#deaf church

[darlingghoulette]

Steve always gets his devil horns wrong. 

He keeps his thumb out and does the ‘I love you” sign on accident and Eddie never calls him out on it. He even threatens the others under pain of death (their dnd character’s death) to never correct him.

It’s so fucking adorable to see Steve at the edge of the stage, right up front, throwing up an ‘I love you’ at a Corroded Coffin show. Eddie sometimes can’t stand how wrapped around this man’s finger he is. 

[ectonurites]

tom taylor is so fucking annoying and im tired of anyone pretending he’s not

[newbornwhumperfly]

not light from some dead star...

oh, i do love denial and the suffering it brings....😈😈😈 i chose to write my poor sweet vampire girl, ardiñipén, for this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 24: denial - because you know i gotta starve my hungry vampire...🥺🥺🥺

CW: religious trauma, religious abuse, imprisonment, aftermath of torture, self-loathing

title insp. by the poem "it began right here" by the poet danez smith - "for a second i was unhaunted. i was the sun, not light from some dead star."

~

Under the church, Father keeps no light. 

For her, the darkness is now blessed. Was blessed. Light burns, points its long white fingers through bars at her and all the ways she is wrong and twisted and needs to be hit.

But too much eating and drinking can make you vomit and it has been so long down here in the dark. 

Where here hands are clutched against her chest, her nails are jagged, splintered, by scrabbling at the stone. At the cuffs - iron, thank Father - when panic choked and swelled and vomited out of her. 

Forty days and forty nights. 

Teach you a lesson about your selfishness. 

Her mind wanders, in the desert of the cellar, the pitch-yawning-mouth that is a site of fasting, fasting, take up your cross and burn on it.

She can survive without eating. 

She knows she can survive without eating - she cannot die. Resurrection. The body of Christ is ash in her mouth and his blood does not feed her. 

Cannot stop retching out bread, wine, cannot stop spitting out blessing, gagging on his benediction.

The monster in her that thirsts like a sucking wound is the same monster that will keep her alive. 

She has gone forty days and forty nights in the desert. The is the devil, red teeth, offerijg and offering. Father is not the devil. He is not a devil, he is good and clean, but she…she is so hungry. 

Down here, curled against the wall, a circle of limbs clutching eachother, cold seeps up into her skin - the relief of the chill to the tender heat of her welts, the ones that seep and ooze and stink but never close, now gone. Now, it is just an ache rattling around inside her flesh.

Sinful flesh. 

Cold is better than heat. 

This is what it will feel like in hell, creature. 

Ardiñipén flinches, the clink of chains rattling in the quiet as he arms curl tighter over her own head. 

There is no sunlight. No silver. No fire. 

No fire.

Of course being cold is- is better than burning. Always better than burning. Cold blinks down her cheek, smells a rotting smell, the bank of a dried ocean, as red streaks down her cheek and her numb fingertips catch it, suck it off her fingertips anyway. 

Turn stones into bread. 

She doesn’t need bread. Stupid beast. Hungry sinner. She doesn’t live by bread anyway. 

She can live off the mouth of God, can’t she? She can chew those bones open and suck the meat out. Man doesn’t live by bread. Not just. 

Is it a kind of holiness to not need bread?

Maybe this is the purification Father talks about. Surviving just on words. On love. On His love and his love. 

She has lived a long, long time without love. She has lived a long time without eating. She can live a little longer, a lot longer, not having it. 

The nubs of her tooth prick deep into her thumb, the fingers in her mouth, sucking at the salt, and the shadow of a bite shudders through her. 

So greedy you would feast on your own self. 

The last- last time Father saw her bite her own wrist, she was punished for having a fit. She whines in memory, shuddering against the wall tighter, flinching into the solid corner that is almost an embrace. Not a stretch of pure floor she doesn’t have to worry about ruining, doesn’t have to crunch up small to keep from scorching in its beauty. 

She doesn’t want to be alone here again. 

She wants Father.

She can use this time to be good. 

To learn. 

A little time away is good for her. Denial is- is a good lesson, long and quiet and so, so dark to think about what she’s done. The bread of the word should not make her vomit. 

If she wants Father to come get her, she has to be good.

The creak of the door startles a sharp, high whimper from her, startling hard as her skull smacks against the wall and she curls herself small, humble and penitent, on the floor. 

The stones glow with the yellow of torches, a long beam cast downstairs from the door to the pure space above, before closing again. But a yellow glow - softer and quieter - stays. 

Footsteps shuffle down, down, close, and immediately, Ardiñipén knows something is wrong. No swish of robes over the floor, no slow glide of steps, these are heavier, harder, faster-

This isn’t Father.

The crest of cold through her stomach freezes her chest on the inside and her breath pants out as her thighs squeeze hard together, hands claps, body tightening up, because nonono is it a soldier is it a lawman Father said he’d protect her and nobody’s allowed down here-

“Shhhhh.”

A soft sound. A rustle. Ardiñipén bites her lips until the pulse of hurt is bright and warm and shakes. 

“Please.” Ardiñipén heaves and her air is cut out of her lungs, cold searing as she gasps deeper and deeper. “I am being good- please, Father, please no, am hurt, am hurt, don’t need to hurt?”

“Shhhh.”

Ardiñipén tries desperately to be good. Holds still and clasps her hands and her disobedient lips mouth the shape of please over and over. 

God. Father. Jesus. Help.

She makes a horrible whining noise, another animal that can’t listen, another rebellion, as she looks up, up, cringing, but the light doesn’t leave.

The lantern is yellow and dances with fire and even as Ardiñipén’s skin prickles with recognition, hellflame on earth, the candle is so small. Not enough to tie anyone to. Not enough to set her on. A little bundle - a blanket, a wicker-weave basket, a clay jar. 

A kneeling person. 

The confusion causes her to flicker her eyes up - bad, not allowed, you don’t look betters in the eye - and a little of the terror leaks, ice melting, from its spread through her insides. 

The girl who…cleans, mostly outside, but will come, sometimes, when Ardiñipén is kneeling, a circle, at the pulpit, and Ardiñipénhears her over the whisper of her own praying. 

She hums while she works. 

The swish of broom, the scrub of water-in-pail, dust and soap swirling in the air as Ardiñipén trembled, listening when she should be working, to the movements. 

She looked. Once. When Ardiñipén’s hearing, sharp as a little bat, still, could tell she was turned with her back to the pulpit, Ardiñipén had looked. 

The stolen glance of a blue blur, a- what is called- a halo of black curls spilling from under her head-covering, tall and dark and she moved like waist-deep in water, with heavy steps and a wide standing and she scrubbed and touched everything so normally, like she was touching a house that was not holy, like one would touch any house that needed cleaning, no reverence, just care. 

Ardiñipén prayed fervently and squeezed the blink-bright memory of her shape into her mind. 

Blue. Black. Strong. Singing. 

Ardiñipén blinks up at her face, a warm shadow against the pitch-dark, and the dark brown of her cheeks, her nose, a mouth that isn’t frowning, a smile, what looks like a smile, is studied by Ardiñipén’s wicked eyes as fervently as her verses. 

A finger comes up to her lips and presses. 

Shhhhh. 

A smell swirls around as the woman’s hands this close, strong and sweet, like- like dirt. Black, like those hands, brown so dark, so rich, wet and soft and warm and alive. Things that grow in it too…roses? Yes. That is what they are. A smell like pink and white, like the inside of a mouth, sweet and a taste of spice that makes the sweet brighter. 

The smell of planting. Of gardening. Of sun that doesn’t hurt. 

Her whimpering quiets, little noises she can’t swallow back going soft, soft, and the kneeling lap, the square of blue skirt that smells like flour, the square of brown apron that smells like soap, and she nods dizzily. Trying to show she understands while obeying. 

The woman’s hands move, again, into shapes in the air. Pauses. Makes the same shape again. Hums, that mouth still soft and not-frowning, and shapes. 

Shapes. 

Symbols?

A spike bursts behind Ardiñipén’s eyes as she remembers. Oh, but she shouldn’t- she shouldn’t remember, remembering is bad, she is reborn, a new creature (but still a creature), her old self is dead and she is- she remembers…signs. 

Signs.

Shapes made with fingers to tell thieves things quietly. To tell street-folks warnings. Signals across roads. The language of the quiet - the unhearing, the unspeaking, the afraid. 

The deaf. The mute. The word of God made bread and wine. Symbols make meaning.

(Do you understand?)

Ardiñipén’s hands uncurl, bent and gnarled, shaking - is this speaking? - and…twist shapes in the air. 

(Yes.)

Shaking, hands moving twice to be steady enough, she signs. 

(Not allowed to talk. Just to Father.)

The woman’s mouth bends, the shape of a smile, a soft split of white warmth through the darkness, and she signs.

(Father Paquet says sign is not talking.)

Oh. 

While Ardiñipén is still…wondering (it is saying something and being understood, is that not language, is that not speaking?), the dark hands glimmer with orange and yellow in a new twist. 

Letters. 

(M. A. R. Y.)

She signs again. 

(My name.)

Mary.

Do not be afraid.

(Don’t be scared. I am Mary. No hurt.)

(Mary.)

(Your name?)

(No name. Animal. Daughter of Father.)

(What did your mother call you?)

Mother. 

Mary. Lady of sorrows. Don’t be afraid. Soft brown hands. Red scarf. 

Dead. Bad. Gone. 

Not supposed to know that anymore. She- it- not supposed to know.

She whimpers, clutching her hands back to her chest, shaking her head as a sob rattles through her. 

“Shhhhh.”

(Sorry. Don’t be scared.)

Mary’s hands move in a way that looks like sugar, might be candy, might be you. Flash, again, and the words melt through the terror. 

(Sweeting. Sorry. You are safe, sweeting. Will help you.)

Mary, that is her name, moves her hands in ways that aren’t speaking and draws the bundle at her side closer. There is a rustle, a flap of soft color in the air as something is shaken out, and the flinch of squeezed-shut-eyes hides the softheavywarm falling over her body. 

Blanket. 

It is a blanket. 

Why? Why is Mary blessing her? What has she done to take this? Her throbbing hands grip the edges of the cloth, wooly, sheep-soft, clutching it close.

If the Lord needed blood in the desert, he would not drink it, would he? He is without sin. He would not tempt God with his depraved hunger. 

Does God get hungry?

He must have been cold, right? It was probably so, so cold. 

A high-rasping noise chokes out of her, curling into a smaller circle than before as she clutches the blanket close and rocks against the floor. 

Don’t dash your foot against stone. 

Toes breaking, bending and snapping against her body weight, against the street, broken feet dragged over stone, running, breaking, hitagainstbackoftheheadandfall, so many stones dashing her body, blood, slippery, dashing against stones, thrownrockhithertoothoutsharpandsmallandrollinginthestreet.

“Shhhhhhhhhh.”

The soft noise comes again, a hum, and Ardiñipén’s hands press over her own mouth as she rocks. 

A soft tap against the cloth of the blanket, echoing through her shoulder, where Mary traces words against the blanket. 

(Rest.)

Ardiñipén’s fingers scratch, cold and rigid, against the floor, miserably.

(Not allowed.)

(I allow it. Rest, sweeting.)

Under the weight of that name, that word that isn’t her, the blanket, warmwarmwarm sinking in, some pacing animal in her head sways against denial. Against the sleep she has snatched in shivering hours, little and far apart and so few. 

You can sleep in the desert.

How long she drifts, she doesn’t know, but something soft under her head shifts when she realizes she has been drifting. A folded apron. The smell of flour floods her nose, oil, dirt, soap, and she turns her face into it, breathing deep through her wound of a mouth. Blinks, yellow filling her vision again, and the shifting weight of a hand on her shoulder is rubbing. 

(Wake up, sweeting.)

The folded apron is tugged, softly, and it is gone almost before Ardiñipéncan register it was there. A tapped (blanket?) and Ardiñipén keens with the loss (I know, I know) as it is pulled away and bundled up. Confusing, the torn spots on her struggling wrists, her ankle, tingle softly and when she presses her own wrist to her nose, there’s the smallest, smallest honey smell lingering there, almost gone, a little shine on the skin over the wounds, where the sharpsoreheat is now a low pulse. 

The desert flows with milk and honey and Ardiñipén hiccups softly as she blinks up at Mary, who smiles, sad and glowing. 

(I have to go now.)

A pulse of cold spikes through Ardiñipén’s chest, panic, her stomach plummeting. Thoughtless, thoughtless animal, she curls forehead and her brow scrapes over the store floor, hands yanking against the chain to stretch, stretch, clutch at the hem of that apron and it's warm and she can’t feel herself clinging to it because her hands are too cold but a whine pours out. 

Please don’t go? Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me. 

Mary makes a sound that cuts through Ardiñipén’s high-pitched moan. It’s not a bad creature. It’s not Latin. It isn’t even a grunt, a noise that’s scared or grossed out as Mary should be.

It’s a hum. 

A weight lands on Ardiñipén’s head and she sobs, brokenly, when it does but there’s nothing but weight. A hand. That earth-smelling hand, trembling. Or maybe she, the creature that crawls like a worm in the dark, is causing that tremor. 

Sharp croaks of sobs echo out along the stones as the hand moves. Slow. Heavy. Stroking her hair. Oily, matted, it catches no fingertips, no snagging that tugs hurt fully. Mary is being careful. 

As warmth bleeds, prickling, sharp, into Ardiñipén’s hands, maybe from the sunlight caught in the apron, maybe from how hard her hands clutch, the stones echo with a music that has no language. 

A patch of something hotter and more merciful than the sun settles on the back of her wretched, grasping hands, and the burn shocks and Ardiñipén can’t breathe as she waits and waits for the burn to hurt but it doesn’t. 

The weight of a second hand, just as heavy and slow as the first, squeezes back. Humming, low and constant, a tune that has a rhythm and no dance. Ardiñipéncouldn’t sing along if she wanted to - but Mary isn’t singing. She’s humming.

Sobs go quieter than the song, crying going quiet, not to lose the song, sharp sniffles muffled under the weight of music in this small dark place. 

These hands have no rings, no heavy silver to singes and bruises. They are not cool and smooth and thin. Mary’s touch is a patch of soil, warm and firm, roughly caked, spots worn hard from working, the outsides thick, the center of her palms hot and pulsing soft as petals. 

A hunger that has no name wets her mouth, burrows its strangeness into her chest, nothing like the teeth of her unholy need. 

Mary’s fingertips, the thickest skin of her touch, taps and sweeps signs, signs she knows, over the backs of her clutching hands, even as she strokes soothing into the panic, that heaving flank of a foamy beast, brushing Ardinipen’s hair. 

I’m sorry. Come back. Not leave you here. Come back. Sorry. Come back. 

The word will is pressed harder, firmer, urgently, until Ardiñipén recognizes the symbol for will as a promise.

Will come back. 

And Ardiñipén, tears cooling on the stone beneath her, taps her broken finger back. 

You will.

An emphasis. Taps harder. A stroke, a sigil, anI believe.

She can survive the hands that pull away, the sobs that rasp through and echo with the footsteps, up, up, away with the light and the closing door and the dark and the cold and no Mary and no warmth and no words. 

She can survive without eating. She can survive underground, in the soil, burrowed and icy. She can survive alone. She can bear the denial of eating and drinking and feeling.

There is a promise buried underground, with her, the frost can’t turn. 

Her palm curls around the warm spot where she was touched, clutching it tighter and tighter until every cracked bone sings with heat. Cupping touch over the strands of hair that still smell like dirt and soap and bread and pulling them out, sharp anxious tugs, into a handful to bury her nose in. 

Wonders, for the first time, if she would not rather burn than freeze. 

~

i hope you enjoyed the introduction of my wonderful caretaker, mary, because dini needs some care and love!!! 🥺🥺🥺

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whumping-every-day @whump-tr0pes @wolfeyedwitch

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

I love learning ASL it’s so good. Makes me happy to learn it. I’m so glad my university has classes for it with professors actually steeped in Deaf culture.

[cinnabell2]

"Barbatos has been asleep for the past 3 years, you really think your prayers will reach him?" V inspired by chloes new song omg-- legit brainrotted a whole au from a 2:35 song and yes harbinger Himmel returns- This is v experimental piece eee

[gutsfics]

I’m just curious, I’ve seen you mention Mormons a couple times (something about Nia too that I forgot) and I’m curious if you’re like, post/ex Mormon or Mormon-adjacent or something? Bc I am… idk it’s complicated lmao spiritually/mentally out, but physically halfway in, I guess? So I was just wondering, hope you don’t mind!

Feel free to ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable

ex mormon baybee!!!!!!!! baptised at eight & everything

long story somewhat short is that me & my immedeate family left the church when i was like 12 when my dad came out as gay, but i personally specifically didnt go to church much before that bc my Neurodivergencies made it hard so my parents basically gave up on trying to wrangle me every time id have a meltdown about it (long and boring + uncomfortable clothes i hate = disaster for the undiagnosed adhd trans egg and his parents) so its not like i was too indocternated in the church & all in all i came out surprisingly (but not completely) unscathed. i hear stuff from when my parents were younger and im like "fucking WHAT" like all of the time

but like it was still a big enough thing in my life for me to hc characters (modern!Nia) or see paralells in media (the church of Helios) or even write my own characters as ex-mormon (HWU!Avalon)

so me mentioning mormonism is kinda like 50/50 dunking on the old religion / feeling empathy for ppl that are stuck in a place that is not right for them. maybe more like 40/60, it really depends on what im talking about

[coulsonlives]

Okay, this is NOT funny, even as a joke

[bluesidedown]

sometimes......there are a few men......who are just. ugh. and they say things......and ur just like why. why would you think that's ok.

[famousinmyfandom]

Damn it I’m stuck on all my wips…

[chris-christmas]

1980s inspired church outfit with bold prints. In this outfit I combined a gray flat cap, round black glasses, a black bowtie, a black patterned mask, a black denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up to fit perfectly, a zebra stripped blue and black short sleeved button up with the sleeves rolled up, a white tank top that says nasa on one breast pocket untucked, some black skinny chinos rolled to hit the top of the shoes, and dark brown boots for a two outfit in one church/casual outfit with a bold print.

[evkircheruhla]

Die Ideen unserer Paten und Förderer - The ideas of our sponsors and supporters

(English below) Die Menschen, die unser Bildungsprojekt in Ruanda unterstützen, begnügen sich nicht damit, ein Kind zu fördern oder für unser Arbeit zu spenden. Vielmehr entwickeln sie auch Ideen, wie sie Andere auf unser Projekt aufmerksam und zum Mitmachen ermuntern können. Sei es als Bildungspate oder als Förderer. Da sind Paten, die z.B. Sommerfeste feiern, oder Geburtstage oder Hochzeit und…

[hearingthroughdeafear]

Going Where I Belong

Real worship is like finding treasure in this decade.

Daily writing promptWhat are you doing this evening?View all responses Real worship is like finding treasure in this decade. There’s so many negativity in this world and everyone has seem to lost the true value of Sundays. God designed it to be a day of rest and to remember Him. Instead, we are using it for parties, sleeping in, entertainment or working on house projects. Let us remember what…

[teaboot]

I seriously hope you can job hop to something else cause you're not chaotic neutral man.

You're still a white Canadian whose actions and job help more the megacorps keep the status quo.

I really looked up to you but that's on me.

And yeah, I know security, cop shit and military pay good money but at the cost of my people? Fuck no.

Listen. I feel you. But there's a lot of cold, power-tripping bastards in this line of work and if I stick where I am then they don't get to have that.

I'm not a cop. I am not beholden to the justice system. Sometimes I get contracted out to people who say shit like "addicts should be put down, if you see any crackheads drag them out" and I nod and say "yes sir", and then I take their money and use it to buy those people coffee and a sandwich and tell 'em when free lunch days are at the church.

Boss sees me walking with someone and thinks I'm kicking them out, gives my boss great reviews. I'm having a great conversation with Connie, who used to by a stylist and wound up on the street after an accident that left her with chronic pain and a heroin addiction. Connie learns that there's a gap between two property lines nearby where technically nobody can call to have her removed.

There's a really sweet guy in town who's normally very nice, but sometimes flies into paranoid rage and yells slurs at people. Sometimes he forgets he's been banned from places and wanders in looking for a wife he hasn't had for nine years. Owner sends me to kick him out, and I ask "hey Mike, how are you?" And see where we are today.

One time there was a guy whose abusive ex kept following him to work, and I got to walk him to his car at the end of every day to make sure she couldn't get him alone.

Another person had a stalker who kept asking receptionists when she was gonna be there, when she was supposed to leave, if she was in today. I'd keep record of every time he came in, every time someone saw him, every time he violated his restraining order or damaged her things.

And when I wonder if I'm actually helping or not, or if I'm part of the greater problem, I remember that other people who work with me call homeless people wildlife and talk about how bad they wanna get an excuse to fight someone and I remember that I'm the one who knows where the blind spots on the cameras are, and thank God it's not him.

My position is fundamentally different from that of the military or law enforcement. I don't *need* to be buddy-buddy with most of these dickheads- I don't *need* to send people into the justice system.

I do single-person foot patrol. Nobody cares how I get the job done. They say, "Hey, faceless goon number three- make that bastard disappear" and I say "on it, boss" and give him tickets to disney world.

I once asked another guard if he knew that one of our regulars used to be an airplane technician. He said, "No, I don't talk to them". Blanket "Them". "Them" as in street people. "Them" as in addicts, or shoplifters, or ex-cons, or sex workers.

I asked why, and he told me, "it's easier if you don't think of them as people."

Anyhow, now I get calls to "watch that sketchy lady who just came in" and I say, "yes, sir" and leave her the fuck alone, 'cause that's Jolene, and people always think she's on drugs and aggressive but she's just deaf in one ear and slurs cause she has brain damage, you dickhead

so yeah, don't worry, I've spent a lot of time weighing the pros and cons of my vocation, and I still think I'd rather be in charge of my locations than someone like Darryl, who dreams of "cuffing a perp" and drives a car with Punisher decals on the hood

Also it's minimum wage but that's kinda tangential

[graceandpeacejoanne]

Isaiah 42: Blind and Deaf, Blessed and Beloved

After speaking of God’s Covenant Servant, Isaiah now turned to a different kind of servant. servant. First, the prophet described what was wrong. #Isaiah42 #BlindandDeafServant #TheChurch

After speaking of God’s Covenant Servant, Isaiah now turned to a different kind of servant. servant. First, the prophet described what was wrong. Blind and Deaf Servant This servant was blind to the calling God had placed in their lives Listen, you who are deaf,    and you who are blind, look up and see!Who is blind but my servant    or deaf like my messenger whom I send?Who is blind like my…

[inbabylontheywept]

Weird Grandpa Story #2

I remember asking my mom once, if her dad had gotten ornerier as he'd gotten old. I'd heard about that happening, and it would've made sense for him. He was already the orneriest old cuss I'd ever met. Couldn't even imagine him being grumpier than he was.

Instead of answering the question directly, she told me about what it was like going to church with him as a kid. Their church was a small Mormon ward out in the sticks of Colorado, and he served as their Bishop - mostly by virtue of being the only one willing to do that much unpaid work. He was also the ward pianist. He actually liked playing piano, and he liked having an audience, so it was more or less understood that he was willing to be the bishop in exchange for being the pianist. 

Which could've been a good trade, but there were a few problems.

The first problem was that Grandpa Dale played every song at about triple speed. He was a deeply impatient person, and that extended to how he played music. The second problem was that he had a bad habit of cursing under his breath. That would've been a scandalous  enough habit for a Mormon bishop, but was made much worse (and also much funnier)  by him being pretty damn deaf. So what he thought of as "quiet" cursing under his breath was more of just a verse hoarse way of yelling. I only visited him for a week or two every summer, and I still learned most of my bad words from him. 

So every Sunday would start with a quiet prayer, and then Bishop Grandpa Dale would go to the piano, sit down, and play the nightcore version of Praise to the Man. He would occasionally play other hymns, but he really, really liked that one. This would continue until he hit a wrong note, which was basically inevitable because his music philosophy was that if he could play a song flawlessly, it was time to play it faster. So he'd play until he hit that wrong note, at which point he would scream-whisper SHIIIIIT and, because he did not actually read music so much as memorize it, the only way he'd be able to get his rhythm back was by going back to the start. 

If it was a good Sunday, he could get it in two tries. Some Sundays took as many as five. 

I learned two things about Grandpa Dale from this story. The first was that he could play piano. I'd never actually seen him do that before. Still haven't, come to think of it. Second was that the man that I visited once a year, who always seemed on the verge of exploding, who scared the absolute dickens out of me, was actually the chilled out version of the man my mom grew up with.

And it helped knowing that, actually. I'm actually a pretty anxious person, and my mom is, also, a pretty anxious person, and as a teenager we'd sometimes get in these doom loops where we'd wind each other up until our springs cracked. She'd be worried about me growing up to be happy, and I'd be worried about letting her down, and my worrying would make me unhappy, and my unhappiness would make her unhappy, and we'd just kind of dissolve into these anxieties like cotton candy in the sea and become totally unbearable to be around for a bit. Then my dad would sit us both down and very politely tell us that we were being crazy. He had this quote how being sad that someone else is sad that you're sad is the emotional equivalent of being a Klein flask and that at some point you have to just say I am allowed one (1) single layer of emotional recursion, at most, and ideally zero. 

And it was always kind of embarrassing and silly, but when I was tempted to be more upset with my mom about it, I could remember the piano story and go: Sheesh. She has more of a right to be anxious that I do. For me it's really just genetics, but she grew up with the Cactus-Killing Gopher-Smasher. A whole 18 years of that. I spent two weeks every summer with that guy, and I love him, but I always came home feeling like I'd survived something. She's a trooper.

[thedeafprophet]

Yea she does! And no not just April, thats still a title lmao.

Her name is (was?) Emilia Hathersage.

From Bag A Legend:

(I also assume east asian myself, presuming on her in game art, but specifics is not really something im keen to be guessing on based soley on appearance, yknow?)

An engineer, deaf, and unfond of churchs? Truly April has it all