cropped shirt and letting the open sleeves fall onto his arms. Making sure that damned thing was covered, as he stared at himself in the mirror.

He longed to be a hero. To be their hero. To feel the wind in his fur and the excitement of battle again without blind rage being the reason he fights.

He was still out there. He was still stealing his life. His friends. His everything. He fought to get them back but they seemed to be content with his faker. And that.. that hurt more than any injury ever would.

Swiping oil that leaked from his visor and taking an unneeded breath, he turns from the mirror, and leaves the room. He is sonic. Hes always been sonic, and thats never going to change. He’ll fight for his identity. Even if nobody else believes he deserves his own identity.

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Six ... And Prodded, And Poked.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Nat shows compliance in her treatment plan - but is she really as pliable as the team is led to believe?

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 3295

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) injury detail and SH, discussions of weight gain and treatment plans, unhealthy exercise habits

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. Check it out below, or on AO3 here!

This snazzy divider comes from @firefly-graphics and I love it <3

<- Previous Chapter (5/72) Next Chapter (7/72) ->

I stirred against the beginnings of light, rolling my stiff jaw from having ground my teeth in my sleep, and bolting upright at the semi-familiar, but distinctly not-mine, surroundings.

Clint groaned under me, and I fought to calm my ragged breath as awareness dawned, flashes of images from the night before flickering before my eyes.

That’s right – I agree with your horrified revelation, The Voice noted, almost gleeful at the panic coursing through my veins. You took the coward’s way out, because you knew you weren’t strong enough to meet their standards.

I just wanted help, I argued weakly, dispassionately.

You wanted an excuse to stop pushing yourself, it sneered. You knew you’d never be good enough, so you quit. Coward. Fucking useless.

I’m not a coward.

Prove it. Punish yourself – three new lines in that dirty flesh – and then run. Get rid of everything you stuffed in your fat face yesterday.

I don’t want to… I whined, but it felt more like courtesy than protest, and it knew that.

Move. Now.

With a bone weary sigh, I slid from the spot where I’d passed out on the sofa, nestled against Clint’s chest to the background of an animated movie, letting the steady, unflappable rhythm of his heart act as my lullaby.

The archer stirred again, flopping an arm back over his eyes to shield the worst of the sunlight from his gaze, his other hand reaching for me blindly. “Nat?” he mumbled, and I caught his fingers with mine as I straightened, thumb brushing his palm reassuringly. He lowered his arm just enough to glance at me, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Where are you going?”

Shower. Change. I smell like a gym sock, I added, a fake sniff and the curl of a lip employed to sell my act. He nodded tiredly, jaw creaking in an impressive yawn.

“Ok. I’ll do the same, and see you in a little while.”

I ducked from his quarters on the balls of my feet, his soft snores quickly punctuating the silence once more, and a grin graced my lips. In his exhaustion, he had seemingly forgotten that I wasn’t exactly trusted to be alone, and I found myself taking advantage of the situation with very little guilt.

A good start. But you have a lot to make up for, and likely not a lot of time to do it in. Get moving.

I bypassed my own rooms in favour of the armoury, disconnected from the main building and with less chance of being caught when Clint realised his blunder.

Luckily, I’d been doing this for a long time without getting caught.

My own blades were sharpened to perfection, and there was a constant supply of first aid that I could utilise without suspicion. It’s always good to have a back-up option, I mused, sliding a dagger from its sheath with a whispered hush of metal on leather.

Are you proud of this? The Voice snapped, and I winced as I pulled my sweatshirt over my head.

I- No, I-

Four. An extra one for your insolence. Who do you think you are? You are nothing. I nodded, dropping to my knees and pressing the blade to the soft skin between my ribs – even I knew that my arms were not an option anymore. Say it.

“I’m nothing,” I whispered, beads of blood bubbling around the sharp steel.

Deep. Long. No mercy. You’ve got to be stronger now. Harder.

I nodded again, strengthening my resolve, the tremble fading from my fingers as adrenaline zinged.

Tell me why.

“Bruce is disgusted by me,” I gasped, the knife slipping between the spaces in my ribs as I dragged it forward. “Everyone is disgusted by me.”

Correct.

“Clint. He… He remembers. He remembers everything, and he pities me. I told him about you – about wanting to go home. I shouldn’t have done that.” I hissed as the blade bit muscle in the second space, slicing through as easily as butter.

Correct.

“I-I was insolent. I shouldn’t have – ah! – been proud of myself. I’m only as good as you make me!” My voice was almost a cry now, the third cut deeper than its predecessors.

Correct. And your fourth failure, Widow Romanova?

My head pulsated in pain, breaths coming in short, sharp pants. “I-I… I should never have thought you were wrong. You know best, I see that now. Only you want what’s best for me.” My uninjured hand was slick with blood and aching from pressing in as I finished the fourth cut, crimson rivers carving tracks down my side and settling into the waistband of my jogging bottoms.

Incorrect. Again.

I whimpered, arms heavy. “I… Should not have refused to speak. Widows obey orders.” It was a shot in the dark, and I held my breath painfully after the fifth slice – further, unspoken punishment for my wrongdoing.

If I can’t even tell where I’m fucking up, what hope do I have?

Incorrect. Again.

I sobbed once, shaking hands fighting against contracting muscles as I struggled to raise the knife. “I-I… I sh-shouldn’t have cursed at you. W-Widows are supposed to be w-women of class!” The last words came as a yowl as I jerked my arms forward, the blade grating bone in an agonising explosion of stars, the slick handle spilling from my fingers as they moved desperately to attempt to stem the flow.

Correct. Now, Natalia… Are you ready to train?

By the time I stumbled into my shower, tears flowing freely down my face, the world was spinning under my feet from exhaustion and blood loss. I’d been denied medical care, and I could see the darkness tunnelling my vision, but I pushed myself through a bout of one-handed boxing regardless. The Voice chastised me mercilessly, repeating the drill over and over until my muscles were screaming as sweat mixed with the blood staining my clothes. I’d been forced to duck back through the compound, avoiding both cameras and Avengers in my bid to not get caught in such a state; if I had, it would surely be over for me.

The water burnt my exposed muscles, but fear held me still, shaking despite the heat. I didn’t dare move away without a direct order, for fear of more punishment. If there were any consequences to come of getting so much water in my wounds, then so be it; no effect could be worse than the reparations of The Voice.

I regret ever opening my mouth.

That’s good, it replied smoothly, something akin to a smile laced into its words. You’re learning.

I nodded once, my clenched jaw beginning to ache in an effort to suppress my trembles of pain, but too afraid to ask to leave. … Good, Romanova. Now go and dress. It wouldn’t do to have you caught again.

I was covered only on my top half as the remnants of the door slammed against the wall, almost sending me sprawling as I fought to one-handedly wriggle my way into some sweatpants.

Show no fear. You are better than these so-called ‘heroes’.

I straightened immediately, barely supressing a whimper and a wince at the pain that blazed across my ribcage.

Clint met my gaze, his eyes wide and wild with concern. “I-I… I looked everywhere for you. When I realised. I should never have…”

A polite smile graced my lips, and I tipped my head slightly. “I went to the kitchen first. I was hungry, so I got a snack before I showered. I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

Good.

Briefly, a doubtful furrow creased his brow, until he shook his head, replacing the expression with a broad grin. “That’s fine, Nat. I’m so proud of you. What did you have?"

I panicked at that, scanning internally through the contents of the kitchen – but it had been a long time since I’d actively sought out food.

Faster.

“Cereal,” I offered quickly, my smile only marginally slipping as I blurted out the first answer that came to my mind.

He nodded encouragingly, moving closer. “That’s amazing, Natasha. Well done.”

I pretended to gush under his gaze, ducking my head shyly. “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to start strongly.”

Very good, Natalia. His emotions will make him weak.

“Do you want a hand with that?” he offered suddenly, gesturing at the sweatpants still halfway up my bare thighs.

Let him do as he wishes.

It felt cruel, and I didn’t understand – wasn’t it only yesterday that The Voice had been telling me how dangerous Clint was? – but I nodded obligingly, permitting my partner to step forward, dropping to his knees before me.

He hands brushed my flesh gently as he aided me, resting lightly on one hipbone as he straightened. His warm touch made my skin burn with terror and arousal in equal measure.

“… There,” he murmured, stepping back, my blood mourning the loss of him. “All situated.”

I nodded again, inclining my head politely. “Thank you, Clint.”

He grinned in response, reaching up to tousle my damp hair, before his face grew serious. “Bruce dropped off the treatment plan this morning. Shall we take a look?”

Agree. You must seem compliant. You have made them suspicious, and you need to neutralise that threat.

“Of course,” I agreed smoothly, despite my heart beating faster in terror. “I can’t wait to get started.”

I found myself sat once more on Clint’s sofa before I acknowledged the movement, lost in listening to The Voice as we traversed the halls, only offering light grunts of affirmation in response to my partner’s chatter. I was receiving a rapid crash course in how to proceed as we made our way, but The Voice fell silent as I sat.

This is your test. It would do you well to succeed, it instructed simply, before the words stopped flowing, and I knew that I would hear nothing more until this harrowing experience was over.

Clint tapped the slender, magnolia file with a single finger, watching me carefully. “This… This is likely going to be difficult to hear, Nat. But everything is for your own good, I promise.”

I simply nodded in response, unwilling to act until the path before me was evident.

I can’t afford to fail again, I noted, the spaces between my ribs burning and oozing with every breath. I may not survive it.

The file opened, and Clint cleared his throat in preparation. “Would you rather read it yourself, or I can do it for you?”

“It’s okay, you can read it,” I answered easily, forcing a light and casual tone. His eyebrow twitched in suspicion, and I cursed myself internally. Don’t be too light-hearted. He’ll know you’re faking it.

His gaze flicked back down, tongue touching his lip before he began. “’Most conditions herein are dependent upon several metrics of progress. Natasha will be weighed daily, in only a gown, after being subjected to a pat-down to ensure there is no added weight. Blood tests will be done weekly to analyse important levels and clarify any improvements found. There will also be body checks to monitor self-injury.’”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting, furious at the invasive measures – but The Voice had indicated that such things were to be expected. “I understand,” I ground out after a moment, my inflection a perfect mask of indifference.

Clint watched me closer, shuffling nearer until our knees touched. “Is that ok with you? It seems like signs of improvement means increased privilege, though… That’s good, right?”

I nodded again, my body stilling as his hand found my knee. We haven’t covered this. What do I do?

There was no response – of course there wasn’t – and so I simply stayed still, following The Voice’s last teachings on the matter. ‘Let him do as he wishes.’

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just read the highlights, okay? A lot of it is about levels and moving forward, but… I guess that’s not quite where we are yet, right?” he chuckled uncertainly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, glancing at me when I offered no verbal response and finding me nodding. “Okay, uh… Basically, it seems like you can’t exercise, or be alone, until you’re off what Bruce has called ‘level one’. In this level, you’ll not be allowed to eat alone, and you’ll be searched after eating. You, um… Yeah. You also need to share accommodation, and attend therapy once a week. But it’s only 5 pounds, and a week without self-harm, until you can move up to level two. Then you can start to exercise a little, make some of your own meals, and spend the night in your own bed. That’ll be nice, huh?”

Clint met my gaze with a hopeful smile, and I buried the subtle urge to tell him everything that had happened during the course of the morning. I can’t. I won’t… It’s not worth it. “That sounds okay,” I responded at a mumble, scuffing my bare toes against the rug. Nothing about bathrooms. Purging is still an option. It’s not ideal, but… Depending on how closely they watch me, it might be my only choice.

“Bruce has already removed all sharp objects and scales from the common areas, and your room,” Clint added, and I couldn’t help the flash of anger that shone in my eyes as they jerked to him in annoyance, causing him to bring his hands up defensively. “I know. I tried to tell him it wouldn’t be necessary – you’re already making steps toward talking about things, and I have all the faith in the world that you’ll make it through this. But he insisted,” he noted, rolling his eyes with a sigh, “so I guess we’ll just have to go with it for now.”

I shrugged one shoulder in irritation, but nodded again. I had several blades stashes; it was unlikely that the doctor had found them all. I could probably find some scales somewhere – but if I couldn’t, measurements would suffice as a metric.

“Does that all sound okay?” Clint prompted.

“It sounds… Manageable,” I replied hesitantly, still reluctant to lie to my long-time partner but unable to tell him the whole truth. He grinned reassuringly, nudging me with his shoulder.

“I’m so proud you, Nat. You’re doing so well.”

I found myself once more in Bruce’s medical room, shivering in a paper gown as the doctor examined my arms and legs uncertainly.

“No evidence of further injury,” he murmured, making a note on a chart. I resisted the urge to grin, profoundly aware of the throbbing of my ribs under the thin weave. “You ready to pop on the scales?”

I nodded, sliding to my feet. Today was the only day in which I wouldn’t have to worry about my weight; they wouldn’t be expecting much to change in one day, right? I went to cross to where he weighed me last time, but Bruce’s hand, gentle on my wrist, stopped me. “We… You need to be patted down first. Weights, and so on.”

Or you’re not so disgusted anymore, huh, Doc? I quipped internally. But on the outside, I smiled.

“No problem, Bruce,” I replied smoothly, raising my hands to the back of my head compliantly, revelling in the searing of my ribcage as the wounds gaped. The only thing I could find enough effort to be concerned about would be the risk of bleeding; the thin fabric would offer no reprieve. His throat bobbed uncertainly, and I offered him a reassuring smile. “Are you sure you’re able to do this, Doc?”

His jaw set and he nodded once, moving to stand before me; starting easily, his hands slid their way across my shoulders, the firm pressure reducing slightly as he brushed his fingers over my bandage. I resisted the urge to flinch, and he apologised under his breath, meeting my eyes briefly.

His hands probed under the edges of my sleeves, checking for straps or tape, before beginning to skim down my sides, and I couldn’t help but shift slightly in discomfort as the ridges of his fingers found the canyons between my ribs. He paused at my motion, waiting for me to still once more before gently probing the area. I fought to remain impassive, struggling against the scream building in my throat, and the tears building in my eyes. Another hesitation, then he mercifully moved on, palms catching on the edge of my hipbone, smoothing the skin he found there to clarify that it was an organic bump, before working his way to the lower hem of my gown.

He cleared his throat, evidently uncomfortable. “Do you give consent for me to check your thighs?” he asked, looking away, a flush crawling up his throat. “I can fetch someone else if you would prefer.”

I chuckled fondly, shaking my head – safe now, without his hands on my cuts. “Go ahead, Bruce.”

His palms were softer than I expected as they trailed up the soft skin, taking each thigh in turn, moving past the soft swell of fat and pausing where they started to taper once more.

He straightened with a jerk, his face aflame. “Good. Thank you. You can step onto the scales now. Facing away, please,” he added, making my feet stutter, teeth gritting as I rotated on the spot.

“Why?” I probed, fighting to keep the venom from my voice. “There was nothing about this in my treatment plan.”

Bruce cocked his head, brow furrowed. “I informed Clint that I had removed all scales, barring my own, from the compound, and the reasoning behind this. Did he not explain?”

I shook my head fiercely. “How am I supposed to track my improvement if I don’t know what I weigh?”

“I’ll have it right here,” he replied, his voice a false attempt at reassurance as he tapped his clipboard gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know when you get more privileges.”

Unless they lie, to keep you fat and docile.

I winced as The Voice spoke again, sudden in the silence I’d begun to grow used to.

“If I know when I meet the thresholds anyway, it doesn’t make sense to keep the information from me,” I argued vehemently. He simply shrugged, moving to glance at the screen behind me.

“We thought it best this way. That way, you won’t be influenced by the number.”

No, we’ll just continue to aim toward weight loss. The number doesn’t matter – the effect does. I thought you were smarter than that, Bruce. What do you see in him?

I don’t know, I replied reluctantly, giving the answer I knew it expected, pushing away thoughts of the doctor’s kind eyes and kinder actions. And, crucically, the fact that he saw something in me.

I shrugged in response to Bruce’s comment, stepping off the scale when he motioned me forward. “Okay… We don’t need bloods again yet – yesterday’s will be your baseline. So that’s it for today.”

“I’m free to go? I clarified, shimming my legs into my sweatpants without waiting for an answer. He nodded as he turned obligingly, leaving me free to strip off the paper gown and reapply my bra and sweatshirt, wincing as I pulled the latter over my head.

“Clint is outside. He’s the first of your companions for today.”

I stilled as I was straightening my hem, looking up in alarm.

“My companions?”

Bruce nodded again, still looking away. “Yes, Natasha. The treatment plan clearly states that while you are on level one, you aren’t to be alone. The team have assembled a rota for the next couple of weeks, to start with.”

“Пиздец,” I muttered under my breath, cursing this ridiculous turn of events. “Fine. Whatever.”

Bruce began to turn as I stomped away, the lab door slamming in my wake.

[circusbuggy]

last piece for Joe kido weekend for this year! ^^ prompts: Reliability, Gomamon. I decided to go for a little angst for this one, but don't worry Gomamon ended up being just fine, Joe got him warmed and patched up :) @joukidoweek Sorry for being a touch late, this took longer then I thought it would

[paranrmlphantom]

Holy moly 2nd post of phighting art🗣️ I love phighting…

Warning for below since it’s Subspace’s eye uncovered (it’s not that gorey or detailed but could be unsettling to look at)

A bit of text is blurred out since I was misinformed and so I covered it

[archersxartxblog]

finally go the new chapter up, warning there are talk of blood and injuries, if you don't like that kind of thing, maybe wait for the next chapter. I'm gonna try to getting out sometime this month.

Master post

[esteemed-excellency]

here's another early timeline Hiram for all the angsty art enjoyers

[cicicolorao]

Hiiiii ummmmmm…. Elfen Lied……..

An excuse to rewrite the entire anime hidden inside an AU

I might draw more of it one day because the anime just grips me SO HARD, and also using one media’s personalities for another media’s story

[pluto-glow]

So I watched the sorry boys zombie apocalypse video-

[the-down-upside-finch]

The Time I Broke My Foot By Jumping Into a Swimming Pool

{"Eleven Truths and a Lie" Series}

For the context behind these stories: [X]

I was ten years old, or maybe twelve. My mom says I was probably eleven. Maybe it's a good thing I don't really remember when it happened—that the memory itself is vague and distant. Having a low pain tolerance usually makes these sorts of things more vivid in my brain, but not this time. (I wonder why that is.) The local rec center had two swim teams. I was a devil ray, having earned my spot after showing that I was faster than the dolphins that I had initially been grouped with. I had strong lungs, so I didn't have to breathe as often. I was made for the water—or so they said.

Sometimes the meets were every weekend, sometimes they weren't. I always had to go because I'd made a commitment, and they wanted me doing breaststroke for the IM race. We weren't allowed to have cell phones with us anywhere near "the deck" (as my coach called it), since it would be a risk to have electronics anywhere near the water. And so I handed my phone to my parents and left to go warm up. The team had been to this pool before—and we all knew the water was much colder than we were used to. It was lucky that they had a separate pool for the swimmers to warm up in. This particular place also had bleachers up on a balcony, making it feel more official than having the spectators crowded around the outer perimeter of the pool. I guess that's why they always held the local "championship" meets at this particular pool—because there was enough room for the thirty-and-something teams that attended. Eventually, it was time for my first event of the day. Had it been anything other than backstroke, I might have been all right. But it was backstroke, and you don't start on the diving block for a backstroke race. You start in the water.

At the ref's signal, I jumped in the water along with the nine other swimmers that had made it to the finals. I had forgotten that we weren't in the deep end. Instead of plunging into the nine-foot-deep water that I had been expecting to be beneath me, my legs buckled as I hit the bottom of the three-foot-deep shallow end. An entire foot of my height was still above the water. It hurt, but that was expected. I didn't have time to think about anything other than grabbing the handles on the diving block and pressing my toes against the side of the pool so I could launch myself backwards with as much power as I possibly could.

The garbled voice of the ref blared through his megaphone. "Set." We all pulled ourselves into position. The signal—which was kind of like a mix between the honk of a clown car, an angry goose, and an airhorn, all being played through an old intercom speaker—was given, and we all dove back into the water, dolphin-kicking with our whole bodies until we surfaced. I was always underwater the longest. The coach said that's what makes you faster. The longer you can stay underwater, the farther ahead you'll be when you get to the surface. When you see the flags, you start counting. I was short in height, but my arms were long—and I reached the wall in four strokes. It was a short race, so I didn't have to worry about flipping over and turning around. I just had to touch the wall. As everyone does if they care about times or scores, the first thing I looked at was the board with my name listed on it.

Third place. I didn't have much time to celebrate. The meet was running behind schedule, so they made us get out of the pool as soon as we slapped the wall. I grabbed the edge of the diving block and hoisted myself out of the water, exactly the way I had done a thousand times before. The pain that shot through my entire body when I tried to put weight on my foot was enough to take me to the ground. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even stand. Managing to half-hobble, half-drag myself to the corner where my team had set up camp, I collapsed on the slick stone floor and clutched my duffle bag, trying not to cry. I still had three more races that day—but my foot had been fine in the water, so it would all be okay. Right?

My parents were in the bleachers up on the balcony, completely unaware that their daughter had done something so bad to her foot that she couldn't even put weight on it. I wondered if my dad had gotten my collapse on video, since he recorded all of my races. My phone was safely away from the water, tucked in my mom's purse—completely useless. I was ten—or maybe eleven or twelve—and I had come face-to-face with a decision that I didn't have the mental capacity for: either tough it out for the team, or see to the needs of my own well-being. I was sobbing as I started trying to flag down my parents. I was so far away from the balcony, on the complete other side of the massive pool, unable to get any closer. I couldn't yell for help—couldn't make a scene bigger than the one I was already making. I had never felt so helpless.

Eventually, someone noticed. In a blur, I was suddenly in my dad's arms, being carried as fast as he could safely run to the car in the parking lot while my mom carried my bag. They put a towel on the seat, set me on top of it, buckled me in, and then we were off. I cried the whole way to InstaCare. "Does it hurt when I do this?" asked the doctor (or whoever was seeing to me), lightly turning my foot to rotate my ankle. She asked that same question several more times, doing something different to my foot each time she asked. I answered yes more than I answered no. Broken, was the verdict—more of a fracture, really, but still broken. I just didn't need a cast. We already had a pair of crutches at home for some reason, so that saved us an investment. There was no need to decorate my foot in brightly-colored bandage wrap—which we also already had a ton of, leftover from that time I ran over my own toe with a heavy metal door at school.

On the bright side, I got to wear a super cool boot to school—meaning I was the one kid that was allowed to wear something that wasn't a closed-toe shoe. And now I can tell people that yes, I once broke my foot by jumping into a swimming pool. I just thought it was going to be deeper than it was.

Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added or taken off): @my-cursed-prince, @athenswrites