#don’t ask me what kyles sitting on. its some manner of wall.

[wednesdayfunnys]

daylight savings + average bus stop blues

[thewnchstrs]

Lean On Me

Pairing: read to find out ;)

Summary: all of the times the reader, Jared, and Jensen had to lean on each other when it seemed like they were all they had. (based on the song Lean On Me by Bill Withers)

Disclaimers: some situations are based on actual events, mentions of death, mentions of anxiety and depression, very minor mentions of cancer, crying(sad and happy tears :) )

Word Count: 4.1K 

A/N: reader is an actress on the show :)

Masterlist

Feedback keeps the oneshots coming!

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They were unsure of why they were brought to the conference room on set. Jared, Jensen, Y/N and the entire crew were seated in the large room where they usually table read their scripts. However, they’d table read yesterday, today would typically be a shooting day.

“What’s going on?” One of the cameramen asked to Eric Kripke who stood at the front of the room. Everyone could tell something was off by the way he’d been acting all day. Distant, keeping mostly to himself.

He rapped his knuckles on the table next to him, unsure of where to start until he decided to start at the only place he knew he could, “It’s Manners,” he began, referring to Kim Manners who was one of the best directors any of them had ever known. They knew what was coming before Eric said anything else, but they didn’t want to believe it. ”...Kim passed away this morning.” 

Anything he said after that was a blur. His mouth slowly moved up and down as he spoke but nobody in the room could really hear him, the sound of their racing hearts were too loud in their ears.

It’s useless to explain how they felt in those seconds simply because it was like they were falling through the air without anything at the bottom to catch them.

They tensed next to each other, unsure of what to say or do. He’d been sick for a while now, but they never thought his fight with cancer would end so soon.

Y/N, who sat in between Jared and Jensen, gripped their hands in hers, and they squeezed her hands back, the three of them an anchor to a boat that wanted so desperately to float away.

Sometimes in our lives we all have pain,

We all have sorrow

But, if we are wise,

We know that there's always tomorrow.

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He hadn’t been doing well, that much they knew. Jared had been acting distant, didn’t really seem to be interested in thing like he used to be. He isolated himself from friend and family, retreating into his trailer in between takes to be by himself. He stopped laughing as often. 

It wasn’t until the week of JIBCON that they’d approached him about it, noticing how the dark circles under his eyes had only gotten darker and darker, his exhaustion evident.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” He said finally, slumped against the back of the couch he’d been sitting on. Jensen and Y/N glanced at each other before their eyes darted back to Jared, “I’m just so...I'm so tired.”

Y/N’s heart broke at the sight of one of the strongest people she knew crumbling in front of her. “Jared...is everything okay?”

He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t- I don’t know...I don’t know why I feel like I do all the time, just, sad, I guess.”

Jensen and Y/N both swallowed past the lumps now forming in their throats in order to stay strong for Jared who seemed to be becoming unraveled at the seams. Jensen leaned forward in his chair, his forearms on his knees, hoping- no, begging for Jared to hear what he was about to say.

“You need a break, man.” He started as Y/N nodded, “you give yourself so fully to others you forget to give some back to yourself, too...it’s okay to need a break, you’re human. You can’t stay here the rest of the weekend.”

“I can’t just leave- the fans, they’ll-”

“They’ll understand,” Y/N said this time, holding one of his hands in hers as she spoke to him, her eyes not leaving his, “they will. And, you know what? They- we, will be here for you every step of the way. No matter how long it takes, for you to get over this mountain, no matter what happens, we will always be here for you.”

Jared sniffed, quickly wiping at the skin under his eyes as Jensen pulled the two of them into a quick hug, “You just gotta keep fighting, man. Always keep fighting.”

Lean on me, when you're not strong,

And I'll be your friend-

I'll help you carry on for it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Y/N’s hands shook as she read the threatening message looking back up at her from her screen, the words running over and over through her head like a broken record.

You’re dead.

You’re dead.

You’re dead.

He thought she was cheating on him with, “one of those big guys you work with, right?” Kyle had spat at her that morning, replaying the scene in her head. He was irritated all morning after Jared had called asking if she wanted him to grab her something for breakfast before their first scene. Y/N had agreed to meet him somewhere, sending him a quick smiley face before leaving it on the bathroom counter to take a shower.

Kyle read the messages between her and Jared, snagging the phone off of the counter before throwing the phone across the room, shattering its screen. The sudden noise made Y/N peak from behind the shower curtain, turning the water off before wrapping a towel around herself and stepped into the bedroom where Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped against his mouth as his leg quickly bounced up and down.

Y/N’s eyes traveled from Kyle to the shattered phone on the floor and back to Kyle. His eyes darted up to her, wild and deranged, “You’re talking to him again, aren’t you?”

“What?” Y/N said, water droplet falling from her hair, “What did you do?”

She bent down to pick the phone up, running a thumb over the screen before Kyle roughly yanked her into a standing position, gripping her upper arm tightly as he shoved her against the bedroom wall. The impact made Y/N see stars, rattling her brain.

Kyle held her in place, using his arm to press against her throat so she had no choice but to keep her eyes trained on his.

“You’re talking to him again, aren’t you?” he growled, pressing harder against her throat. “One of those big guys you work with, right?”

Y/N shook her head, her eyes wide. “No, no, I’m not-”

“YES, YOU ARE!” He screamed, inches from her face as she clawed at his arm, begging for oxygen. He scanned her face before suddenly letting go, letting Y/N fall to the floor on her knees as she gasped for air, gripping her throat as if his arm were still there.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he fell down next to her, holding her shoulders in concern. “Oh my god, Y/N...Y/N, I- I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Y/N couldn’t meet his eyes as he coddled her, running a hand down her wet hair, running a thumb over her cheek soothingly. This was what always happened.

“Please forgive me, I...I didn’t mean it.”

Whether because she frightened of him or because she still did care for him, or maybe both, she slowly nodded. A nonverbal agreement to sweep yet another incident under the rug.

Y/N must have been sitting there for a while because when she’d finally come back to reality, nearly twenty minutes had passed. She looked up from her broken phone to where, to Y/N’s surprise, Jared and Jensen were standing in front of her, the crew behind them as they began to set up the next scene

“Earth to Y/N!” Jensen said, waving a hand in front of her face. Y/N blinked twice, shaking her head.

“Sorry...sorry, I didn’t sleep very well.” She said, running a hand down her face.

Jensen and Jared shared a concerned glance as they watched their friend who was obviously struggling internally with something. Jared squatted down in front of her so they were eye level, but Y/N couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.

“Y/N,” Jared began, his heart breaking at how hurt she looked, “Y/N...if there’s something going on we don’t know about, you know you can tell us, right?”

Y/N nodded, trying to hold back tears, “Yeah, I know.”

Jared sighed, wishing it had gotten him a little farther but it only seemed to make her more upset. He paused, smiling slightly at her as he went to pat her shoulder, but before he could she instinctively flinched away making Jared pull his hand back quickly.

Y/N held her breath and closed her eyes. She knew she’d just given herself away.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Jensen asked this time. When she continued to sit in silence, he held his breath, coming closer to her, “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on, Y/N.”

She worried her bottom lip before unlocking her phone and hesitantly handing it to them, his text messages that went back nearly a year presented in front of them. They read on in horror, anger bubbling up inside of them as they read the harsh words that only got worse the more recent the texts were. Y/N sat silently, wringing her hands nervously.

“Did he do that to you?” Jared motioned to the blooming bruise on her upper arm after reading the texts. She quickly pulled the sleeve down before slowly nodding. It took everything in them to keep their calm as they handed the phone back to her.

“We’re going to help you, Y/N.” Jared whispered, holding her hands in his. “We’re not gonna let him do this to you.”

“We’re not gonna let him hurt you ever again, you hear me?” Jensen said, his eyes hard while at the same time soft for the girl he saw as his sister. “We’ll take care of him.”

Please swallow your pride,

If I have things you need to borrow

For no one can fill those of your needs,

That you won't let show.

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Jared, Jensen, and Y/N flew down the road, the rumble of the Impala keeping time with the music that poured from the speakers. They were filming a scene for ‘Baby’, an episode in season 11 that was told from the car’s point of view. With this, the writers gave them free reign to drive the car around for a few hours in order to get some good shots for the episode.

After switching on the cameras and microphones attached to the car, they were off. Laughing and singing as the cameras captured every minute of their interactions with each other.

They’d been driving for the better part of an hour when they found themselves speeding down a deserted back road. However, as they continued down the one-way road, a large pickup truck seemed to come out of nowhere, rounding the corner and onto the main road at top speed as it barreled toward the Impala. Jared had seen it first, since Jensen was busy fiddling with the radio. Jared’s eyes widening as the car came dangerously close.

Jared’s heart pounded as he shouted Jensen’s name, grabbing his attention away from the music as he gripped the wheel, both feet slamming on the brakes, throwing Y/N and Jared forward as he tried his best to move out of the line of the man behind the wheel of the truck. Y/N and Jared caught themselves as they threw their arms out, watching as the truck continued to draw closer and closer.

“What the hell is he doing?!” Y/N shouted as the car sped toward them. Jensen gave one last pull of the wheel in an attempt to avoid the oncoming vehicle, however, the truck driver was too quick, clipping the front of the car making it skid sideways across the road straight through the middle of a four way intersection when a second car slammed into the side of the Impala. The impact from the second hit nearly knocked the Impala onto its side but, luckily, landed back down on all four wheels.

Jared, Jensen, and Y/N sat in shock at everything that had just happened, their hearts racing while they gathered themselves.

Y/N wiggled each of her fingers and toes, her neck, her arms and legs with no noticeable pain, “Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah,” Jared said and Jensen silently agreed, nodding. “You?”

“I’m good,” Y/N said, peering out of the window next to her where the car who’d hit them sat, taking notice of the dented in door that was inches from her left leg.

Even though they all seemed okay, none of them made a move to exit the car. They’d watched as their lives flashed before their eyes, three lifetimes that easily could’ve been cut short by a drunken man in a pickup truck. It was a minor accident that could’ve had an everlasting impact.

“We’re okay,” Jensen said as if to confirm it, reaching around to the backseat to grab a hold of Y/N’s hand, gripping Jared’s shoulder with the other. Red and blue lights flashed ahead of them in the distance, the siren’s cry filling the air. “We’re okay.”

You just call on me brother, when you need a hand

We all need somebody to lean on

I just might have a problem that you'll understand

We all need somebody to lean on.

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Jensen wasn’t sure how much longer he’d last signing autographs. He could already feel his throat becoming heavier and heavier his heart swelling as he thought about the conversation he’d just had with one of the fans. She’d shared with him the story of how she became an operator for the Family Crisis Support Network.

She’d worked nearly 50 hours, not including the training that went into becoming a verified operator including the countless hours of preparation that went into it. He’d heard that there’d been progress within the network, but up until then, he had never really been able to put a name to a face.

He was able to pull through for the final people in line, quickly signing photo op pictures, every passing minute becoming harder and harder to get through. Once he’d said goodbye to the last fan, he hardly made it back up to the greenroom when and overwhelming feeling of sadness came over him, his body trembling as tears sky rocketed down his face.

Jared and Y/N immediately knew something was wrong once he’d come into the room. “Hey, you alright?”

He constantly ran a hand down his face, using the collar of his shirt to mop up the mess of tears. Jared came up to him first, pulling him close and clapping him on the shoulder, “It’s alright.”

Y/N rubbed a soothing hand up and down Jensen’s back. It wasn’t until later, when the tears had passed that he explained what’d happened, making Jared and Y/N choke up too.

“It shouldn’t be like this...” Jensen said, shaking his head. “That many people shouldn’t feel so alone.”

Jared and Y/N both agreed, “That’s what it’s for though...because they need it, because it reminds them to keep fighting.”

Lean on me, when you're not strong

And I'll be your friend

I'll help you carry on for it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.

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She smoothed down the front of her white dress, the silk soft under her fingertips. She’d never thought this day would come.

With her tight schedule, working six days a week with hardly any time to breathe, Y/N found it hard to believe she’d one day get married to that one person she’d always been looking for.

He was kind, and gentle, and funny. He loved his family and he loved her, something he reminded her of every second of every minute just to make sure she hadn’t forgotten.

It was nice to finally slow down for a few seconds, even if the energy outside of the room was buzzing, inside here, Y/N could spare a second to herself.

She marveled at dress she wore, mesmerized by its beaded across her bust and all down the length of the back of the dress. She ran her fingers over the lace that covered her arms all the way up to the high neckline she’d insisted on.

Then, she twisted the small, golden ring she’d had around the chain on her neck, trying not to think too hard about the person who should be wearing it.

Her time to herself was cut way too short when a knock came at the door, yanking her from her thoughts as the door was slowly pushed open, revealing Jensen who walked inside, a hand thrown over his eyes. “I’m not peaking...definitely not peaking!”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head, “You can look, Jensen.”

Jensen slowly took his hand away from his eyes as they widened, looking from her face to her dress, beaming as he did, “Y/N, you look...you look beautiful.”

Y/N blushed, self consciously running a hand up the opposite arm as she turned to view the back of herself, “Are you sure it’s not too much?”

Jensen shook his head, smiling from ear to ear, “It’s perfect, Y/N. You ready to go?”

He motioned to the open doorway, but sensed Y/N’s hesitation as she bit her lip, watching the hallway as if it were a lion waiting to tear off her head if she got too close. Jensen slowly shut the door, sitting on a chair across from her. “Alright, what’s goin’ on? You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No,” Y/N said, shaking her head. She knew she wanted this, more than anything in the world. Y/N sighed, clenching her jaw and closing her eyes. This was supposed to be a happy day, the happiest day of her life, in fact. However, she couldn’t help but feel the hole that seemed to be carved out of her chest for the one person that wasn’t there. Their absence like a missing limb- it’s okay for it to be gone, but it sure would be much easier if it were still there.

“I wish my dad were here,” she whispered, mainly to herself as she hugged her body, not wanting to meet Jensen’s eyes. Her hand returned to the gold ring strung on a chain around her neck, fiddling with it.

Jensen sighed, his heart aching, “Y/N, he is here. You know that better than anybody. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Jensen stood up, holding Y/N’s arms in each of his hands, willing her to look up at him. She wanted to cry, because it wasn’t fair that he wasn’t there to walk her down the aisle like every father should be for his little girl.

She nodded, quickly dabbing at the skin under her wet eyes as Jensen pulled her close to his chest, laying a cheek on top of her head. “And I’m sorry he’s not here to walk you down the aisle,” He said as if he were reading her mind, “and I’m sorry I’m kind of a lame substitute.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, punching him in the shoulder as he smiled slightly, pulling away from her, bringing his thumb up to wipe her eyes. She was grateful for Jensen, he was the brother she never had. “Thank you, by the way. For doing this.”

He smiled, linking Y/N’s arm with his as he picked up the bouquet of flowers and handed it to her. “Anything for you, Y/N. Now, what do you say we get you down that aisle, huh? Jared can’t wait to see his bride.”

If there is a load you have to bear

That you can’t carry

I’m right up the road, I’ll share your load

If you just call me.

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“Okay, alright...see you soon.” Jensen ended the call, looking to Y/N and Jared who watched him expectantly with worried eyes, their hands interlocked between them as they waited for the news on Jensen’s grandmother.

He dropped the phone onto the couch behind him, his eyes distant as they scanned the air for some kind of answer to why this had happened, “she’s gone.”

Jared and Y/N sighed, their shoulders slumping forward at the news they’d stayed up to hear about. It was all so sudden.

He seemed to freeze, unable to comprehend what he’d just been told. His heart seized in his chest for the woman who helped shape him into the person he was today. He definitely didn’t spend nearly as much time with her as he knew he should have.

“Jensen,” Y/N began, knowing that nothing she said would make him feel much better. The hole someone leaves when they die is very rarely easy to fill. “Jensen, I am so sorry.”

She held his hand in his as he slowly sat down, his jaw clenching and unclenching in an attempt to keep his tears at bay.

“You need to go home,” Jared added, knowing he needed to be with his family. “You need to be with family right now.”

Jensen sniffed, quickly rubbing the skin under his eyes and nodded, knowing what he had to do.

You just call on me brother, when you need a hand

We all need somebody to lean on

I just might have a problem that you’ll understand

We all need somebody to lean on.

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"Seems crazy, doesn’t it?” Jensen asked as he came up next to Jared and Y/N, who were standing side by side in the middle of main set. The whole day had been so surreal, flying past them faster than they could keep up with.

They’d just shot the final scene of the show, an emotional trainwreck for everybody involved.

Jared nodded, tightening his grip around Y/N’s shoulder, “Yeah...I mean, 15 years. This place practically raised us.”

They silently took in their last looks of the set where they had filmed so many memorable moments that they knew they’d always look back on and smile at. They’d met each other on this set. This is where Jared, Jensen, and Y/N shot their first scenes of the show together. Jensen took notice of the exact spot where he was sitting when he found out he was going to be a dad for the first time. Y/N spotted the set where she had been flirting with a co-star and silently cursing herself for not paying enough attention to the long haired guy that stood fifty feet away, secretly listening in as they talked. Coincidentally, that was the same spot Jared was eyeing because it was in that same spot that he had realized he’d loved her.

“It’s going to be so hard to leave it all behind,” Y/N whispered sadly as she admired the building that had created so much magic. 

“We’re not, though,” Jared said, shaking his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “This place will always be with us, and the fans, too.”

Jensen and Y/N nodded in agreement, their hearts swelling with pride and joy thinking of how far they’d come.

“And, who knows.” Y/N began, smiling. “Maybe another show will move in here...another cast, another crew, another group of twenty year old kids.”

They all laughed, happy tears in their eyes at the thought of it. The crazy, unimaginable thought of all those that had come before them, and all those that would come after, too.

If there is a load you have to bear

That you can't carry

I'm right up the road, I'll share your load

If you just call me.

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[x-15]

Shuttle Ghost Story - Endeavour

Don’t worry. No astronaut ghosts here. It’s cuter than that.

The sun was beginning to set over the city of angels, but Kyle couldn’t find his mother. They’d taken him to the science museum that day to see the Space Shuttle, but as they were leaving his little sister had run off into the rose garden. His mom had dashed after her; she was a fast runner, and neither Kyle nor his mom could catch up. He’d run after her, but there were so many rows of roses, all so much taller than him, that he’d gotten lost.

He turned a corner, and he saw a tall figure. Mom! He ran towards her. But when he got closer, he noticed this woman couldn’t be his mom.

For one, her long, dark hair, was darker than his mom’s; where his mom had long brown hair, this lady’s hair was a thick jet black, with ashen gray hairs mixed in. Her skin was also pale; and yet, it appeared to be patched together, stitched together in an oddly logical manner, with smaller tiles around the curves and joints of her hands and neck. She wore black jean-like pants, and a bomber jacket, like a moon astronaut’s, but white; the sides and pockets were black, too. On the arm, there were two letters he couldn’t read yet and a number: 105.

She turned to look at Kyle. She had deep black eyes, and there was a tinge of ash on her face. When she saw him, she smiled, warm and inviting, and with the sunset behind her, she looked as if she was shrouded in flames.

“Were you enjoying the flowers?”

Kyle’s mom had told him not to talk to strangers, so he didn’t talk. Instead he solemnly nodded, yes.

The woman’s eyes drifted downwards, and lit up when she noticed what Kyle was holding: a small toy Space Shuttle, barely three inches long, with Endeavour printed on the side of its hull.

She knelt down, and reached her hand out to the toy. “You went to see the Shuttle today, didn’t you?”

Kyle nodded again, and gripped the Shuttle tighter.

The woman put her hands around Kyle’s. They both held the Shuttle as she asked, “Do you wanna go to space when you grow up?”

He gave another shy nod, and she continued.

“Do you wanna come see something that an astronaut would get to see?”

Kyle shook his head for a second, nervous about the stranger. But then he realized: he absolutely wanted to see what an astronaut would get to see. Besides, this lady seemed nice enough. She looked weird, but she was being so nice.

Kyle nodded, and the lady’s grin widened.

“Come with me, then.”

She started walking, but Kyle stood where he was. “What about- What about my mom? I lost her in the garden. I don’t know where she is.”

“We’ll find her in a few minutes, don’t worry. I promise.”

Kyle nodded, and followed her.

The lady reached down to grab his hand, and pulled him through the garden. They walked through the winding rose paths until they were back to the entrance of the garden. The gate was closed, but the lady touched the lock, and it swung open.

They walked along the path back to the science museum, and the lady spoke.

“What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Alright, Kyle, you have to promise to stick right next to me. Otherwise, you won’t get to see something really cool.”

“Okay.”

With that, she ducked behind some trees and bushes. Kyle followed her; he didn’t have to duck, because he wasn’t tall enough to hit his head on the branches. They went all the way back through the park around the museum until they found the giant fuel tank outside of the Shuttle’s display room. The lady walked up to the door and moved to open it.

“The museum is closed!” Kyle said. “What if we get in trouble?”

“Shh. I have special clearance. I can go in whenever I want.”

“What does clearance mean?”

“It means I’m allowed inside.” She paused. “And I can bring in visitors like you with me. But not very often.”

“Okay.”

She waved her hand by the door, and the lock clicked. She swung the door open.

“Come in, Kyle.”

Kyle walked into the big display room. The lights were dark, and the room was almost pitch black, except for light pouring in from the doors on either side of the hangar. There wasn’t even a light on the American Flag that hung behind the Shuttle.

“Excuse me? I’m scared. I want to go now.”

“Is it too dark?”

Kyle nodded.

The lady tapped the wall, and the lights around the side of the room turned on. The room was still dark, but Kyle could see now: all the missions the Shuttles had flown, and their crews, were lit up on placards all around the room. The bottom of the shuttle was lit up, but the top of it was still in shadow.

The lady went behind the gift shop and grabbed a ladder. She leaned it against the door on the left side of the Shuttle, and climbed up to the top.

“Kyle, come on up here! You get to see something really cool!”

He trotted over to the ladder and tried to climb it, but the ladder shook when he stood on it. “I’m scared!”

“Aww, come on! Here, Kyle, look what you get to see when you get to the top:”

She touched the door, and it swung open. Inside the shuttle was almost pitch black.

“You wanna come inside the Shuttle?”

“Yeah.”

“Then climb up! All the cool stuff is up here.”

“Okay.”

It took a while for Kyle to climb the ladder. When he got to the top, the lady grabbed his hands gently and helped him climb inside.

“Look. This is what the Shuttle looks like on the inside.”

“Dark?”

She chuckled. “No, not always. When the astronauts use it, it looks a little more like this.”

She touched the walls of the Shuttle, and the vehicle sprang to life.

The screens on the cockpit started glowing, and the lights turned on. Fans inside the ventillation system started whirring. Deep inside the walls, Kyle could hear the sound of all the computers turned on. In a moment, the cockpit screens switched modes, displaying all the information about the shuttle that the astronauts needed to know to fly it.

Kyle stood up. His jaw dropped, and his fists clenched and unclenched with excitement. The lady smiled.

“See? I told you you could see something awesome. Come over here, and you can sit in the commander’s seat.”

Kyle ran over to her, and she lifted him up and put him in the seat on the left. He couldn’t read all the cool dials and switches and buttons, but they were all awesome. He knew that the astronauts got to use them, and that’s what mattered.

She pointed a chalk-white finger at one of the instruments. “Do you know what this one tells you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I didn’t learn to read yet.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you what all this stuff means.”

He looked back at the strange-looking woman. “Are you an astronaut?”

“Something like that.” She chuckled.

“Did you get to go to space?”

She nodded. “I went to space 25 times.”

“Woah.”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “It’s a lot.”

“Do you ever go to space anymore?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Why?”

She paused, and looked away from Kyle, back at the instruments. “Something happened to one of my friends,” she sighed. “They didn’t want us going to space anymore after that.”

“Oh.”

The Shuttle was silent, except for the soft whirring of machinery. It sounded, to Kyle, a little like the Shuttle was breathing. And all the instruments in the cockpit; maybe it was thinking. He wondered what Space Shuttles would think if they could think about stuff.

“Kyle,” the lady said. “You want to be an astronaut, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, I want you to promise me something.” She leaned closer and squeezed his hand.

“Kyle, being an astronaut is really hard. You’re going to have to work really hard in school and do a lot of hard stuff so that NASA knows that they want you to be an astronaut. I want you to try your hardest, okay. It’s been too long since I went to space.” Her smile faltered. “Try to get up there for me.”

Kyle looked at her for a moment, thinking about what she was saying. Her hand felt cold and hard. He nodded.

“You know what Endeavour means?”

He nodded again. “Endeavour means- Endeavour is the Space Shuttle.”

“Well,” she grinned and shook her head a little. “Endeavour is the Shuttle, you’re right. But it’s also a word. You know what that word means, Kyle?”

He shook his head.

“It means you try really hard. If you endeavour to do something, you promise to do it, even if it’s really hard, or if there’s easier things you can do instead. It means you don’t give up.” She squeezed his hand. “That’s what it means to be an astronaut: you try really hard and you don’t give up. Even if it’s scary. You keep on flying.”

“Okay.”

The door slammed open. Kyle almost fell out of his seat, he was so startled. “WHO’S IN THERE? GET OUT OF THERE! NO ONE IS ALLOWED IN THE SHUTTLE!”

The lady held Kyle’s hand. “Don’t worry. They can’t get you in trouble you’re too small. But you’ll have to go with them.”

“But what about my mom?”

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “That’s security. I bet they know where your mom is, so we won’t have to go looking everywhere.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

A security guard poked his head into the shuttle. He shined a flashlight in, but, seeing the interior lit up, he turned it off. “Hey, kid. How’d you get in here?”

Kyle pointed at the lady. “She took me in here.”

The guard looked where he was pointing, then back at him. “There’s… There’s no one there. Hey, listen, come with me. Is your name Kyle?”

He nodded.

“Your mom’s looking for you. She’s worried out of her mind! You can’t just run off, okay Kyle?”

“But the lady told me she could find my mom.”

“There’s- there’s no one-” The guard shook his head. “Listen, I’ll take you to your mom, okay? Come down here with me.”

“Okay.”

He walked over to the guard and started climbing down the ladder with him. Before he left, he looked back up at the lady. She smiled and waved.

“Go back to space for me, Kyle.”

The guard tugged his leg, and Kyle had to go down before he could say goodbye.

As the guard took Kyle away, he looked behind him for one last moment at the Shuttle. It stood just as tall and amazing as before. But now he knew he’d seen something no one else would get to see for a long time.

When they stepped out the door, Kyle felt something tug at his hoodie pocket. He looked down, and saw his toy Shuttle; but there was a note attached to it, written on an old gift shop tag:

“Endeavour to go to space for me, Kyle. Dream big.”

He held the shuttle tight in his pocket as he walked through the quickly-darkening rose garden. He had the best story for his little sister tonight, and all his friends back at school. This had been the best winter break ever.

~ the end

[5lbsofsmarties]

There’s No Time to Waste: Miles Luna

@okiemaybeinakinkyway commissioned me to write this. Word Count: 3085 Summary: Based off of this picture. Miles wasn’t always the first choice, be he was certainly the best.

Before you had gone away to college, you weren’t entirely sure what you could expect out of the whole experience. You were hoping to take some fun and challenging classes, to make new friends, and maybe attend a few parties here and there. However, it quickly became apparent that you had not entirely thought out your schedule or how anything was going to work out in your favor. It felt as though everything was piling up and you weren’t sure what you could do to help alleviate the stress that you could feel building at the base of your skull.

It didn’t help much that your last class of the day on Mondays and Fridays ended well after dark and then you had to proceed to trek all the way back across campus alone. At one point, you had mentioned your unease to your roommate who told you about a group of guys who often posted up outside of the Unions advertising that they would walk with anyone on campus who felt they needed someone whether it be you felt discriminated against, threatened, or merely unsafe.

She’d also mentioned that they were all quite cute and very well built, so that was really just a plus.

After a few weeks of your late night terror walks, you decided to give it a try and on your way to your class you managed to find the table set up outside of the University Unions. There was a group of four guys sitting around said table with a poster board sign propped up against the side of the table itself. You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders before strolling over and stopping just in front of the table. All four of them looked up at you and you had expected to feel uneasy under their stares but it was quite the opposite.

“Hey, what’s up?” one of them greeted with a wide smile.

You licked your lips and swallowed hard, “Hi… Uhm, I was just wondering if maybe one of you could walk me back to my dorm after my last class? It gets out late and it really kind of freaks me out to have to make that walk alone in the dark.”

“Yeah, of course,” the one with dirty blonde hair said as he sat up straighter, “What time does your class get out?”

“It usually lets out around 8:45,” you said said softly, shrugging a shoulder.

Three of them turned and looked at one another with slightly unsure expressions on their faces as they leaned in and began almost mumbling to one another. You could very nearly feel your heart sink slightly into your stomach until the fourth member of the group perked up and looked in your direction. He almost looked like he didn’t belong, at least physically, with the guys that he was sitting with, and you could only imagine that most people passed him over for one of the others. But as you looked at him, there was something almost endearing about his bright brown eyes and the way that they crinkled slightly around the edges.

He looked back at the others and placed his hands flat on the table, “Kyle, I know you three have that project to work on tonight, but I can do it.”

There was a beat of silence but all four of them turned to look at you once again. Quickly, he got to his feet and held out a hand in your direction, which you tentatively took in your own for a handshake. “I’m Miles; I’d be more than happy to walk with you, if you’d like,” he said quite happily. You blinked back at him for a moment before you nodded your head and a smile of your own easily spread across your face.

“That would be great, yeah. Thank you so much,” you said as you let out a breath of relief, “Oh right, I’m Y/N.”

Miles dropped your hand and promptly shoved both of his into the pockets of his jeans as he continued to smile at you. “What building is your class in? Do you want me to meet you right outside the room or outside the building?” he asked excitedly. You had to bite down slightly onto your lower lip in an attempt to rein in your own smile that was threatening to grow larger with his infectious enthusiasm.

“Outside the main entrance would be fine,” you offered after explaining where on campus your class was.

Nodding his head rather vigorously, Miles seemed as though he had started to rock on the balls of his feet. “Great, I will meet you outside of the building at 8:45,” he confirmed. You nodded your own head and adjusted the straps of your backpack on your shoulders, your thumbs hooking under them just below your underarms. “Alright, thank you, really,” you said softly, taking a small step backwards. You looked between the four men in front of you, gave a single nod, and turned on your heel to head in the direction from which you came.

You had only taken a few steps away when you heard the group of them begin to laugh amongst themselves. “Miles looks like a damn kid on Christmas morning,” an unfamiliar voice joked. There was barely a beat and then the sound of what had to have been someone being hit in the arm or chest met your ears. “Shut up, Aaron,” Miles said in a tone that was lower and you almost couldn’t make it out. You missed the rest of the conversation as you walked further away but decided to ignore it in order to focus on the task of getting to your next class on time.

The trek to class was entirely uneventful as was the class itself. You found yourself mostly zoning out as you stared through the window on the far wall, watching as the campus flooded with night and street lights popped to life along the streets and walkways below making the area glow in an almost bleary eyed out of focus kind of way. Your thoughts, no matter how hard you tried to steer them elsewhere, kept finding a way back to Miles. There was a slight feeling of nervousness bubbling up in your stomach as you wondered what it was you were going to talk about with him for the walk back to your dorm.

Would you talk? Would he want to? What if the two of you just walked side by side in an awkward silence for ten minutes?

You were sure that your nerves would probably swallow you whole at that point.

Finally after what felt like a lifetime, your professor dismissed everyone almost ten minutes late. As you packed your bag and got to your feet you were a little worried that Miles would have gotten bored of waiting and just left. You attempted to push that thought away as you hurried down the stairwell and out into the lobby of the main building. You had very nearly reached the door leading outside when you spotted Miles sitting on the concrete ledge of a flower bed; he  had earbuds in and was looking down at his phone, seemingly to be engrossed in whatever it was.

After taking a few deep breaths, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the almost muggy night air. You walked over to where Miles was sitting and carefully reached hand out to gingerly tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention. He jolted lightly and quickly removed his earbuds to look up in your direction, a large smile quickly making its way onto his face. “Hey, Y/N! How was class?” he asked as he got to his feet, wrapping the earbuds around his phone and shoving the device into his pocket.

“It was pretty… boring, actually,” you laughed softly.

Miles nodded and chuckled as well, “I feel you. There are a few classes I have that if attendance wasn’t mandatory, I would never step foot in that room until the day of the final.”

There was something about Miles’ smile and laugh that seemed to put you at ease and you were very grateful for that. Without much prompting, the both of you turned and started to walk in the direction of your dorm. “What were you watching before I came out?” you asked, glancing up at him. Miles’ face looked momentarily panicked at your question before he let out a low sigh. “I was, uh, just listening to the Sonic CD soundtrack,” he answered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Your eyes narrowed slightly in thought, “Like… Sonic the Hedgehog?”

“Yeah… the soundtracks are really good and, I mean, the games are great too,” he said excitedly, almost bouncing as he spoke.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really played a Sonic game,” you said, shrugging a shoulder.

It took you a few steps to realize that Miles had stopped walking all together. You paused and looked back to see him staring at you with an incredulous expression on his face and his arms out in a questioning manner. “What do you MEAN that you’ve never played Sonic before? What kind of inhumane monster are you?” he asked, his voice steadily raising with each word. You blinked back at him with a nearly emotionless face that his own expression fell to mirror, until both of you broke and grinned at one another. Miles shook his head and hurried forward to take his spot by your side so that you could continue on your way.

“I was never really all that into Sega,” you explained, “I was much more of Nintendo kid growing up.”

Miles scoffed and, very dramatically, rolled his eyes, “Puh-lease, Sonic is so much better. For real, you should totally come by my place sometime and play. I’ve got all the games and systems set up and… oh, my god. I’m such a nerd, I’m sorry.”

You could only let out a loud laugh before reaching out to place a comforting hand on Miles’ arm and gave him a gentle pat. “Don’t worry about it, dude. We all have our nerdy perversions,” you laughed before taking your hand back to put both of your hands in your pockets. Miles laughed and shook his head slowly from side to side as he followed your lead down the sidewalk. He quickly launched into a long winded rant about the lore of Sonic the Hedgehog and which games were the best. At a certain point all you could really do was nod a long as he talked, but the way he was so invested in what it was he was talking about really drew you in.

By the time that the pair of you came to a stop outside of your dorm building it felt as though you’d only been walking for a minute or two. You shuffled your feet a bit awkwardly against the pavement, unsure of what to say or do at this point. Miles, however, reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone before giving you a quick look.

“How often do you have this class?” he asked absently, tapping at something on his screen.

Your eyebrows knitted together slightly, “Uh… every Monday and Friday.”

“Do you want me, or someone to walk with you every time?” he asked, looking back up at you expectantly, “I… we’d me more than happy to help.”

For a moment, you faltered over your words until you finally cleared your throat and gave your head a slight shake to get your thoughts in order. “Uhm, yeah… That’d be great. If you’re not busy. I don’t want to like… mess up your plans or anything. I know that walking me home at nine on a Friday night is probably the last thing you’d want to do,” you said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Miles in turn gave you a confused sort of look, “No, no. This is great. Trust me, I don’t mind.”

He then held his phone out towards you and you looked down to see that he had started to enter a new contact with your name. You smiled slightly and took his phone in your hands to put in your phone number. Once you had saved it, you sent yourself a text message from his phone so that you would have his number as well before handing the phone back to Miles. His smile grew and very nearly lit up his entire face as he pocketed the phone once more. “Great, well… I guess I’ll see you Friday night, Y/N,” he said, nodding his head. You bit down gently onto your lower lip as you nodded your head in return.

“Yeah… I’ll see you around. Thanks again, Miles,” you said before turning and heading into the building.

The weeks following your first walk with Miles were rather enjoyable. You greatly looked forward to your Monday and Friday night classes, if only to be able to walk home with Miles. It was a great way to start and end your week of classes; talking with him was easy and fun. Occasionally, Miles couldn’t make it and you had ended up walking with Aaron, Kyle, and Blaine at one point or another. Each of them were nice and everything but you couldn’t help but wish that it were Miles you were walking with.

“Any plans for this weekend?” Miles asked as you were approaching your dorm.

You shrugged a shoulder, “My roommate is hellbent on dragging me to a party at some house tomorrow night.”

“That should be fun,” he said, until he caught your expression, “Do you not want to go?”

There was a small beat of silence as you took a deep breath and thought it over. “I don’t know. Parties, at least the ones my roommate likes to go to, aren’t exactly my thing,” you said softly, stopping at the front of your building.

Miles gave you a comforting smile and leaned down to wrap you up in a hug, “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Miles,” you said as you pulled away.

It seemed like the second that you had stepped foot into the house you had lost sight of your roommate. The house was packed and the music was so loud that you could feel the bass pumping through your chest. You were unsure of what to do or where to go considering that the only person you knew had essentially ditched you immediately.

You let out a sigh and promptly turned on your heel to head back towards the front door. You pushed past the people around you and when you finally got outside you took a deep breath, appreciating air that wasn’t full of smoke or smelled like cheap beer. Your feet carried you down the few steps leading off of the front porch and you must not have been looking where you were going as you made it out to the sidewalk out front since you bumped into someone.

“Oh, I am so sorry, I wasn’t lo- Oh, Miles,” you stopped apologizing and chuckled softly at seeing him in front of you.

Miles smiled widely down at you, “Hey, Y/N… what’re you up to?”

The two of you naturally began walking side by side down the sidewalk and you couldn’t help but sigh loudly, folding your arms over your chest. “My roommate bailed on me as soon as we got into the party and I just wasn’t feeling it so I’m just heading back to my room,” you explained, shrugging a shoulder. Miles hummed softly and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry that your roommate sucks,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Together, the two of you walked in a comfortable silence for a little ways until you stopped and blinked back at Miles. He took a step or two forward before he realized you were behind him, and he turned back to look at you. “I didn’t ask you to walk with me,” you said softly. It wasn’t in a rude or shocked way, but you were just confused as to why the two of you seemed to walk together so organically without any prompting from either one.

“Yeah, I just wanted to,” he laughed, “You looked like you needed some company.”

You nodded your head slightly and a smile spread across your lips as you walked forward to catch up with Miles, the two of you continuing on your way. You walked a block or two before you glanced up at Miles from the corner of your eye, trying to force yourself to speak up and say something - anything.

“Hey, Miles,” you finally said after what felt like ages.

Miles let out a soft hum, “Yeah?”

“Remember how you said I should come over sometime and we could play Sonic?” you asked, your words very deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, turning his head to look back at you.

You took a deep breath and dropped your hands to absently fiddle with the hem of your shirt, your fingers tugging slightly on a loose thread. You swallowed hard and took a slow, deep breath before finally looking back up at him. He was watching you intently and it nearly made your footsteps falter, but you managed to right yourself before you thoroughly humiliated yourself.

“I was just wondering if maybe… you wanted to do that tonight? We could maybe stop and grab some pizza or something too,” you offered, feeling your cheeks begin to heat up.

Miles’ smile only grew and you had to divert your eyes away from him to look down at the pavement in order to try and get a hold of yourself. He made a small humming sound and you suddenly felt an arm being looped around your neck and shoulders, as well as the length of a body being pressed against your side. “Hell yeah, that sounds like so much fun,” he laughed, urging you to walk faster until he brought the both of you to a sudden stop, “Wait… are you asking me on a date?”

“I, uh… well… yes,” you mumbled, looking up at him wide, unsure eyes.

He was silent of a moment before he made a happy noise and began walking again, “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!”

[the-barista-district]

Letting it Out

Loud furious knocking had Milo flying to his door, who ever he expected to possibly be on the other side didn't come close to a furiously looking Dylan. Milo blinked in confusion before he had enough sense to invite the other Barista inside. Dylan swept inside with an air of rage Milo had never seen before.

"Dylan?" Milo cautiously asked after a minute.

Dylan's sharp eyes snapped to Milo and pinned him to his spot by the door. The power and fury biting inside Dylan should be frightening and oh Void it was but there could be beauty even the most devastating storms. Milo swallowed nervously.

"W-What happened?" Milo asked nervously.

Dylan flew in his explanation, hands flying as he spoke, his expression so passionate it nearly lost its permeant smile. He told Milo about Kyle, his Barista Manager Milo learned, locking away one of Dylan's friends. Being told to stay out of it and being dismissed like some 1st Level that wouldn't understand in the first place.

"Oh...Dylan, I'm so sorry to hear that." Milo wanted to reach out, touch or hug, something to soothe. He wasn't good with words, what could Milo say that would be as soothing? He'd have to learn to be better at it.

"I'm so mad!" Dylan growled. "Anthony doesn't deserve that, I hope she gets out and does what ever she was trying to do."

Milo wasn't too sure about that, but made no move to agree or disagree.

"Would you like to sit?" Milo offered, gesturing at his bed.

Dylan held out his hand, his anger melting into vulnerability as he offer the opportunity for touch. Milo hesitated but happily took Dylan's hand. The simple sensation of Dylan wrapping his fingers around Milo's hand should not be literally everything for him and yet.

"C-Could I ask for something strange?" Dylan asked nervously.

"Anything." Milo said, probably too quickly judging by the surprise in Dylan's eyes.

"Um...could..." Dylan hesitated, slowly guiding them both toward the bed. "Could you sit with me?"

"Of course!" Milo said eagerly, chiding himself for his excitement.

"I mean...um, on my lap?" Dylan asked blushing. "Sometimes Bree will do that and it's...its comforting for me."

Milo stared for a moment, telling himself not to be too much about his reaction.

"I-Its weird, I know, maybe I shouldn't have-" Dylan started steaming in his embarrassment, his hand starting to slip from Milo's hand.

Milo held Dylan's hand firm but gentle. He offered Dylan a soft grin as he nodded calmly.

"I will. If it makes you feel better, I'd be happy to." Milo said honestly.

Dylan weakly smiled back, giving Milo's hand a little squeeze. He let go in favor of sitting down and scooting until his back hit the wall the bed was pushed against. Dylan nervously looked at Milo and opened his arms.

Milo memorized the moment before he got on the bed and carefully moved up settle in Dylan's lap. Milo moved along with the guidance of Dylan's hands after Milo sat back against Dylan's chest. Milo was moved so he had his side against Dylan's chest instead, which he thought was better.

"If you get uncomfortable please let me know." Dylan said. "And thank you..."

"I'm happy to do it." Milo grinned, delighted when Dylan bunched Milo's shirt in his hands and buried his face in Milo's chest.

"The pressure of a person on me is grounding, it comforting to know someone is here." Dylan mumbled against Milo.

"That makes sense." Milo nodded, it was probably better than when Milo would pile up blankets to weigh himself down when he got upset.

"Is it...would it be alright if I touched your hair?" Milo asked.

"Yes." Dylan said, sighing and relaxing under Milo's hand as he began softly stroking his hair in a comforting manner.

They stayed like this for some time, in comfortable silence. Dylan's tension slowly wearing away with the minutes that ticked by and Milo couldn't have been happier. Getting to help Dylan this way was a little different but wonderful. Milo just hope it was effective.

"I..." Dylan started after a while. "I..this is kind of selfish of me, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Milo asked, grinning widely as the way Dylan had melted into him.

"I..I barged in here, screaming and then made you comfort me. That's selfish." Dylan said, pulling his face from Milo.

"Oh no! Not at all! You're my friend, Dylan, I'm happy you trust me enough to come to me when you're upset." Milo said. "It's not selfish, that's what friends do."

"Are you su-"

"Yes, absolutely!" Milo cut him off. "You can come to me any time you need me."

Dylan buried his face into Milo's chest again, feeling guilt gnawing at his stomach, his fingers curled around the fabric of Milo's tee shirt. He still felt terrible selfish and like he was taking advantage of Milo and his feelings.

"Dylan?" Milo asked softly as he felt the other shudder against him.

"T-That's not what you want though." Dylan stammered through his tears that started to soak into Milo's shirt. "I k-know you want more than that."

Milo tensed, wrapping his arms around Dylan hoped it helped more than it him uncomfortable.

"Dylan, I-"

"No! No, Milo I know how you feel about me, you were clear since we met again." Dylan sobbed into Milo's chest. "I shouldn't be here, I don't want to lead you on, I just can't, I don't know how!"

Milo shifted his position to straddling Dylan's lap and holding Dylan's face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears. Milo's heart cracked at the sorrow painted all over Dylan's face.

"Dylan, I know...you don't feel the same, but that's okay! You don't have to just because I lo-because I feel romantically for you." Milo tried to explain. "It's not your responsibility to return my feelings. I would never want to pressure you like that. I will be happy just having you as my friend."

"But!" Dylan protested.

"No." Milo cut him off. "This is my problem, you shouldn't have to put it on yourself."

Dylan reached up and put his hands over Milo's, holding on to him.

"But we could...in that other time, that other life we..." Dylan could barely make the words come out and as he looked into Milo's eyes he knew Milo knew. That he remembered it too.

"That..." Milo started, averting his eyes guiltily.

"You do remember it!" Dylan started crying all over, Milo's strange behavior the last time they meet making sense. "I don't know how to be like that, how we got there."

"You don't have to." Milo insisted as he met Dylan's eyes again.

"You're not happy with just this, I can see it, even if you try to hide it." Dylan said just a above a whisper. "I did this to you, I should never have-"

"Don't." Milo said firmly. "Don't say you shouldn't have come looking for me again. Dylan, we have always been friends and that has always made me happy. This is enough and if nothing more ever comes out of it, that will be fine."

"How can you say that? Knowing that there was a point you had everything you wanted?" Dylan asked.

"What about what you want?" Milo countered.

Dylan fell silent, what he wanted? He didn't know what he wanted. Dylan had never spared a thought about his own wants or needs, he was a servant of the District and that's all he knew, to give.

Milo sighed softly as he withdrew his hands from Dylan. He contemplated getting off Dylan all together to give him space.

"Milo...I want you to stay around me." Dylan said quietly. "I..I like being around you. It's comforting and feels safe."

Milo smiled lightly as his heart warmed at Dylan's confession.

"Then I'll stay, as long as you'll have me." Milo said.

Dylan could feel fresh tears prick at his eyes and he pulled Milo close to bury his face in his chest go hide. Dylan didn't deserve Milo in his life but he'd take him if Milo offered. Dylan would just have to hope that they could figure something out, to get a better grip on all of these erratic feelings and memories.

Here's to hoping.

[quadcorenewkids]

Touching the Void - Chapter 1

I’m posting this because, although I like a lot of parts about this, it feels too dragged out for a first chapter... too slow. Idk, I just have some mixed feelings, and since it’s the first chapter, I don’t mind posting it because... it’s not technically spoilers? 8D

Man, I hate how different things look from the word program to the actual post, no matter where it is. It never looks quite right :/

An evening in the McCormick household where one didn't need to fight to have dibs on the TV was a rare fucking evening indeed. In fact, Kenny's parents weren't even home... or so he assumed. If there wasn't yelling and bitching coming from somewhere within earshot, they must've been out and about. Didn't surprise him in the slightest. Kevin - pretty quiet as per usual - probably locked himself in his room so he could drink all night, and Karen - sweet, naive Karen - was already in bed at this hour, having had her dinner and going straight to bed. Hard to believe she was in Fourth Grade already. Felt like yesterday when he was back at the wonderful age of 10.             He remembered playing their games, the boys and him... being afraid of the Sixth Graders, and everything. Yet now they were he Sixth Graders... that still hadn't settled with him, even if it didn't really feel like they'd grown up at all. And having Middle School looming around the corner come next year? Yuck. He had a similar reaction when flipping the channel to the next fuzzy one. Fucking figures, the one night he didn't have to wrestle his drunk-ass brother or parents for the remote, and there was nothing good on. No sports aside from re-runs. Not even much late-night adult content to be found either. Just the fucking shopping channel - god, he hated that with an immense passion - and some boring documentaries and talk shows. He flipped over to one idly and stared blankly at the screen while the voice continued to narrate. The content on the screen wasn't memorable to him in the slightest.           "-and it begs to offer this yet unsolved question that we ask ourselves constantly: 'What were we put on this Earth to do? What is our purpose?' A-and there's just no rightful way of answering that, try as we may. It's a solution that we, as individuals must come to understand and learn for ourselves. All we can do to aid the process along, is by pushing ourselves in the general direction of self-discovery."             He had his finger on the button to switch the channel, before - at the last second - the guy on the TV added, "Which brings me to ask you... why do some people long to die?"             That caught Kenny's attention for an extra moment, "W-When you have the potential of a great, grand purpose in our lives as a result of what we were put on this Earth to do, why would you want to knowingly take your own life away? Why do most of us fear Death so greatly... but others don't? What in the world makes us so unique from one another in such a queer manner? What drives these people to do these things?"

The other man on the TV laughed at him, "Sounds more like we've got a 'Q&Q' show than a 'Q&A' now, Abe."

"These are trying topics. You try to come up with an answer. A real answer. It ain't so easy, is it?"             "Well, if you had to ask me, I'd say some people are obviously just more miserable than others. The quality of life and the gap and all that mumbo-jumbo. If you're down in the dumps long enough, it might seem like that's what you were put on the Earth to be - a metaphorical punching bag."             "Is that what you view yourself to be? You know, some experts say that our words and actions reflect how we feel about ourselves more than they affect others."             "Pfffff. You think I'm a punching bag? I'm living the dream, Abe. Or what feels like the dream... that's good enough for me."           The 'Abe' guy opened his mouth to talk again, but Kenny flipped the TV off before he could utter another word. God this night fucking sucked so far. He got up to get a drink - not a drink drink. Seeing what that shit does to other people sure has its way of souring you on even touching the stuff. Shoving the dozens of beer bottles and cans aside in the dirty old fridge, he pulled out a soda he'd stashed in the very back. It'd been opened before, so it was completely flat by now... but he honestly didn't give much of a shit. Flat or fizzy, it was still a nice treat to have, now and again.             While he sat and chugged back what was left of his week-old cola, his mind wandered back to that dumb-ass talk show again. 'What were we put on this Earth to do? What is our purpose?'

Did it really matter what the purpose was? You make something of yourself, or you don't. Either way, everyone has access to titties on the internet, and that was enough of a reason alone for some people to work and pay the bills. Can't even get a good magazine nowadays without having to pay like twenty dollars plus shipping... they don't even ship it in discreet packaging anymore! What a fucking time to be alive, when your neighbour can walk by and see the latest issue of Playboy sitting on your front step in broad daylight because some asshole couldn't be bothered to stuff it in the mailbox.

Not that he really cared... wasn't his name plastered all over it. He'd used his brother's name when ordering the subscriptions, and he didn't think anything of it when he'd answered the door the first time to pick them up. He'd probably just assumed his drunk-ass couldn't remember ordering it. He'd never complain about free titty magazines though, that would be fucking blasphemy. Kenny just had to make sure he got up early enough on mail days to be able to snag them first when he saw them... he wasn't the biggest fan of second-hand merchandise. Who could blame him?             He crunched the can up with one hand and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. It hadn't been emptied in weeks, so it just kind of harmlessly bounced off the heaping pile of other cans and rolled on the floor. He'd have to do something about that at some point soon.

He once caught Karen trying to clean up the disaster that was the kitchen. Poor girl almost cut herself on a bottle that'd been broken at some point. After that, Kenny told her that she shouldn't clean up broken bottles and cans - at the very least, not without using a towel or something to protect her hands with. He'd insisted that he'd try to tidy up a bit in her place... but he'd gotten lazy. It gets to a point where if you're the only one in the whole fuckin' house making an effort to clean up, you just don't feel like it's even worth trying. But he'd do it eventually. For Karen's sake, at the very least.             With a sigh, he sauntered over to his room and shut the door quietly behind him. He always made a note to try and do that. No reason to slam doors around and, on the off-chance, wake up his sister. His parents did that enough, that quiet days like this were just... unheard of. This whole evening had been a fucking weird one. He flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment.           "Some people are obviously just more miserable than others. The quality of life and the gap and all that mumbo-jumbo. If you're down in the dumps long enough, it might seem like that's what you were put on the Earth to be - a metaphorical punching bag."             He snatched his pillow and buried his face into it, heaving another sigh. Maybe he shouldn't of even bothered trying to watch TV, if all he can think about is a stupid fucking talk show... but when he thought about it, Kenny kind of felt like a punching bag. Some days, more literally than others. No matter what people threw at him though, he would bounce back from anything. Always coming back, to no one ever remembering. No one remembers the punching bag. He rolled over and glared at the wall. It was going to be one of these nights again, huh? He hadn't gone on such a downward spiral since... since Fourth Grade. Everything had fuckin flown by the past couple years. The usual weird shit would happen every once in a while, but he felt like he was getting involved in it less and less. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman would go off and do shit on their own after school somedays, and it was like they never thought to ask him to join. On one hand, Kenny wasn't complaining – fuck no. That meant he'd been through less shit that could end up with him dead again.           On the other hand... he sort of missed it. He hadn't even worn the Mysterion outfit in what felt like fucking forever... when had he last gone out in it? He got up and went over to the dresser to take a look. It was exactly where he'd left it last time - placed in the bottom drawer. Forgotten. He picked it up and held it out to get a good look at it. It was so small, to him. Had it really been that long? He slowly took his parka off and put the cape on overtop of his shirt. It didn't drag on the floor like it used to, that was for sure. The first few times he'd worn it, he remembered being a dumbass and tripping over it on a few occasions. He'd twisted his ankle once or twice, and one instance actually involved him falling off a roof. That had been agony.             Yet he hadn't cut it any shorter or anything. He'd instead persevered and got used to knowing where it was and how to not trip on it. He casually grabbed an edge of the cape and brought it close to his face in what was meant to be a dramatic pose. At least it was long enough to do that, anyway. The hood was a bit small though... and he didn't even dare try on that light purple one-piece. He took a look in the drawer again to find the half-mask sitting at the bottom. He slipped it on over his head, but it was so tight on his eyes. With a scoff, he'd pulled the ensemble off and shoved it back in the drawer. Maybe there was a fucking reason he'd stopped wearing that thing. All it did now was bring back memories of that fucking cult.             But it had good memories associated with it too. He'd protected his little sister against bullies in Greely as Mysterion... he'd even become a 'Guardian Angel' to her. That, was what made it worth it. That was why he'd kept wearing it up until last year. He wanted to protect people that couldn't do it alone. He wanted to be this stupid little mountain town's 'guardian angel'... to keep it safe from fucking monsters. He scowled at the open drawer now, at the outfit thrown into a ball and wrinkled to hell. Cartman had been one of those monsters... he'd been fucking insane to drag an Elder God into his schemes. He certainly didn't miss hanging out with him. "Friend" or not.           Kenny didn't bother to close the drawer before stumbling back to his bed and throwing himself upon it again - this time sans parka. Maybe he'd bring back the persona... maybe he wouldn't. He honestly didn't want to think about it anymore... he just wanted the night to be over so he could just go back to school tomorrow - words he never thought would pass his mind. But all that kept coming back to mind was that... Fucking... Talk show.             "'What were we put on this Earth to do? What is our purpose?'... It's a solution that we, as individuals must come to understand and learn for ourselves. All we can do to aid the process along, is... push... ourselves in the general direction of self-discovery."           He'd tried that once. It didn't end up all that great.

People don't really realize when they drift off to sleep. It's just a quiet cloak of darkness that overtakes the mind... it's nigh undetectable.         He wasn't any different, at first. He didn't know he was dreaming. It felt... too real.             This place felt familiar... but for the life of him, he couldn't fucking remember where he was, exactly. It was like it kept changing... shifting... the lighting bounced around the ground like water at the bottom of a pool. The sand was red... no, not sand. Dirt. Or... stone? Kenny couldn't focus on it at all, like he'd pulled an all-nighter and hit the point where he just couldn't *mentally* stay awake anymore. The area around him was hazy, and alien. Strange plants - if you could even call them 'plants' - and formations were all around him... nothing familiar besides that feeling deep down that he'd been here once before.             The only thing that knocked him out of his stupor was a voice from behind him, but it sounded like he'd missed part of the conversation before it... "...maybe we should just find a place to hide and wait for help!"           That sounded like... someone he knew... Another voice reverberated, this time right next to him, "What help, dude? Nobody in the real world even knows we're here."           Kenny finally looked towards the source of the voices. They were like mirages... blurry... but he recognized them. He recognized the words. Clyde and Kyle. Mentioning the real world? But that meant... This was R'Lyeh. It came to him like a slap in the face, waking him from the hazy phase he'd just been in. The weird lighting, the even weirder tentacle plants and shit... the other boys in costumes... and then he saw himself walk from where he stood, like he'd waltzed right out of his own body, donned as Mysterion. He felt a distant pain in his gut, as he watched himself take charge and insist he'd find help. He knew what was coming all too well.             Quite frankly, he didn't want to fucking relive it a second time. He closed his eyes to block it out as he heard Clyde call his name. He'd forgotten to block the sound out... and it was a horrid sound. And the pain! The pain hit him like a fucking truck, like he'd actually gone and done it again! Seething agony for what felt like an eternity... and then darkness overcame him again.

He woke up in a cold sweat, grasping at his chest for the spikes he'd known were there when he'd purposefully plunged himself upon them. He laid there, catching his breath and trying to cement himself back in reality for a good long moment, before glancing over at the clock. Four in the morning. It didn't feel that long had passed, but who the fuck knew, when you were asleep, right? Time flew by like nobody's damn business... he'd wished for it earlier in the night. Now, he regretted it. That's not what he fucking meant by it at all.

He glanced at his hands, then passed them through his hair, cringing when he realized it had slicked back somewhat from the sweat on his brow.             Fuck this night sucked.

[the-cerwyn]

Golden Roads, Chapter X:

Special thanks to @morethanjustwords, @meghanxbrownbarrow, @littlpeggy, @badgershite, and @tigerxsouls supporting me through these chapters. Your likes and reblogs were very much appreciated. 

This last chapter details what occurs in Cley’s final day in Goldgrass, and his decision before the Battle of Bastards.

The next key events happened in rapid succession within the past few days: The First Flint’s openly enjoyed the battle as well as its victory, the results surely boosted a confidence that was tarnished when the Starks fell from grace. Donnel gladly took the gifted Stout reward, and even went as far as to volunteer in taking the prisoners of the conflict to the Wall, the sentence Lord Stout had given them. The heir himself was content with how the events laid about; even informing the Flint’s Finger, that his table is always open to his cousin.

As for the Condon lancers, once the conflict was resolved, Ser Kyle sent them back to Condon land. He gave his regards to his brother, considering the calvary units were the most helpful in ensuring no bandit had escaped the wrath of the allied forces. The bannermen of Flint’s Finger stayed for the moment, as the Cerwyn had intended to return them personally; considering he was to head to the steadfast after this visit, it all worked in his favor.

Several more days passed as they all reveled in their success, it had been a week from the battle until it was brought up again to Cley in a unnerving manner. The Cerwyn lord had been sitting casually upon the seating of where he had told his old friend quite a bit; eyes glazed over to the golden fields, he was in a relaxful bliss. The cold Northern air gently swept across the back of his neck, twirling the curls of his hair ever more. The young adult lord took in a deep inhale of the incoming air, sighing pleasantly as the wind was moving past him. His state of Nirvana was broken when he was tapped blunty on the shoulder, snapping him back to the reality of Westeros. It was who you’d expect, Rikkie, warm smile etched on her face. The Cerwyn formed a sheepish one, knowing she had caught him off guard. He prompted: “Surprised you didn’t try to unleash a new prank on me as I was daydreaming”.

She gave a chuckle, taking a seat next to him. Her fair voice would of sounded honest… if it wasn’t her wielding it: “Who, me? Well someone needs to make sure you don’t gather dust. If I left you to dream, you’d never get up; that and, your reactions amuse me”.

Cley gave a light snort to her response, musing back to her: “So I’ve been told. People tell me often I’m amusing… one of my redeeming qualities, I suppose”.

“And we all know how few of those you have, you need it truly”. Rikkie proceeded to lightly tease him a bit, much to the Cerwyn’s expense, not that he didn’t really mind it.

The lord laughed it off, if no one had ever meant him no harm, it’d be Rikkie. If anything, she was just looking for a response to tease him over. He paused for a moment, as if he were pondering over something. Cley decided to be a bit straightforward: “Do you mind if I’m decisive for a moment?” The long time companion gave the other a puzzled look, before silently prompting the other to continue.

“I’ve… noticed, you’ve been here for some time, and you much rather be much closer to where events are occurring. With the war over and my castellan position open… I’d like to offer you a role among my household. As castellan of Castle Cerwyn”. It was… something out of the ordinary, of course it was. But there weren’t many others who could feel in such a position. Ser Kyle was his Master at Arms, Allister Condon was his Captain of the Guards, and his cousin Ulfric lead what few elites the Cerwyns had left. It only made sense that they were heavily among their house, as the Condons were very close and loyal to the Cerwyns.

A mix of surprise and exhilaration filled the Condon lady’s eyes, personally taken aback by the offer. Cley was at times, insightful, but one his truer traits was his empathy towards others. He could probably make friends with even the most cruelest of people if given the chance, trying to bring out whatever good he would see in them. At times, Rikkie felt as though the Cerwyn acted more of a Southern lord than a Northern one… but she’d quickly remind herself, no Southern lord would be able to handle and carry the burdens Cley has had to deal with. He was a lord of the North, in his own way, in his own right.

“I… accept, Lord Cerwyn. But may I ask… why come to me?”

It was a fair question. There could be other people in mind, others she was not aware about. Or it could be seen as some attempt to get closer in a way. But… that’d feel wrong. They were old friends. Just because the Cerwyn himself felt some sort of detachment, some sort of… need for companionship, shouldn’t mean he could use such power to obtain such. To test a lord’s true outlook on responsibility, give him power, see what he does with it. This was a time to establish better connections, not… to give some form of a desperate, anguished declaration of fondness. They deserved something better than that. She… deserved something better than that.

“Because… you’re family, Lady Condon. As much as my uncle, as much as Ulfric. We may not hold the same last name, but your family is kin to mine. I owe you that much”.

She seemed… understanding, of Cley’s words, giving a gentle nod to his response. After a moment of letting such information process, she inclined: “Well, Lord Cerwyn, what’s our first task?”

“We leave Goldgrass tomorrow, and we head to Flint’s Finger to make sure they are well. After that... We head back to Castle Cerwyn, I feel as though there’s more work to be done there”.

“My lord, I urge you: Allow me to take three hundred Condon lances to the Stark encampment. Our numbers could aid them drastically, we may even be able to bring an end to the Bolton bastard. I personally will rip off his bloody head and bring back here, as revenge for our fallen!” The grizzled Condon lord proclaimed to the Lord Cerwyn within the small council meeting, as his niece and unimpressed brother watched his display at Cley’s sides. The only one who looked interested was the Cerwyn’s bastard cousin, Ulfric.

“As much as I would… adore, revenge upon the Boltons, we aren’t even sure these are the Starks. Who’s to say this isn’t a ploy by Ramsay Bolton to root out the unfaithful?” Cley brought forth this inquiry to the Condon, while admiring his tenacity, they needed to stay cunning on this sort of matter. Jumping into the fray would not help them now.

“If I may, my lord, my brother and I have seen plenty of rebellions within our days. Robert’s… the Greyjoy’s… this is the North’s version of a rebellion. To break away from the Botlons who tighten their grips around our necks. This could be our way out of this damn mess!”

Cley is quiet for a moment, before Ulfric involved himself. “Well… how bout’ this? Give me… a force of the Cerwyns, the Condons, and the Flints of Flint’s Fingers, and I’ll lead em’ into this encampment myself. Allister… is Lord of Condon, and you, Cley, is Lord of Cerwyn. We can’t risk any of you dying, so… why not me? No one’s gonna miss a bastard”. His tone was… although rough, sounds certain. Like he planned this out. This... was the sort of end he has fantasized about.

The Cerwyn however, was not liking what his cousin had to say. In a wretchedly, unhappy tone of voice, Cley responded back to his cousin: “I’d miss you”. He had lost too much family to say otherwise. This was it. They were all that’s left. Bastard or not, there were only three Cerwyns left.

“Cley… don’t, don’t get bloody dramatic on me”. Ulfric hesitated for a moment, feeling nerved by his half cousin’s choice of emotional words. He may of not felt the same about himself, but his lordling family member felt quite highly of him. The younger man only made this harder for the other to fall through.

“No… No. I am going to get bloody dramatic on you. Because this is it... Alright, I've got to say my piece now... Okay?” The Cerwyn paused for a moment, trying to get his words together. Finally, he found his voice: “Look, we all in this room, we love each other. We’re a family, not through just blood, but through bonds. We want what's best for each other and I know that, I am very thankful for that. What I want... what I want, what I need... is something stable”.

All eyes were on him, and they were dead silent. They wanted to hear what he had to say.

“We… don’t know, if this is the Starks or not. One raven does not confirm them being back. But I know… I know the Starks. If it is Sansa… or Jon, they’ll come to me. Face to face. They know me. And they would ask me directly. They would give me their case. And they would know, I would full heartedly support them… But… just a letter? We need more than that. So… this is what I declare: We wait for them. We wait for the Starks to come to us. And if they do, we give them our help. I’ll send Cerwyn and Condons to assist them, along with Ulfric and Allister, to fight on my behalf. But until then? Until they come to us? We stand our ground. And we wait. My father and mother did not die for me to throw my life away to an assumption”.

The small council seemed content with his answer, and it would appear, the meeting was adjourned. His friends and family filed out of the war room, leaving Cley alone as he pinched the skin between his nose and eyes, giving out a heavy sigh.

Old Gods… he hoped this wouldn’t bite him in the arse.

[j-writes-and-suffers]

NaNoWriMo Day Eleven

Wandering around the top floor of the library, Philip took a minute to explore before properly searching for Lucien. He discovered several nice alcoves for studying, as well as a large collection of dictionaries, thesauri, and other writing resources surrounding a big desk. He was busy snooping about for anything else cool when a voice murmured in his ear.

“Finding everything alright?”

“Fuck!” Philip jumped about a foot in the air, spinning around to glare at Lucien. “Dude, I swear, you’re gonna be the death of me…”

Lucien chuckled. “Sorry. I can’t help myself. You’re so easy to scare.”

Philip rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass.”

“Perhaps so,” Lucien shrugged, “but you came to visit anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Philip’s cheeks were tinged pink, and he tried to change the subjects. “That Kyle kid is a piece of work.”

Lucien sighed deeply. “Oh. You met him, did you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Yeah, he’s… he’s something.” Lucien grumbled, “Sadly, no one but Heather and him applied, and I need the extra hands.”

“Jeez man, if you’re that desperate, I’ll chop off my hands and you can have those instead.” Philip jested.

Lucien’s resentful scowl faded, and he chuckled warmly. “I appreciate the offer, but I think you need those.”

Philip shrugged. “Nah, it’s fiiiine. Voice typing is getting pretty good. I’ll just learn to open doors with my foot or something.”

Rolling his eyes, Lucien dropped into a nearby chair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“The world needs a little ridiculous.” Philip replied, sitting next to him.

“That it does.” Lucien smiled. “You do make for some nice entertainment in my incredibly bland life.”

“Oh! Speaking of entertainment…” Philip remembered what he had actually come to the library for. “Do you want to go see a movie this weekend? I hear the newest superhero one is pretty good.”

Lucien paused to think, “I haven’t seen a movie in theater in years… It sounds nice, though. Dinner and a movie or just a movie?”

“How about a movie and a walk in the park?” Philip suggested.

“That sounds excellent.” Lucien smiled, but his cheeriness faded at the sound of bickering from downstairs. “I have to go deal with my lackeys… see you Wednesday, perhaps? Hopefully, by then, I’ll have them more under control.”

“Yeah, sure.” Philip nodded, following Lucien down the stairs and heading out the front door.

Wednesday afternoon, Philip returned to the library as promised. He and Lucien spent a few hours talking, with Philip helping carry stacks of books so they could actually stay productive. The evening drew to a close when it started raining outside, as Lucien urged Philip to get home before it got bad. As much as he wanted to stay, Philip knew that he’d be royally boned if he waited to leave and the rain got worse. With a reluctant goodbye, he hurried home, getting misted the whole way by the growing precipitation.

Philip spent most of Thursday bouncing around, his energy increasing as date night grew closer. He practically jogged to the library on Friday, wanting to iron out the details of their plans for tomorrow. Bolting in the front door, Philip was relieved to see Heather, rather than Kyle, on circulation duty.

“Hi, Heather.”

“What’s up, blondie?” She asked, looking up from her bio textbook.

“Uh, where’s Lucien?” Philip asked, “I wanted to talk to him.”

“Then you’ll have to call him, cause he’s not here. Sick or something.” Heather shrugged, as if this didn’t worry her at all.

“What?” Philip’s jaw dropped, heartbreak shining in his wide, dark eyes.

She shrugged again. “He’s out sick a lot, it’s probably nothing.”

“B… but we had a date tomorrow.” Philip was trying to hide his distress, but his voice wavered audibly.

“That sucks, man. I’m sure he’ll make it up, though. Luci’s loyal. He’s just also sickly as hell.”

Philip didn’t seem convinced. “But what if he’s not sick? What if he doesn’t wanna see me, and he’s just too nice to say so?”

Heather rolled her eyes. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Or maybe I’m being realistic. I was always suspicious that he wasn’t really into me. I’m too young and dumb and annoying. I don’t know why I ever thought we had something.”

“Dude, calm down. Go drink or something. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” She snapped, losing her patience with Philip’s nervous antics.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to bother you. I’ll… I’ll go now.” Philip hung his head shamefully, hurrying out of the library and heading for home. He only made it about ten minutes before tears started dripping down his cheeks. His already sluggish pace slowed further, and he sniffled softly, rubbing his eyes as he trudged off campus, heading for his miserably empty apartment.

Philip curled up on his couch as soon as he got home. Though he was normally hungry after such a long walk, today the pain in his stomach was a gut-wrenching sadness. He felt rejected, unwanted, pathetic. He’d known somewhere in the back of his mind that he wasn’t good enough, but he’d convinced himself that Lucien didn’t mind. Why was he such an optimistic idiot?

He buried his face in the couch cushions, sobbing loudly now that he was in private. As the night dragged on, he finally quieted down, sitting up and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Maybe Heather was right. He should drink or something. That would cheer him up, or at least distract him. He went searching through the kitchen, wondering if he even had any alcohol around at the moment. All he could find was a bottle of blueberry wine; it must’ve been a gift or something, because he never drank wine and he fucking hated blueberries. However, he was in no mood to go out shopping, and decided he’d rather drink some gross wine than be sober.

Philip woke up on Saturday morning with no memory of the night before. His phone was on the floor by his bed, dead as a doornail. He groaned in dismay, plugging it in and praying that he hadn’t drunk-texted Lucien. The screen glowed with life, and he narrowed his eyes against the brightness. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a heartfelt plea sprawled out across the screen complete with typos and a confession of love. Philip cringed, ready to commit seppuku just to restore his dignity from this disaster, when his eyes wandered to the name at the top of the screen.

Team Snapchat.

For a brief moment, Philip actually believed there might be a god. He sighed deeply, relieved beyond words that he hadn’t spammed Lucien with an embarrassingly badly-written sob story. He set his phone aside, pulling a pillow over his face; he was feeling pretty rough after the previous night, and didn’t really want to do anything. Luckily, it was a Saturday, and his date had cancelled, so he was perfectly free to spend his night on absolutely nothing.

The weekend dragged on in a consistently boring and somewhat depressing fashion. When he finally found the will to get out of bed, Philip made himself a dinner of cinnamon toast crunch and ice cream, curling up on the couch to watch romance movies and cry. When Sunday evening rolled around, he started to get anxious. Should he go to the library tomorrow? Would Lucien even be there? Would Lucien want to see him if he was there? Should he even go to work tomorrow? His thoughts grew overwhelming, and Philip forced himself to stop caring. He curled up, ready to go to sleep. He’d just roll with the punches tomorrow, and let what happened happen.

Monday morning rolled around in its usual sluggish manner. Philip had no desire to be up before noon, but he crawled out of bed in time to lead his morning lecture nonetheless. Even less awake than usual, he grabbed an extra large coffee between each lecture, as well as a muffin from the coffee shop. By the end of the day, he found himself bouncing off the walls from an overload of sugar and caffeine. The excess energy only lent to his anxiety, and Philip paced around the lecture hall as his last class let out, contemplating whether or not to go to the library.

He’d told himself last night that he would relax and do what felt right, but he wasn’t anxious and caffeinated when he said that. Now he absolutely had to know what Lucien thought of him, even though he was nearly panicking just at the thought of outright rejection. He made a few more laps around the room before finally gathering his courage. He had to go to the library.

Philip’s legs were shaking as he walked up the old stone steps, but he took a deep breath and yanked the door open anyway. Kyle was manning the front desk, too busy with his cheetos and anime to even look up. Philip was honestly grateful for that; Kyle was the last person on earth he wanted to talk to right now. Nervously creeping into the library, he looked around, scanning every aisle for signs of Lucien. Instead, he found Heather re-shelving books. She looked up at him, giving a brief nod of greeting.

“Luci’s in the lounge.”

“Oh… uh… thanks.” Philip forced a smile, shuffling off towards the door in the back. It was slightly ajar, and he peeked nervously inside. No one was visible in the sliver of the room he could see, so he tentatively pushed the door open. “Lucien?” He squeaked, his voice breaking front sheer anxiety.

“I was wondering if you’d show.” Lucien was tucked into the corner of the couch, tea in one hand and a book in the other. His voice was incredibly scratchy, as though he’d just gargled with broken glass, and he honestly looked more like a week-old corpse than a live human. He was paler than a cartoon vampire, with deep shadows under his eyes. His face was startlingly gaunt and thin, as though he hadn’t eaten all weekend, and his normally-impeccable hair was slightly disheveled and more grey than ever.

Philip’s jaw nearly fell to the floor, and a pang of guilt struck him for ever thinking Lucien was lying about being sick. “Of course I’d show… I wanted to talk to you. Are you okay? You look really rough. What’s wrong?” He asked, stepping closer to get a better look at the older man.

“It’s a chronic illness I’ve dealt with for years. It’s not deadly, it just… gets the better of me sometimes. It’s not contagious, so you’ve really nothing to worry about.” Lucien seemed intent on calming Philip down; he could tell that the younger man was stressed. “Come sit with me, and we can talk.” He patted the couch cushion next to him, motioning Philip over.

Philip plopped down next to Lucien, frowning in concern. “You don’t seem to be feeling that good. Why come back to work so soon?”

“If I skipped work whenever I wasn’t feeling well, we’d need a new librarian.” Lucien quipped, “I learned to manage years ago, you really needn’t worry so much. All that aside, I do apologize for missing our date on Saturday. I told Heather to tell you that, but I don’t know how well she relayed the message…”

“Nah, it’s fine. She told me.” Philip lied. “Anything I can help you with while I’m here? I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

“Don’t be absurd. That’s what student workers are for.”

Philip couldn’t help but laugh, and he leaned against Lucien, a smile spreading across his face. “I’m glad you came back to work. I missed you on Friday.”

Lucien smiled back, some of the life briefly returning to his face. “I missed you, too."

[collegeemt3]

Requiem At Last

I walk through her door and sit down in a chair next to her desk. “What can I do for you today?” she asks me, her voice soft, caring, empathetic and concerned, as if she already knows. My hand moves to my pocket, as if it had a mind of its own. I start to finger the cool, heavy, rough metal in my pocket, wanting to grip it and use it, while at the same time wanting to chuck it as far away from myself as possible. “C’mon, Jack, you’ve got to talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t.”

“Please just kill me now,” I whisper in a low mumble.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Please just kill me now,” I whisper again, this time more clearly.

“Why?” she inquires, matter-of-factly.

“Because if you don’t, then I will.” I grasp the rough grip in my pocket, my index finger falling to place on the trigger. This action, however, causes a clear outline through the pocket of my jeans, and I know that Mrs. Sosa sees it, but I don’t care. I doubt she could wrest it from me before I could use it.

“What’s in your pocket?” she asks, although it sounds more like a command. I hesitate. There’s a couple of different ways I could go about this. I could stay silent, make things as difficult as they could possibly be. I could tell her straight-out. Either way chaos is about to ensue. When a suicidal student comes in completely ready to die, controlled chaos always ensues. “What’s in your pocket?” she repeats, the command tone present. She must be mistaking my hesitancy for a refusal to speak.

“Take a wild guess,” I mutter darkly, uncomfortable telling her directly what it is.

“I think I know, but I want you to tell me.”

“I-I can’t,” I stutter out, shaking my head.

“Then just tell me yes or no-is it a gun?”

I hesitate a moment, then nod my head, tears welling in my eyes. “I need to hear you,” she commands gently, meaning she saw my head nod.

“Yes,” I choke out, tears now streaming down my face.

“Okay. I’d really like to talk to you about why you felt the need to bring a gun into school, but first I need to make sure you’re safe, and while you’re in possession of that gun, you, and everyone around you, are unsafe. Are you aware we always have a police officer in the building?” I nod my head yes, too consumed to be able to speak. “Are you okay with me calling him in here?” I shake my head no. I don’t want anybody else involved. “Well, unfortunately then, I have to bring him in. He’s the only one qualified to take the gun from you.” I continue shaking my head no. “Alright, you’re not going to be very happy with me, but I have to call him.” She reaches for her phone, keeping her eyes on me until she has to dial.

In that split second I pull the gun from my pocket, cock it, and put it to my temple. She looks back at me as she finishes dialing, and the look that crosses her face is a mix of fear, panic, and concern. “Officer Krupp? This is Bridget Sosa, from the guidance office. I need you in my office immediately. This is an emergency.”

“I’ll do it. I swear to god I’ll do it!” I cry out quietly, but still loud enough to be picked up by the phone. She puts the phone on the desk and immediately starts trying to talk me into putting the gun down.

“Jack, listen to me, please. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do!” I cry through clenched teeth, my finger tense on the trigger.

“Well, you don’t have to do it right now. You can do it later. You can wait for a little bit before you do it,” she almost pleads.

“I’ve waited for long enough, put up with this for long enough. I have to do it now…” I trail off.

“Tell me why you have to do it now, why this can’t wait until later,” she commands pleadingly.

“You wouldn’t get it, you wouldn’t understand…”

“Then help me to understand. I want to understand.” There’s a soft urgent knock on the door, and my tense finger almost pulls the trigger as I startle. Mrs. Sosa looks past me to the window in her door, and what crosses her face could almost be a look of relief. She beckons for the person to come in as she replaces the phone receiver back on the phone, and the door quietly opens and closes beside me.

“Hey son, I’m Officer Krupp, but you can call me Kyle,” he introduces as he leans against the wall across from me. “What can I call you?”

“How about the world’s worst screw-up?” I retort, not really joking.

“You’re not a screw-up,” Mrs. Sosa interjects quietly, but is gently cut off by Officer Krupp:

“Okay, what’s your name, son?”

“Jack. Jack Cavanaugh.”

“Okay, Jack, I’m going to be up front and honest with you-I’m here to get that gun from you, and I will do it in whatever manner I have to. The easiest way is if you give me the gun, but I get a feeling that you don’t want to do that.”

My response is just a dead stare, almost a dare for him to try and take the gun away from me, to try to take away what will finally free me. Kyle must read the message on my face, because he picks up almost right where Mrs. Sosa left off.

“In order for me to help you out, Jack, I need to know what you’ve come to get help for.”

“Who said I came for help?” I practically snarl, renewed tears trailing down my face.

“Well, I would say you did,” Kyle responds quietly, “seeing as you came down her voluntarily.”

“Maybe I just wanted a witness.”

“I think we both know that that’s not one-hundred percent true.” I glare at him. I don’t want him to be right, but I know he is. If there wasn’t even the smallest part of me that wants help then I wouldn’t be here. I would have pulled that trigger long ago. It’s just that the part that wants help isn’t the dominant part.

I feel my arm start to relax and my grip slacken as I think about this. Kyle takes a step towards me and immediately I tighten my grip. Kyle sees this as well, and retreats.

“Alright, Jack, we need to come to some sort of agreement. If I stay against the wall, will you put the gun down so we can talk?”

With tears streaming down my face I shake my head. “I have to do this,” I choke out amongst the tears. My finger tightens again on the trigger, but I just can’t bring myself to pull it.

“Why do you have to do this? We want to understand, to help you, but we can’t if you don’t tell us,” Mrs. Sosa explains.

“I-I can’t. I don’t know what to say, what to tell you.”

“Why don’t we ask basic questions and you just tell us the answers,” suggests Kyle.

“I have a hard time answering questions…” I respond, trailing off.

“Why’s that?” Mrs. Sosa this time.

“I-I-I can’t-it-it’s hard to explain-”

“We’ve got as much time as you need,” encourages Mrs. Sosa.

“I-it-I-if I can write, maybe I can explain that way.” Immediately Mrs. Sosa pulls a pen and a medium sized pad of paper from one of her desk drawers. I eagerly take the pen and paper from her, grateful that I’m ambidextrous, so that I can continue holding the gun in my right hand and write with my left. As soon as I put the pen to paper the explanation pours out of me:

I’m terrible at saying things out loud. Even things that I want to say. It’s like there is this force inside my head that keeps me from saying anything, no matter how hard I fight it. Responses to questions circle continuously through my mind, but I can’t say it. It’s like a civil war breaks out in my mind between “say it” and “don’t,” and “don’t” always wins. People tell me to fight it, but I can’t, like as soon as the battle starts I’m paralyzed.

I stop writing and decide that that’s enough for now. I can write more later if I need to. I proffer the pad to Mrs. Sosa, and when she asks if she may read it aloud I give a curt nod.

After she finishes reading there’s a brief silence. Officer Krupp, or Kyle, rather, quietly breaks the silence: “If we let you write, can you answer questions, explain things to us, help us understand?” I hesitate for a moment, and then nod my head yes. Mrs. Sosa hands the pad of paper back to me, and I resituate it on my lap so I can write with my left hand.

“So why do you want to kill yourself?” Mrs. Sosa asks, although Kyle looks like he was about to ask the same question. I write nothing, but give Mrs. Sosa a look that says “really?” instead. “Okay, really broad question. What pushed you to want to do it now?”

I can’t wait any longer. I’ve waited too long, put this off longer than I should’ve. I should’ve done this ages ago…

“Why do you say that?” asks Mrs. Sosa, after reading my response.

I kept putting it off, hoping that things will get better, but they don’t, and they never will. I see that now, which is why I have to do this now. The words, the hate, the stress, it never goes away. None of it ever does, never will. The only way to get rid of it is to get rid of me. So I’m getting rid of me. Everyone else will be happier without me around anyways.

There’s a slight intake of breath from each of them after they read it, and then the pad makes its way back to me. I readjust my grip on the gun, making it tighter, firmer. As my fingers move Kyle and Mrs. Sosa both tense up, and this time I almost do pull the trigger, as I see their eyes locked on my fingers.

“How do you know it will never go away?” Mrs. Sosa prods.

“BECAUSE IT WON’T!” I burst out. “It never has, and because history just repeats itself, what’s happened before is doomed to happen again! It’s an endless cycle of torture and torment, and the only way for me to end that is to end me, so that’s what I’m doing!”

“History is only doomed to be repeated if circumstances don’t change,” whispers Kyle, interjecting his thoughts.

“THEN I’M CHANGING THE FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCES!! With me gone, the past will have nothing to revolve around, to repeat for, and therefore it will finally stop.” I try to pull the trigger, but I still can’t bring myself to put a bullet through my head. I pull the gun down from my head, knowing that I won’t be able to pull the trigger, no matter how much I want to. As I uncock the gun there is a collective sigh from both Kyle and Mrs. Sosa. I proffer the gun to Kyle by the muzzle, and as soon as he takes it I curl up in a ball, the pen and pad of paper falling to the floor.

“Jack…” they both murmur, almost simultaneously. I don’t move, don’t respond, but they both seem determined to say what they want to say.

“Thank you, Jack. You made the right choice.” Kyle’s words.

“Yes, Jack, you made the right choice,” echoes Mrs. Sosa. “I’d really like to talk with you about this, Jack. I feel like there’s a lot more you can share with me.”

I hear them talking, but I don’t really listen to what they’re saying. Instead, I’m thinking of what’s in my other pocket, and how to get away to use it.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I quietly announce as I raise my head from my knees. A look passes between Kyle and Mrs. Sosa, and then Kyle says he’ll take me. “I don’t need an escort. I know how to get there,” I retort, almost offended.

“It’s not a matter of knowing how to get there, it’s a matter of knowing you’re safe,” Mrs. Sosa explains, and Kyle nods his head in agreement.

“Fine,” I grumble, and slowly unfold myself from the chair. I traipse out of the office, Kyle following close behind. He does afford me some privacy by waiting outside the bathroom at least. I traipse to the last stall, lock the door, and then sit down in the corner. I don’t actually have to go to the bathroom; I just wanted to get out of Mrs. Sosa’s office and to get some privacy.

I reach into my pocket that wasn’t holding the gun and pull out a small, plastic container. Carefully opening it, I remove the other piece of metal that I’ve been carrying with me. I slowly roll up the sleeves of my sweat-jacket, contemplating what pattern I’m going to draw this time. I settle on nothing in particular, just slow and deep. Something that may finally bring the end I seek.

I look for the vein in my left forearm, and, once I can see it clearly, I start to trace it slowly with the razor blade, using enough pressure to cut deeply, hopefully hitting close to the vein. As soon as I reach my elbow I hear Kyle’s voice calling out through the bathroom, followed by the sound of his footsteps as he enters the bathroom, looking for me. I say nothing, knowing he’ll find me anyways.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “You’ve been in here for a while and I haven’t heard anything.” After a moment I see his head peering into the stall from over the door through my blurred vision. “Shit!” he mutters. His face disappears, and the lock starts to jiggle, but he can’t seem to unlock it from the outside. “Jack, can you unlock the door, please?” he asks, although it sounds more like a command.

“How about no?” I respond slowly, my words starting to slur. As my head drops to my chest, I feel too tired to hold it up anymore, I see that I have a pretty good sized pool of blood near my left leg, and the blood is steadily flowing from my left arm, which is resting on my left leg.

The lock jiggles again, and then falls silent. There’s a strange noise, almost like clattering, and I manage to lift my head to see Kyle crawling under the stall door. The noise is everything on his belt making contact with either the floor on the bottom of the door. I don’t see whether Kyle makes it all the way through or not. My head drops back to my chest and my vision slowly fades to black before I get a chance to.

 Someone’s slowly shaking my shoulder, and there’s something squeezing my left arm. I open my eyes slowly, and though my vision is blurred, I can make out Kyle crouched in front of me, holding something on my left arm, which explains the pressure I feel, and his other hand stretched towards me, which is probably the one on my shoulder. I see his lips moving, and I hear sound coming out of his mouth, but I can’t process what he’s saying. As I stare at him, however, what he’s saying starts making sense:

“-you with me, jack? Can you hear me?” As I make sense of his questions I slowly nod my head, answering them. I hear a sigh of relief from Kyle before he asks me another question, “Can you hold this on your arm?” As he asks, he motions to a wad of toilet paper that he’s pressing to my arm.

“Why would I do that?” I slur back at him, still not one-hundred percent functional in my brain.

“Because we need to get the bleeding under control, or else you will lose consciousness again, and possibly bleed to death. I need to get help, but I need you to hold this to your arm so I can do that.”

“But that would be the opposite of what I want to do,” I respond slowly to his explanation, almost sneering at him.

“You don’t give up, do you?” he asks rhetorically. He stays silent after that for a moment, concentrating on my arm. Then, just as I start to slip back into the fringes of unconsciousness, “I hate to do this, but I have to. Jack, I would really like you to push down on your arm with this, but I can’t make you. I’m going to go get help. I can’t stop this by myself. You need medical attention. Where’s the blade you use?” I say nothing, make no motion to give it to him, either. “DAMN IT JACK!!! Just give me the blade! At this point, cutting yourself any more isn’t going to make a difference. If this one-” he motions to my left arm “-doesn’t stop bleeding then you will die. Please just give me the blade so I can have a tiny bit of peace of mind while I get some help.” His last sentence is pleading more than commanding. I open my right hand and let him take the razor blade from my palm.

He attempts to take my right hand and use it to take the place of his hand on my arm, but I refuse to hold my hand there. I would rather bleed to death than live this life any more. He leaves quickly without another word, and quickly I am submerged into blackness once again.

 When I awake this time it feels different. There’s a constant pressure on the whole of my left forearm, and whatever it is I’m lying on is swaying slightly. And Kyle’s not crouched in front of me. That’s one of the big things I notice first. There’s a guy sitting on either side of me, and in front of me are a set of doors. I also feel something weird in my right arm, and when I look I see that a small tube has been taped to my arm, and it’s attached to a bag of fluid. Then I hear the wailing sirens above me and connect the dots to form the picture: I’m in an ambulance.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, and the guy on my right takes notice that I’m conscious again.

           “Hey, you’re awake. My name’s Mike, I’m a paramedic. You’re in my ambulance, on the way to the hospital. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I want to die…” I groan back, still completely serious about my desire.

“Yeah?” I nod my head. “Well, it’s our job to make sure that doesn’t happen, at least not while you’re under our care.”

“Greeeaaattt…” I mumble, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep it under my breath. Mike gives me a short chuckle, and then asks if he can ask me some questions. “Sure,” I respond slowly, nonchalantly.

“Alright, first I need to confirm your name and get your date of birth. Can you tell me your name?

“Jack Cavanaugh.”

“Okay, and now can you tell me your date of birth?”

“July thirty-first, nineteen-ninety-eight.”

“Do you know your social security number?”

“Not off the top of my head, no.”

“Okay, no worries, buddy. What’s your address?”

“Eleven thirty-five thirty-second street, northwest, Connorsville, West Virginia, 53957.”

“Moving on to the medical questions, do you have any allergies?”

“None that I know of.”

“Are you on any medications?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me how the injury happened to your arm?”

“Did they not tell you when they called?”

“They did, but I want to hear your side of it.”

“Fine,” I respond tersely. “I took a razor blade and cut myself.”

“That deep with just a razor blade?” He sounds slightly taken aback, as if he hasn’t encountered this type of situation before.

“You’d be surprised where determination can get you, especially when you have no desire to stick around…”

“Moving on,” he interjects, “why did you cut yourself? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

“Let’s see, I had just come from my guidance counselor’s office, where I was pointing a gun at my own fucking head, and I almost pulled the god damn trigger. Then you guys come to pick me up because I’m bleeding to death from a self-inflicted wound in my left arm. What do you think?”

“I would say that yes, you were. Is that correct?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I retort.

“Alrighty, then. Do you have any previous psychiatric history?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning confusion.

“Have you ever done, or tried to do anything like this in the past? Have you ever been diagnosed with any mental illness?”

“I’ve never been diagnosed with anything,” I mention, purposely trying to avoid answering his first question.

“What about the cutting? Is this a new behavior?”

I pause for a moment, contemplating how much to reveal. “No,” I finally state. “It’s been going on for about five years.” I expand, after a moment.

“And the suicidal thoughts? Are those recent, or have they been going on for a while?”

“It’s been going on for a while…”

“As long as the cutting?”

“No, only a couple of years.”

“Okay. Was there anything in particular that happened recently to make you try to do it today?”

“I just got tired. I’m tired of waiting for things to get better, I’m tired of putting it off, I got tired of trying to build up the nerve to do it. So, I decided that today was the day.”

He busies himself entering the information into a computer, and start rechecking my vitals. By the time he’s finished with that we’re stopping, and the driver of the ambulance is getting out. Mike has me sign something on his computer, and then the doors in front of me open, and I’m wheeled into the hospital. After they figure out what room I’m in, they have me move from the stretcher to a hospital bed. A nurse follows us in, and starts entering my information into another computer as she receives a report from Mike. After the EMTs and the first nurse leave, a second nurse enters the room and has me change into a hospital gown. About this time my parents show up, although I really don’t want to see them.

“Oh, Jack!” my mom cries out as she rushes over to the bed and tries to put her arms around me. I fend her off of me, and my father starts:

“Jack-” but I cut him off.

“Dad, I don’t need you reprimanding me.”

“Jack, please, just listen to me. I don’t want to reprimand you. I just want to know why. Why son? Why did you do it?”

As I stare at him I notice tears start leaking from his eyes. My father, the man who never cries in public, is crying over this. I have finally managed to do something that has brought out some form of emotion in my father.

“Why did I do this?” I croak back, fighting back tears of my own. “Why did I try to end the misery that is my life? Take a wild guess…”

“Jack, please. Don’t be like this. Just tell us what went wrong,” my father responds, half protesting, half pleading.

“What went wrong? Everything went wrong,” I retort, my voice starting to raise. “Everything screwed up, and I became the world’s biggest fuck up. I was so fucked up that I became nothing. Everything was so screwed up that it all became meaningless. Nothing means anything anymore. I’ve gone on far too long as nothing. It’s tie to end the nothingness.”

“Oh, Jack…” my mother sobs.

“Jack,” my father sighs, “why didn’t you say something before now?”

“Like you would have listened? Like you would have cared?” I throw back at him, my voice getting even louder as a feeling of rage overcomes me. “The only time you’ve ever paid any mind to me was when I did something wrong, when I screwed up, and even then, you were only ever disappointed. You never tried to help, you never tried to fix anything!” I’m shouting now, and even though I’m sitting in a bed, I’ve pushed my mother away from me. As I stare at my father and his shocked expression, the raging fury within me quells to a silent rage. “I gave up thinking you cared about me years ago,” I say in a low whisper that nevertheless carries across the room. My father’s shocked expression slides off his face and is replaced with a familiar one: disappointment. My mother’s expression however is one of dismay.

“I’ve always cared Jack-”

“That’s a load of bull!!!” I shout at my father as he tries to protest. “If you cared you would have been there! You would have noticed when this started five years ago!”

My father’s expression slowly changes to match my mother’s as what I’m saying sinks in. Before my father can say something else in protest, however, a doctor walks into the room. “Is everything okay?” He asks as he pushes a wheeled surgical tray in front of him.

“Everything’s fine,” I respond slowly, glaring at my father, as if daring him to say otherwise. As he walks to the side of my bed, the doctor looks from me to my parents and then back to me.

“Alright then. I’m Doctor Jim Johansson. I know what your chart says, but I want to hear from you why you’re here before I get started.”

“I have a big-ass cut on my arm,” I retort back in typical teenage fashion, proffering my gauze-wrapped left forearm.

“Okay, how did you get a big-ass cut on your arm?” I look away from Dr. Johansson and down at my feet, the frenzy of response starting in my brain and the paralysis that comes with it starting to set in.

“I did it,” I force out in a barely audible mumble.

“I’m sorry, did you say you did this?” I nod my head, the feeling of being unable to talk overtaking me. “Why did you do it?” he asks, sounding truly curious instead of like he was just trying to gather information, like he really cares. At first I don’t say anything, I can’t. But after Dr. Johansson prompts me, I respond:

“I want to die,” I say deadpan, staring him straight in the face as tears start trailing down my face again.

“Well, that is a reason…” he trails off, seeming slightly taken aback by my blunt response. Dr. Johansson pulls a wheeled stool over to the side of my bed and then uncovers the surgical tray, revealing a couple of pre-threaded suturing needles, a pair of scissors, and a syringe full of something. As he sits down on the stool, he picks up the syringe. “I’m going to inject a local anesthetic into your arm. Then I’m going to stitch the wound in your arm closed. Think you can handle that?”

I nod my head, and then he carefully unwraps the gauze from around my arm, taking care not to disturb the packing over the actual wound itself. He carefully sticks the needle into my arm near the cut, injecting the anesthetic.

After a few minutes, he gently palpates my arm around the packing. “Can you feel that?”

“Nope.”

“Alrighty, then. Time to start stitchin’.” He flashes a smile at me with his last comment, but I don’t smile back. I can’t. My head is in complete chaos. I try not to think about the pair of scissors on the surgical tray next to me, easily within reach. As Dr. Johansson starts to gingerly remove the packing from the laceration on my left arm, I turn to the right, closing my eyes. Closing my eyes doesn’t help, though. If anything, it makes the chaos worse. Images flash before my eyes even more clearly with a black backdrop.

“I haven’t even started yet. You okay, bud?” Dr. Johansson asks me.

“Yeah, I’m doing just fine,” I lie through my teeth.

“The sight of the wound getting to you?”

“Not, not that. Just…”

“The sight of the thread being pulled through your skin freak you out a little bit?” I hesitate. The idea of watching my wound being stitched up actually sounds kind of cool.

“No, it’s not that,” I finally respond, turning to face Dr. Johansson. “It’s nothing, really.” I lock eyes with Dr. Johansson during this last statement, half hoping to convince him that, sans the gaping cut on my left arm, I’m okay, and half hoping that he sees through my mirage.

“Okay,” is all Dr. Johansson says, but the knowing look that flashes across his face towards me says that he knows it’s not nothing, but he’s not going to push the issue right now. He starts the tedious task of stitching closed the three inch gash in my arm.

After he finished sewing my arm and sets the last needle on the tray, he recovers the tray with the blue, paper-like material that was initially covering the tray, and bandages my arm over the stitches. “Now, based on the report from the EMTs, and based on my initial assessments, I would like for you to have a mental health evaluation.” I almost scream no. My parents both look stricken.

“Is that truly necessary?” my father intones, phrasing it as a question, but sounding patronizing more than curious.

“Yes,” Dr. Johansson responds confidently and assuredly. “Based on the nature of Jack’s wound, and a report to the EMTs from Officer Krupp that, prior to the infliction of this wound, Jack was pointing a gun at his own head, threatening to pull the trigger, I believe that a mental health evaluation is needed.”

“Can we discuss this outside, please?” my father asks in a commanding tone.

“Um, yes, we can,” Dr. Johansson responds, slightly startled by the sudden request. I watch my father walk briskly out of the bay, followed by the doctor, and my mother traipsing behind after a nod from me to follow them. Once I hear voices outside the closed curtain, I reach toward the surgical tray, slowly lifting the cover. I slowly grasp the scissors from the tray, almost as if trying to convince myself that I want to do this. I open the scissors, exposing the blades. I think about going after my right arm, but I can’t effectively control my left hand to dig the scissors into my right arm. The general anesthetic that was administered earlier is still in effect. I think briefly about my throat. Just cutting straight across. Not necessarily going for any major veins or arteries, just being symbolic more than anything. I decide to put that off until later. I want to actually bleed before I start leaving symbols.

My gaze falls to my thighs. The more I contemplate it, the better it seems. I slowly slide the gown up my right thigh until I see the bottom edge of my boxer-briefs. About half of my thigh is revealed. I gently drag the blade along my thigh, no pressure yet, just caressing, almost as if I were trying to shave my thigh. Then I actually turn the blade into my skin, poised to cut through the flesh. I push the blade into my leg, forcing it to go deep. I start pulling the scissors towards me, slowly lengthening the wound, and, despite trying not to, I give a soft cry of pain. The voices outside the curtain stop. Dr. Johansson’s head appears around the edge of the curtain.

“Shit!” he mutters as he rushes over to the side of my bed. His hand immediately grasps mine, trying to pull it up and away from my thigh. I fight him, trying to keep dragging the scissors towards me. The fight doesn’t last very long, though. Dr. Johansson forces my hand up and wrests the scissors from me. After moving to the other side of the bed, he pulls the tray away from my bed and puts the scissors back down on it. He walks over to a cabinet that’s off to the side, and then comes back to my right side, this time with a roll of gauze in his hand. He starts bandaging my thigh slowly, making sure to get pressure over the fresh wound. After he has a couple of layers of gauze down he picks up the pace a bit. After he finishes wrapping my thigh, he walks to the curtain and summons a nurse over. “I need another suture kit and a set of restraints,” I hear him inform her. He walks over to the computer near my bed, enters something into it, and then asks me a few questions. “Did you do this on purpose?” I look to Dr. Johansson with a face that says “really, you’re asking me that?” “I have to ask,” he counters, the look on his face almost sympathetic.

“Yes,” I finally sigh, giving up on being difficult, finally surrendering to the fact that I will be living today instead of dying.

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” I pause for a moment, thinking. I wasn’t necessarily trying to kill myself, but I wouldn’t have minded if I had bled out before they came back into the room.

“Potentially,” I finally respond, my response being naturally semi-cryptic.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“The primary goal was not death, but if it occurred as a side effect I would not be all hot and bothered.”

“Ooookaaay…” Dr. Johansson mutters as he types a few things into the computer. “Now, you’re going to not like what I’m going to have to do next. Within the next few minutes a nurse is going to come in here with a set of restraints. Because of what you did, I now have to restrain you, for your safety as well as ours. She’s also bringing me a suture kit so that I can stitch up the wound in your thigh. You did a pretty good number there. I’m probably going to want to take an actual look at the wound before I stitch it up, make sure there’s no serious damage. What I would like to know now is whether you’re going to let me put the restraints on you nice and easy or am I going to have to call a couple of extra guys to help me put them on?”

“Well, as fun as it sounds to be forcibly restrained, I think I’m going to have to go the non-resistance route. I don’t feel much like fighting, and even if I did, I’m not in much of a position to do so.”            “So you’re going to let me put them on you nice and easy?”

“Suuuuuuuurrreeeee…”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“Again, not in much of a position to fight,” I iterate, starting to feel fed up with the situation.

“Jack, just give him a yes or a no,” my father interjects. I glare at him. I want my parents as least involved as possible.

“You say you’re not in a position to fight,” Dr. Johansson comments, “but you resisted pretty well when I took the scissors from you. It would be nice to know ahead of time if you’re going to take a swing at me or something when I’m trying to put the restraints on you.”

“I don’t take a swing at somebody unless they really piss me off and punching them is deemed necessary,” I respond slowly. I notice that I’m starting to feel tired and sluggish. Despite the fact that it seems like all I do is sleep, I always feel tired. I also notice that my right hand, which has been resting on my thigh near the fresh wound, feels warm and wet. I glance down and see that the bandages on my thigh are bright red, apparently saturated with blood. Dr. Johansson notices me look down and follows my gaze.

“That’s not good,” he remarks as he walks briskly from the computer back over to my right side. Just then a nurse enters the bay, a handful of straps draped over one arm and pushing a tray almost identical to the one Dr. Johansson entered with earlier. “Good timing,” Dr. Johansson comments to the nurse as she proceeds towards him. “I need that suture kit over here. Can you start applying the restraints?” The nurse leaves the tray next to Dr. Johansson, who has already put on a pair of gloves and pulled out more gauze, and starts applying the restraints around my limbs and then connecting them to the bed so that my range of movement is terribly limited. I test just how far I can move by pulling against the restraints on my arms. I get about three inches before the straps are taught. Before I can test the straps around my ankles, I feel a sudden, constricting pressure on my thigh. I try to pull away from it as reflex kicks in, but my legs stops short, thanks to the restraints.

“Easy, Jack,” Dr. Johansson reassures me. “I’m just trying to control the bleeding at the moment. The only thing I’m doing is wrapping gauze and applying pressure.”

“It hurts,” I comment, feeling childish as I slowly relax the muscles in my leg.

“It’s going to hurt a little bit,” explains Dr. Johansson. “In order to stop the bleeding I have to apply a pretty significant amount of pressure.” I nod my head in understanding and sit back against the bed. As I feel the tight pressure around my thigh again, I fight the urge to pull away and try to relax my leg instead. I close my eyes as I continue to fight against pulling away.

After a few minutes the intermittent pressure dissipates and is overtaken by a constant squeezing. “I’m going to give that a few minutes and then check on it and hopefully get it stitched up, but in the mean time I’ve got a few things to take care of.” Dr. Johansson strips off his gloves and throws them away as he leaves the room. The silence that follows is so tense that a tightrope walker could walk across it. I can tell that my father is extremely displeased with something, and my mother just seems confused and concerned more than anything.

The tense silence continues until Dr. Johansson returns, pulling on another pair of gloves. “Let’s take another look at your leg, shall we?” I try to raise my knee up to make it easier for him to examine my thigh, but all that ends up happening is my ankle jerking in the restraint. “Easy there,” he comments, sounding reassuring. He sits on the wheeled stool next to my bed and pushes my hospital gown back to fully expose the bandaging. “The bleeding seems to be at least partially under control. It’s not bleeding through the bandage, which is good.” He slowly cuts through the gauze from the wound. After he carefully removes the gauze from the wound he pulls the suture kit closer to himself. He gently palpates around the wound, inspecting it, making sure there’s nothing in there that isn’t supposed to be. He swabs my thigh, wound and all, with an antiseptic soaked piece of gauze. I expect it to sting, but it doesn’t.

“Same drill as last time,” Dr. Johansson comments to me as he picks up the syringe from the tray. There’s a slight pinch as the needle enters my thigh, and a slight burning sensation as the anesthetic is injected. After a few moments, Dr. Johansson gently palpates my thigh again around the wound, but I feel nothing. After confirming this he starts to stitch the wound closed. Once he finishes sewing, he bandages over the stitches, just like he did on my arm. “That should do it,” he comments. “There should be someone here shortly to perform a mental health evaluation. They’re going to decide if you’re okay to be released or if they want to admit you to the psychiatric ward. If they chose to admit you they may admit you as inpatient or they may admit you as outpatient.”

“What’s the difference?” my father quickly interjects.

“Well, inpatient means that Jack will be staying in the hospital, on the ward. If he’s admitted as outpatient, then he would come to the hospital during the day and go home at night.”

“So it’s a difference in level of care?” my father asks, sounding accusatory.

“Kind of,” Dr. Johansson answers. “If Jack is admitted to inpatient, it means that we believe that he is an immediate threat to himself or someone else. To put it into layman’s terms a little bit, it basically means that his condition at this time is a little bit more severe. By having him admitted to the ward we know he’s going to a safe place where he can’t hurt himself or anyone else.” As Dr. Johansson says this my brain responds with a “challenge accepted.”

“And if he’s admitted to outpatient?”

“Well, it basically means that his condition is less severe; that we don’t think he poses an immediate risk to himself or to anyone else. If he’s admitted to outpatient, then we feel that he would be safe to go home, and would come to the hospital during the day, basically to receive treatment. There would be group and individual therapy sessions, much like inpatient. With either type of admission, our highly skilled and trained team of professionals will work with Jack to try to figure out why he’s doing what he’s doing, try to help him find some alternative things to do instead, maybe start him on some medication if it’s felt that it’s necessary, and help set up a long-term care plan for Jack, such as setting up appointments with outside therapists, and psychiatrists if we start him on any medications.”

“And there will be one person who determines whether he’s admitted inpatient or outpatient?” Now my father sounds skeptical, as if he doesn’t feel like this is a well-working system.

“One person does do the evaluation, but it’s not solely that person that makes the decision. The evaluator has a set of guidelines to follow during the evaluation, and then they consult with a couple of different people on the final decision, based on the findings from the evaluation.”

“Okay,” my father responds, sounding a little bit more comfortable with that information.

“Any other questions?” Dr. Johansson proffers. My parents shake their heads, and I remain still and silent, not trusting myself to say or do anything lest I give away my thoughts. “Okay. I will check back on you later, most likely after mental health comes down to do their evaluation.” He walks out of the bay, and again the room is overtaken with a tense silence.

“Jack,” my father starts, but I cut him off with a motion of my hand.

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Everything is just an act now. I know you don’t really care about me. You care about what it means for you, how it’s going to reflect on you. You care about what people will think if they find out that you have a son who tried to kill himself, who cuts himself, who is a fuck-up in the eyes of society.” My voice fades away, no longer able to say anything.

“Oh, Jack…” my mother starts again.

“Rowena, please. Let me have a word with Jack. Then you can have your say with him.” My mother nods, agreeing. “Jack, I’m going to say what I have to say, and you’re not going to stop or interrupt me. I can’t make you listen, but I hope you will. I have always cared about you, Jack. I know I haven’t really showed it, but I have always cared about you, always wanted the best for you. I know I’ve pushed you to be good, because I always wanted you to be the best you could be. I’ve pushed you to do everything you possibly could because I want you to know that you’re capable of anything. I only ever was put down by my father, and had a mother who just went along with him instead of standing up for me. I never knew how much I was capable of because I was only ever put down. I didn’t want that to happen to you. I wanted to make sure you know exactly what you’re capable of. I’m sorry I haven’t shown this in a better way. I wish you could’ve brought it up to me before…before it go to this…” Tears are starting to trail down his cheeks again, and I’m almost touched by his words and show of emotion, but my anger overrides. Beneath all the anger I know he’s speaking the truth to me, but I don’t want to believe him. I can’t fully believe him right now.

Before I can formulate a coherent response, there’s another knock on the door as someone new pokes her head around the door. “Are you Jack?” she asks. I nod my head. “What’s your birthday?” After she asks me, she looks down at a clipboard in her hand to confirm my answer.

“July thirty-first, nineteen ninety-eight,” I tell her.

She looks up at me with a smile, and introduces herself. “My name is Emily. I’m from behavioral health, and I’m here to do your assessment. Would you mind talking with me for a few minutes?” I shake my head. “Great.” She looks at my parents in turn. “Would you mind if I talked to Jack alone?” My father looks slightly taken aback, and a questioning look starts to cross his face. My mother, while also looking slightly surprised, nods her head.

“Of course,” she answers Emily softly. She grabs my father’s wrist and pulls him out the door behind her, before he gets a chance to start questioning Emily.

Once the door closes behind them, Emily starts to explain, “Most people feel more comfortable answering these questions without other people in the room.” I nod my head in understanding. “I see from your chart that you were brought in after cutting your wrist in your school bathroom, which you did after holding a loaded gun to your head in your guidance counselor’s office. It also says that while Dr. Johansson was outside talking to your parents, you took the pair of scissors from the suture tray and started cutting into your leg. Is all that correct?” I turn my eyes away from her as I nod my head in affirmation. “Okay, Jack. I do need you to talk to me a little bit. I know it might be difficult, but I need you to try to use words. Can you tell me about why you did those things?”

I stare off into the floor in the corner of the room, not exactly sure how to respond yet. A couple of different thoughts race through my mind, each clamoring for attention, to be the one to leave first. My response depends on whether I want to be sarcastic, and an asshole, or genuine, and cooperative.

“Jack?” Emily prods after a moment of intense silence. I hold up a finger, asking her to give me a moment, and tap my temple a couple times, to let her know that I’m thinking about it.

I go back to my debate of how I want to answer her. The anger within me at the situation pushes me towards sarcasm, but there’s just something about Emily that feels calming, that pushes me towards being genuine. I struggle to find a phrasing that might satisfy both, but come up empty. As much as I want to be genuine, to just let myself break down here and let it all out, I can’t. Fear and anger override, closing any gates that may have started to open.

“I would think holding a gun to my head is pretty self-explanatory,” I finally mutter, still staring at the corner of the floor.

I don’t see how Emily reacts, but after a moment she responds with, “Holding a gun to your head may be self-explanatory, but not pulling the trigger when you threatened that you would isn’t.” So she’s willing to fight fire with fire, is she? Well, bring it on.

“So I chickened out on blowing my brains out. So what? I still tried to fucking kill myself by slitting my goddamn wrist.” I’m trying to hold it together, to keep the anger up front to hold up the bravado, but it’s not working. I can feel the tears starting to fill my eyes no matter how hard I try to blink them away. I glance in Emily’s direction, trying to gauge her reaction, how she’s taking what I say.

“Jack,” she says softly as she takes a couple steps closer to my bed. “I think you want to talk about this, but you’re letting your anger speak for you right now. Does that sound about right?” I look back at the corner of the floor, unable to meet her gaze. I know she’s right. I don’t want her to be, but I know she is. I nod my head. “May I sit here?” She motions to one of the chairs next to the bed. Another nod. “Let’s try going back a little bit,” she almost whispers. “How long have you been feeling suicidal?”

“I’m not really sure,” I reply after a pause.

“Is it something that’s been going on so long that you lost track of when it started, or is it more like something that came on gradually and has been building up?”

“I guess kinda both…” I almost mumble.

“So, like something that came on gradually a while ago, and has built up over a long period of time?”

I nod my head, feeling the tears starting to leak from my eyes as my breath catches in my throat, threatening to break loose in a sob.

“And the cutting. Is this a new behavior, or has it been ongoing?”

“It’s been happening on and off for about five years,” I choke out, trying to hold back sobs, already having given up on the tears, which flow freely down my face now. She makes some notes on her clipboard before continuing on with the questions.

“Now, in your chart, Dr. Johansson put the reason for the stunt you pulled with the scissors as ‘intent to harm self; possible suicide attempt’. Would this be correct?”

“I-I don’t know…I guess…”

“Were you or weren’t you trying to kill yourself?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to hurt, to bleed…”

“Okay. Just a few more questions, Jack, then we’ll be done. Do you have a psychiatric care provider that you see on a regular basis? Like a psychiatrist or a therapist?” I shake my head no. “So you’re not on any medications, I take it then?” Another shake of my head. “If you were to be discharged to go home, would you be safe?” I think about it for a moment, then shrug my shoulders. “If you went home, would you try to kill yourself again?”

“I-I don’t know…”

“Jack, I need you to be completely honest, not just with me, but with yourself, right now.”

“Maybe? I just, I really don’t know right now.” I close my eyes and turn my head away from Emily as the tears continue to fall down my face, fighting the sobs that want to rack my body.

“Okay Jack. Last question. Do you have access to any weapons at home, like firearms?” I nod my head. My dad has a gun safe, containing a couple different kinds of guns, and he doesn’t know that I know the combination. Hell, that’s where I got the gun that I tried to use this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised though if he still hasn’t noticed that I took it. He hardly opens it. He’ll go in there like three or four times a year, and it’s usually just to take them to a shooting range, or clean them. For all the guns he has, he hardly uses them. He’s more of a collector than anything else.

“Alrightey, Jack. Thank you for talking with me. I’ve got to meet with Dr. Johansson, and then I’ll be back to discuss your options.” I nod my head, letting her know I understand. She opens the door and walks out, and as soon as she leaves, my father immediately steps back in, followed momentarily afterwards by my mom.

“Jack, what did she ask you about?”  My father asks, again in his commanding tone. I don’t answer him, tears still streaming down my cheeks. My mom reaches out her hand towards mine. I don’t take hers, but I don’t pull away either, and she rests hers gently on top of mine.

“Young man, I asked you a question,” my father pushes. Still, I don’t answer him. “Jack Brian Cavanaugh, what did she ask you about? What did you tell her?” He doesn’t raise his voice at me. Instead, he lowers it, speaks slower. I turn my hand over in my moms, gently gripping hers now.

“Get. Out.”

“What did you say to me?” I snort.

“You don’t scare me anymore. You can’t do anything to me here.” My mom’s hand squeezes mine briefly. I can’t tell if she’s trying to warn me or comfort me.

“Watch your tone, young man.”

“Get. Out.” He gives me an incredulous look, like he can’t believe that I’m disrespecting him like this.

“Jack. Brian. Cavanaugh.”

“No. You’ve had your say. Now get out!” He continues to stare at me in disbelief, as if he can’t really be hearing what he’s hearing. He opens his mouth again to say something, but I cut him off.  “GET THE FUCK OUT!” He looks at me for a few more seconds, then turns around, shaking his head, and storms out.

“Jack,” my mother whispers, “would you like me to leave too?” I shake my head. She leans over towards me to give me a hug, and I bury my face into her shoulder, letting loose everything I had been holding back. I’m not sure how long we stay like this, but after what feels like an eternity that ended too soon, Emily comes back into the room.

“Do you want to talk to Emily alone?” my mother asks me.

“No, it’s okay. You can stay for this,” I tell her. She nods her head and gives my hand another gentle squeeze.

“Hi Jack,” Emily opens with. “After meeting with Dr. Johansson and a few other members of the clinical staff, it was decided that inpatient care will best meet your needs right now.” I nod my head in understanding. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but honestly, what else did I expect? I am actively suicidal. I tried to kill myself twice in less than a day. It’s probably past time for this to happen. “We don’t have a placement for you yet,” Emily continues, “because our unit has no more beds available, but we’ve started contacting other area facilities to check their availability. If none of them have space, then we’ll have to start searching further out, which will take more time, but we will find somewhere for you.” I nod my head again, and my mother murmurs a soft thanks to her before she leaves. I expect my father to step back into the room after she leaves, but after a tense moment, he doesn’t.

“Would you like me to tell your father?” I nod my head. “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.” I let her hand fall from mine as she walks away to go talk to my father. I hear the sounds of their hushed arguing outside for a few minutes, and then my mother comes back in, looking slightly exasperated. I raise an eyebrow to her, basically me asking her what happened without actually saying anything. She shakes her head. “Your father just being your father,” she answers. “Arguing against the doctor’s decision, saying you don’t need that, we can take care of this at home, etc. Going on about what he thinks is really the right choice, even if it’s not. So I sent him home to pack you a bag. That way, he can make himself useful while he stews, instead of just pacing back and forth outside the door.” I grunt amusedly, and accept my mother’s hand back into mine as she sits down into one of the chairs next to the bed, resting my head on her shoulder. She leans her head on top of mine, and places her free hand on the side of my head. After a few minutes I feel some wetness on the side of my head, and guess correctly that my mother is crying, and give her hand a slight squeeze.

“It’s gonna be okay, mom. We’ll get through this, okay. We’ll get through this.”