#done with you

[angel2el]

DONE WITH YOU (ELVIS PRESLEY) -- PART TWO -- "THE ASSAULT"

Nearly 5500 Words, in this chapter tensions grow between spouses, friends, and manager until it comes to a head and two assaults take place.

hiii everyone and thank you for all the love on my first part! for those who don't know, this is a piece about an alternate reality where in 1969 Elvis begins the process of firing the Colonel. Part one is right here.

Thank you to the lovely @atleastpleasetelephone for editing this chapter for me!

Please enjoy, and let me know what you think and if you want to be added to the taglist or anything of the sort! For those who don't remember, at the end of last chapter, Elvis collapsed on stage after his show.

--

“Mama,” Elvis whispers, leaning into his mother’s touch.

“Elvis,” she whispers.  

Elvis doesn’t know why he’s here, or how he got here, but he’s back in Tupelo, in his childhood backyard.  Before Vernon went to prison.  Back when everything was simpler.

And Gladys is here.

“Mama, why’d you leave me?” Elvis can’t help the tears that are running down his cheeks.

“I have to tell you something, Elvis,” Gladys whispers.  She lets go of him.

“Don’t stop holding me, mama.  Don’t walk away from me now.  Not again,” Elvis begs.  

“Elvis.”

“What?”

“Elvis.”

“What?”

“Elvis.  Elvis, come on.”

“Wh…”  Elvis’s eyes flutter open.  He squeezes them shut again. 

 “No.  No,” he mumbles.  Gladys is gone.  Reality has hit him and it’s cold as ice.  Jerry is rubbing his chest and Marty’s holding his head.

“Elvis, don’t try to sit up yet.  We’re gonna get you feeling better,” Marty says softly, standing up with a hand on Elvis’s back.  He turns to see Elvis looking shocked with a tear rolling down his face.

“You collapsed, E,” Jerry says softly.  “You gotta rest before the show tonight, ok?

“I..I saw my mama,” Elvis says, his voice raspy and whispering.

“No, you didn’t, Elvis.  You was dreamin’.”  

Elvis squeezes his eyes shut.  It didn’t feel like a dream.

“I…I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you was, Elvis.”  Jerry pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Your mama’s gone.”

Elvis blinks.  Breathes in and out.  

“I…I know.  I know she’s gone,” he says.

Jerry uses his thumb to wipe the tear off Elvis’s face.  “I’m sorry.  You gotta get some rest before the 9pm show.  Cilla’s just landing and she’ll come up to the room as soon as she gets here.

“Wh-what about the Colonel?” Elvis asks, his muscles visibly tensing with nervousness as he thinks of his manager.

“He tried to come over here, but Joe pushed him out.”

“Where is he?” Elvis slurs.

“Doesn’t matter.  I’m gonna carry you on my back to Joe’s room.”

“Joe’s?  Jerry, why–”

“Colonel already knows you’ve been in your room and mine.  It’ll take a while for him to find you in Joe’s.” 

“He’ll find me,” Elvis mumbles.

“We’ll deal with him if he does, ok?” Jerry says.  “I promise.  You ready to go?”

Elvis nods and pulls himself into a sitting position slowly and weakly.  Jerry turns his back to him and squats in front of him.  

“Put your arms over my shoulders.  Nice and easy, slowly.”  

Marty helps Elvis get his arms over Jerry’s shoulders.  

“Wrap your legs around me,” Jerry says, and Elvis weakly does so.

Jerry stands up as steadily as he can manage.  He feels Elvis’s full weight on him now as he leans groggily into his back.  He’s heavy, but not heavier than Jerry can manage.  Slowly, they make their way to the elevator and up to Joe’s room, which Jerry unlocks using the key Joe gave him.  All the while he can feel Elvis’s shallow and labored breath.  He gently stops at the foot of Joe’s bed and eases Elvis onto it.  Marty follows the two of them and makes his way into the bathroom, starting the water.

“Let’s get you out of that costume and into the bath.”

“...bath?”

“Yeah, Elvis.  You’ve got a fever.  Cold water will help.  It’ll also help you wake up.”  Elvis puts a hand to his forehead.

“I-I don’t know if I want a bath right now, Jerry,” he says softly, fiddling with his rings.

Jerry frowns and eases off Elvis’s shoes and socks.  “I know you don’t, buddy.”  He sighs.  “Cilla’s bringing some fever medicine, but for now this is what we got.”

Elvis sighs.  “What about…something for the nausea?” he asks.

“We’ll get you something.  Cold water will help with that, too, though.”  Jerry gently pulls off the top half of Elvis’s jumpsuit.  

“Lift,” he says, and Elvis uses his hands to push his bottom up and off the edge of the bed while Jerry pulls off the rest of his outfit.

Elvis sits back down.  “I don’t wanna–”

“We’re keeping your underwear on,” Jerry says,  “And your necklaces.  But the rings have to come off.”  

Elvis nods in understanding and holds out his hands for Jerry to remove his rings.  Jerry presses his lips together and tries to swallow the lump in his throat at this simple action.  The vulnerability Elvis reveals by not being able to take off his own rings and trusting in Jerry is unmistakably fragile.  He’s as trusting as a puppy who’s been hurt a million times but still has faith.  This type of sensitivity will not help Elvis in his fight against the Colonel.

But it’s the biggest piece of his humanity that Jerry knows.

“Jerry?” Elvis asks.

“Sorry.  Just thinking,” he says, starting to slide the rings off of Elvis’s fingers.  When he finishes, he lifts Elvis up gently, “Bath time.”

He guides Elvis to Joe’s bathroom, where Marty is waiting with a full bath that makes Elvis’s jaw clench.  

“One foot at a time,” Jerry says, slowly helping Elvis into the bath.  As soon as he’s in, he’s shivering violently and trying to get out.  But Jerry lays him down.

“Jerry, Jerry, l-let me out, I’m f-freezing,” Elvis begs as Jerry dips a washcloth in the bath.

“Just relax, Elvis.  Twenty minutes and we’ll let you out.  This’ll do wonders for you, I promise.”

Elvis grits his teeth.  “Doesn’t f-feel like it.”

There’s a knock at the door.  

“I’ll get it,” Marty says.  Jerry watches him leave the bathroom then turns back to Elvis.  His eyes are down and his right hand fiercely grips his left shoulder as his whole body shakes.  

“You’ll be feeling much better in no time, E,”  Jerry promises.  Elvis nods slightly, clenching his jaw.

Jerry turns around when he hears footsteps to see Priscilla rushing over to the two of them with Marty trailing after her.

“Elvis, honey, how you feeling?” she asks, setting her bags on the counter.

Elvis looks up and his face relaxes for the first time in days.  “Come h-here, Cilla,” he says softly.  She leans in to kiss him.

“You’re shaking like a leaf.  You didn’t give him a cold bath, did you?” she asks, looking between Marty and Jerry.

“Uh…yeah.  We did.  Something wrong with that?”

Priscilla blows out a breath.  

“Yeah.  We tried it one time when he got sick, back when I just moved in.  Cold baths don’t do anything for him.  You’re just making him more miserable,” she says, reaching into the bathtub and pulling the plug.  “Can we get him back in bed?  We can give him some of that fever medicine.  Oh, and I got a thermometer.”

“Why don’t you get him changed into clean boxers, Cilla?  Marty and I should talk.  Outside,” Jerry says, glancing between Elvis and Priscilla.

“That’s fine,” Priscilla says.  “Help me get him out the tub.”  Gently, Marty helps Priscilla lift Elvis out of the tub and put a towel over him.  He’s still shivering violently as Priscilla towels him off.

“Don’t put him in nothin’ too warm,” Jerry instructs. “We’re trying to heal the fever, ok?”

“I know what to do,” Priscilla says.  “Elvis, let’s get over to the bedroom.  I can call a maid to bring up some of your clothes.”

“Joe’s clothes will fit him just fine,” Jerry says.

Priscilla nods, putting her hand on Elvis’s back and guiding him back to the bed.  “Why don’t you two leave while I change him?”  Jerry and Marty look at each other.

“Alright.  We’ll be right outside.  Just holler if you need anything,” Jerry says.

“I won’t need anything,” Priscilla says.  “And I’m calling the Colonel.”

“Actually, Cilla…” Marty interjects.

“...we’re, uh, we’re trying to keep the Colonel out of this,” Jerry finishes.

Priscilla makes a face.  “Why’s that?  He’s Elvis’s manager, Jerry.  We need to call him.”

“We’re not doing that,” Jerry says firmly.  “Joe’s dealing with him right now, and he can get a bit of a temper around stuff like this.”

“Um…okay,” Priscilla says slowly.  “But we have to tell him eventually, right?”

“...yeah,” Jerry says, leaving the room.  Marty follows him out.

“Do you think she’s right?” Marty asks.  Jerry scoffs.

“I think she’s bein’ a pain in the ass,” Jerry huffs out a breath and scratches his brow..

“Come on, Jerry.  You know she’s got Elvis’s best interests at heart,” Marty says.

“You know what?  I’m actually starting to doubt that,” Jerry says, wiping a hand across his mouth.

Marty rolls his eyes.  “She’s the only thing keeping him sane.”

“I actually think she’s making him crazy.  You know, last April, Elvis told me she’d been cheating on him with her dance teacher.”

“They’ve obviously worked it out or they wouldn’t be together anymore,” Marty counters, shaking his head.

“That’s the thing, Marty.  He never said a word about it to her.  He just saw the signs.  And found another man’s undershirt beneath their bed after he came back from a concert.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

Jerry shakes his head.  “Not a word.  He’s always been so anxious.  Non-confrontational.  It hasn’t changed as he’s aged.  I bet you she’s still cheating on him and he still won’t say a thing.”

Jerry presses his lips together.  “So…so what?  What are you getting at?  You can’t kick her out just because you don’t like how she’s treating him, Jerry.  She’s still his wife.  He still needs her.  Cutting the Colonel doesn’t mean cutting Cilla.”

“I think it does.  Cilla loves the Colonel.”

Marty makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff.  “That-that’s absurd.  You can’t ask Elvis to divorce the love of his life–”

“--Cilla’s not the love of his life.  He cried for weeks before that wedding, you know that.  He was going to leave her for Ann Margaret in ‘67 before her father forced them to marry.”

“Jerry, you sound crazy.  They’re married.  Your feelings about Priscilla don’t…dictate the decisions Elvis makes,” Marty says firmly.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.  You’re letting your worries about Elvis get the best of you.”

“Jerry, Marty!” Priscilla calls.

“Stop trying to meddle in his love life, Jerry.  You got no say in that,” Marty says.

Jerry throws his hands up.  “Right.  Of course.  Forgive me for being concerned about my friend whose wife has been cheating o–” “Boys, come in!” Priscilla’s voice again.  Marty pushes past Jerry and opens the door.  Elvis is curled up on his side in Joe’s grey undershirt and boxers, shivering again.

Jerry and Marty both approach the bed.  Jerry sits behind Elvis and puts a hand on his back.

“You alright?  Feeling better?” he asks softly.  Elvis’s back feels unnaturally hot but he isn’t sweating at all.

Elvis nods silently.

“He’s feeling much better, I think,” Priscilla says.  “Not perfect, but we were talking about getting him something to eat just now.”

“Good.  That’s good, Cilla.  He hasn’t eaten since dinner last night and he hasn’t kept anything down since yesterday’s lunch.  What are you hungry for, E?”

“...e-eggs and toast,” Elvis mutters.

“Marty, why don’t you go down and ask the kitchen to make him some eggs and toast?” Jerry asks, turning to Marty.  Marty silently sighs and nods before leaving the room.

“We should take your temperature, honey,” Priscilla says.  “Once you’ve eaten we can get some fever medicine in you and you can rest until the 9pm show.  How does that sound?”

“Fine, honey,” Elvis says.  “Come here.”  He reaches his arm out to Priscilla who leans down to kiss his forehead.  “Wh-what about the Colonel?  He ain’t gonna like me taking rests instead of rehearsing.”  Jerry turns to Elvis to see his eyes wide and pupils dilated.  He looks hazy, weak, scared.

“We’ll, uh, we’ll deal with the Colonel.  You don’t gotta worry about him.”

“I don’t understand it,” Priscilla mumbles, barely loud enough for either man to hear.

“What’s that, Cilla?”

“I don’t understand why you’re keeping him from Elvis.  He’s helped him his whole life.  He gave us everything.  Doesn’t make sense to me why you’re trying to kick him out now,” she says, louder.

Elvis swallows and clenches his jaw.  Jerry can see the conflict on his face, the tears beginning to form.

“Colonel’s hurting him, Cilla,” Jerry says, pointing his finger at Elvis’s crumpled frame.  “Working him too hard.  He’s sick now and he still has to work.  You don’t see nothin’ wrong with that?”

“Why are you so defensive, Jerry?” Priscilla retorts.  “He’s my husband.  I know what’s best for him, and I just think it’s wrong that you’re keeping him from his manager.”

“Right.  Well, while you’ve been in Memphis and New York and God knows where else, we were here watching Elvis getting worked to the bone.  If you’d been here instead of–”

“--stop, Jerry,” Elvis whines.  “She don’t know any better.”

“I don’t know any better?  I know—”

“--Cilla, baby, please.  I…I think…” Elvis pauses, out of breath, and puts a hand on his brow.  “I…”

“Breathe,” Jerry instructs.  Elvis draws in a slow breath, his chest rising heavily.  He blows out and breathes again, his heart stopping the pounding motion that’s been making him dizzy.

“I ain’t firing him, Cilla.  Nothing like that.  We’re just takin’ a break.”  Elvis wraps his hand around Priscilla’s waist. 

“Elvis, you were talking about firing him–”

“--I didn’t mean that.  He…he’s given me everything.  I can’t let him go.”  There’s a heavy, thick silence in the room until Jerry claps his hands together.

“Alright.  We’re taking your temperature, then you’re eating, and then you’re gonna sleep.  Cilla, get the thermometer.”

“You get it.”  Priscilla’s voice is sharp and cold.

“Fine.  I’ll get it.”  Jerry grabs the bag from the drugstore and pulls out a mercury thermometer and brings it over to Elvis.  “Open your mouth.”  Elvis follows, tilting his head up to Jerry and parting his lips.  Jerry places the thermometer under Elvis’s tongue.

“Stay like that for a bit.”  Jerry sits down on the bed next to Elvis and watches as he brings Priscilla in closer.

Jerry glances between Elvis and Priscilla for the next few seconds until he feels enough time has passed, watching Priscilla massage Elvis’s hand in her own and look at him.  He turns to Elvis.  “Open,” he instructs, and Elvis opens his mouth so Jerry can pull the thermometer out.  He holds it to the light.

“Not good.”

“What?” Priscilla asks.

“102.2.  I think it’s higher than it was last night.”  Elvis sighs.

The door opens and Marty walks in with a small plate of scrambled eggs and a piece of toast.  “Here you go,” he says, handing Elvis his plate.  “I, uh…I gotta go now.  I have a meeting.  See y’all tonight,” Marty says, wiping his hands on his pants.

“Fine.  Bye now,” Jerry says and Marty walks out without another word.

Elvis starts eating hungrily but delicately.

“Be careful.  Don’t wanna get sick again if you eat too fast,” Jerry says.  Elvis glances up at him.  Not eating fast and not eating too much has never been something that Elvis has followed.  He continues eating in silence before he’s about halfway done and starts to look tired again.

“Done?” Priscilla asks.

“I’m full,” Elvis says softly, pushing the plate away.  Jerry takes it and sets it on the side table before grabbing the bottle of fever medicine and handing two pills to Elvis.  He takes them dry and lays back down.

“Tired,” he says softly.  “Wanna sleep.”

“I need to sleep, too,” Jerry says.  “I was up all night.”

“You can have the bed,” Elvis says softly.

“I’ll take the couch.  Cilla will lay in bed with you.  How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Elvis says.  Jerry makes his way to the couch and grabs a blanket before laying down.  He’s exhausted, but he knows it’s nowhere near how awful Elvis is feeling.  Slowly, he lets his guard down and falls asleep.

—

When he wakes up and checks his watch, it’s 7pm.  They need to get Elvis some dinner and more medicine.  “Cilla?” Jerry calls.  Priscilla walks into the room.

“Yes?”

“It’s 7.  We need to get some more dinner and medicine.”

“Yes.  I think something’s really wrong with him.  His stomach is really swollen and he seems to be in a lot of pain.  I think it’s those pills.”

Jerry takes out a cigarette and lights it.  “Right.  Well, if he’s still asleep, we can go now.  Why don’t you get some shoes on?”

Priscilla nods, grabbing a pair of short heels and sliding them on her feet.  Jerry leads her to the door and shuts it behind them as they exit.  Jerry puts the cigarette in his mouth as they start walking to the elevator.  

“I think we should have a doctor come and see him before the show tonight,” Jerry says.  “I actually think he shouldn’t perform tonight.”

“What?” Priscilla asks.  “He has to perform.”

“...right,” Jerry mutters, frustrated.  “Because it’s your decision.”

Priscilla shakes her head and scoffs.

“I’m just putting in my opinion, Jerry.  I don’t see why you have such a problem with me,” Priscilla crosses her arms.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Cilla.”  Jerry takes the cigarette out of his mouth.  “I just…take issue with the way you talk about Elvis.”

“I just want what’s best for him,” Priscilla insists.

“Yeah.  Me too.”  They approach the elevator and Jerry pushes the button.  “Well, for now, let’s just focus on getting him better.”

—

When Elvis wakes up, it’s slowly and with a grunt as he lifts himself into a sitting position and holds his head.  His sleep was plagued with various nightmares of the Colonel finding him, hurting him.  The worst one…

In the worst one the Colonel had hurt his mother.  Smacked her across the face.  The image of that comes back to Elvis and suddenly he feels a great pain in his chest and stomach and stumbles to the bathroom and vomits.  He kneels in front of the toilet for at least ten minutes, barely conscious, barely able to catch his breath, and freezing cold but too weak to get up and grab a blanket.  It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep his body upright.  Something is wrong.  His stomach is killing him, his head is pounding, and his heart won’t stop fluttering.  He falls over and lays on the cold bathroom floor, shaking and crying for an indeterminate amount of time before he hears the door open.

“Jerry…Jerry,” he calls weakly, finding the strength to pull himself up and stumble out of the bathroom.  His body freezes when he sees the Colonel with his cane and an ugly frown.

“Elvis,” the colonel says.  “It’s 8:00.  You should be rehearsing by now.”

Elvis is confused and delirious.  “Wh…J-Jerry said you wouldn’t..”

“I am here now, am I not?” The Colonel asks.  “And I am tired of being kept from you.”  Elvis shakes his head.

“St..stay away from me,” he slurs out.  The Colonel comes closer.

“I am your manager, Mr. Presley.  Staying away is not something I can do.  I am already angry enough that you have let these hooligans keep me from you.”

Elvis’s breath picks up and his throat clenches with nausea.  “You..” he gasps for air.  “You–”  Elvis whines in pain and squeezes his eyes shut.

“You are going to come with me,” The Colonel says.  “And there will be consequences for your actions.”  He steps towards Elvis, who deliriously puts his hand up as if to defend himself.

“C-consequences?  You get out..” Elvis slurs.

The Colonel only gets closer.  “Come with me now before I make you.”

Elvis looks up at the Colonel.  Anger burns in his throat.  He clenches his fists.  He can’t think straight.  He doesn’t know much, but he knows he needs the Colonel to get out.

“G-get outta here before I call the cops,” Elvis says, coughing.

“Now you apologize to me before I make you sorry,” the Colonel says, pushing Elvis.  Elvis weakly falls on the ground.  It wasn’t a hard push, but any type of force is enough to take Elvis down in this state.  He’s on the ground, pushing himself backwards with his hands and legs bent.

“Jerry!  J..Jerry!” Elvis calls.

“Be quiet!” The Colonel shouts, moving closer.  

“Jerry!”

The Colonel thrusts his cane at the lower left side of Elvis’s chest as hard as he can.  There’s a cracking sound and Elvis groans in pain before wrapping an arm around his ribcage.

“Be quiet before I shut your mouth for you!” The Colonel yells.

Elvis takes a big breath and screams.

“Jerry!”

“Shut up!” the Colonel screams and whips his cane into the side of Elvis’s face, hitting his cheek and temple.  Elvis crumples to the ground, holding his bleeding head.

He moans and blinks slowly as the Colonel moves closer.

Suddenly, the door opens and big, heavy footsteps come into the room.

“Elvis?  Colonel, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Jerry shouts.  “You hurt him?”  He looks at Elvis, whose face and right hand are covered in blood and who is fighting to stay conscious.

“You get the hell out, Colonel, before I kill you,” Jerry says.

“I’m not leaving until Elvis–”

“GET OUT!” Jerry screams.  Priscilla, who had come in with Jerry, approaches Elvis and puts one of Joe’s shirts from the floor over his wound.

“I said–” The Colonel starts, but Jerry shoves him.  He lands on his left arm and yells out in pain.

“Get outta here before I kill you, you fat bastard!” Jerry’s voice is so loud now that it makes Elvis start crying from the pain it causes his head.  He’s completely lost it.  He rips off his sunglasses and kicks the Colonel in the groin.  “OUT!”

The Colonel scrambles out of the hotel room and Jerry slams the door behind him before running over to Elvis and Priscilla.

“E, what happened?” Jerry frantically asks, seeing all the blood that’s accumulated on Joe’s shirt.  

“He…he…” Elvis whispers hoarsely.

“He hit you?  We need to go to the hospital, Elvis.”  Elvis shakes his head and groans.

“N-no hospital…”

“I know you hate hospitals, but this could get serious.”

“Jerry, he has to do the show tonight,” Priscilla says.

“...Screw the show.  We need to get him to a hospital.”

“I..I wanna do the show,” Elvis manages to get out.

“Are you kidding?  You wanna perform in this state?”

“Call Dr. Nick,” Elvis says.  

“Let’s at least get him into bed,” Priscilla says.  Jerry nods and helps lift Elvis up and bring him to Joe’s bed.

“I’m calling the doctor.  Then I’m calling Joe to ask him why the hell he let the Colonel come up here.”  Elvis is barely able to hold his head up as Priscilla tends to him and Jerry makes his way to the phone, dialing a number before talking in a hushed but serious tone.

“He hit you with his cane, Elvis?” Priscilla asks.  Elvis nods slowly, but the pain it causes makes tears stream down his cheeks.

“We’ll get you rested for the next hour.  The fans won’t know a thing,” she reassures him.  Elvis just makes a small noise of understanding in his throat.  He doesn’t really feel like performing.  

“Dr. Nick’s gonna be up here in one minute with some medicine.  Can you tell me what happened?”

“The Colonel hit him with his cane.  Right across the face,” Priscilla says.  “I can’t get the bleeding to stop,” she presses the shirt tighter against Elvis’s face and he whimpers.

“Right.  Well, I’m gonna talk to Joe during the show.”

“Where’s the Colonel?  I think you mighta broken his arm,” Priscilla says, her eyebrows tensing.

“I don’t give a damn where that bastard is.  Long as he stays away from Elvis.  I think we should get a restraining order on him.”

“Restraining order?” Priscilla asks.  “That’s extreme.”  Elvis makes a moaning sound of pain and she shushes him.

“What’s extreme is him hitting Elvis across the face with a metal cane.  That’s assault.  And I plan to never let it happen again.”  Jerry can feel his face getting hot with anger.

There’s a knock at the door, and Jerry opens it to find Dr. Nick with a bag, who walks over to the bed and sits on the chair next to it.

“Can you tell me what happened here?” he asks.

“Elvis got hit with the Colonel’s cane,” Priscilla tells him.  “He’s been bleeding for at least five minutes.”

Jerry scoffs.  Elvis got hit with the Colonel’s cane.  That’s the way of putting it that makes the Colonel seem a lot less guilty.

Dr. Nick puts his hand on Priscilla’s and pulls the shirt away.  Blood gushes out of a gash from the tip of the cane right above Elvis’s temple.

“Normally I would say this doesn’t need stitches, but I think we should give him some considering the show tonight,” Dr. Nick says.

“The…the show?” Jerry asks.  “He’s not doing the show.  He’s injured.  And sick.  And he’s been workin’ like a dog all season.  Sixteen shows a week with no breaks, you don’t see nothin’ wrong with that?”

“No need to get angry, Mr. Schilling,” Dr. Nick says, to which Jerry shakes his head.  He grabs a needle and sutures, then pulls out a syringe and vial.  “I’m going to inject some anesthetic around the wound to numb it for you.  Then I’ll put in the stitches.  How does that sound?”

“F-fine,” Elvis says, opening his eyes.  “Ah…”  The lights cause him pain and he shuts them again.

He feels a small pinch as Dr. Nick injects him with the anesthetic.  “I’m starting the stitches now.  You just let me know if it hurts too much, ok?”  Elvis makes a noise of agreement and tries not to move as he feels Dr. Nick starts the stitches.  It’s over quicker than he thought it would be and isn’t that painful, but it still makes him tense and nauseous.

“I’m gonna start cleaning up with a wet cloth, just getting the blood off your face,” Dr. Nick says, taking out a white cloth and dousing it with water from his bottle.  He gently presses it to Elvis’s face, which causes him to wince and whine, and Priscilla shushes him and kisses the top of his head.

“Can you tell me what happened leading up to you getting hit?”

Elvis nods.  The pain in his head is intense to say the least, fogging up his memory and making it hard to speak.  But he tries anyways.  “I…I had a bad dream.  I went to the bathroom and I got sick…then…then…the Colonel showed up.”

Dr. Nick gently wipes more blood off of Elvis’s face and neck, glancing over at the puddle of blood on the carpet by the bathroom.

“He said…to come with him.  And that he was gonna punish me.”

“And then he hit you?”

“...yeah.  I-I think so,” Elvis confirms.

“He’s having some other issues too.  Stomach issues, and he’s been feverish since the day before yesterday.”

Dr. Nick nods.  “The good news is, all those things can be cured.  Fevers, nausea, head injuries.  And they can all be cured in time for you to perform in 45 minutes.  I’ll give you some pain medication and nausea medication.  I don’t have anything for fevers, though.”

“I do,” Jerry says.  “But he really shouldn’t be performing.”  

Dr. Nick takes out a syringe and two vials.

“Well, it’s up to him.  But he has some fans waiting.”  He fills up one of the syringes and injects it into Elvis’s shoulder, then fills the next and does the same.

Then he stands up.  “Call me if he gets any worse.  I’ll be around.”  With that, he leaves the hotel room.

“You really shouldn’t perform tonight, Elvis,” Jerry says, seeing Priscilla’s jaw tighten.

“I think you need to, honey,” Priscilla counters.  Jerry sighs.  “If you don’t, the Colonel could sue you.  Plus, all those fans are waiting to see you.  You don’t wanna disappoint them, do you?”

Jerry makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff.  “Are you trying to make him feel bad for bein’ sick?  It ain’t his fault if he can’t perform.  The fans can wait.”

“I’m not making anybody feel bad but you, Jerry,” Priscilla bites back.  “Elvis, I really think you should go out there tonight.”

“I…I will,” Elvis says softly.  “Just give me ten more minutes to rest and I’ll be on my way to the dressin’ room.” 

“Why don’t you go down to the theatre and give us some time, Jerry?” Priscilla asks. 

“Yeah.  Sure.  See you in a bit, Elvis,” Jerry says.  Elvis nods. 

-

As soon as Jerry is done lecturing Joe, who’s nothing but apologetic, he rushes to watch the concert.  Priscilla is nowhere to be found and Elvis is clearly struggling.  He’s pale, shaky, delirious, and should be sweating but isn’t.  That can only mean his fever is getting higher and not breaking.  He holds his head when he can and dances slowly, messily.  Even the audience can tell something is seriously wrong.  As Can’t Help Falling In Love starts, Jerry hears footsteps behind him. “Almost done?” Priscilla asks. 

“Yeah.”  Jerry wrinkles his nose.  She smells like alcohol.  

The two watch in silence as the number finishes and the curtain starts to close.  Elvis has given everything.  Surprisingly, he doesn’t faint as soon as the curtain is down. He just curls up into a ball and sits, shivering. 

Priscilla runs over and puts a hand on his back, she goes to give him a kiss but he turns away from her, gagging.  Someone hands him a bowl and he’s sick into it, pushing Priscilla away when she tries to touch him.  

Jerry walks over to Elvis and puts a hand on his back.  It’s hotter than ever before and bone dry. “Someone get him some ice water!” Jerry calls.  When Elvis looks up from the bowl, the force of vomiting has caused his stitches to burst and his head is bleeding again. 

Jerry takes off his own blazer and holds it to Elvis’s head.  “We need to go to the hospital.  Get us a car.”

A staff member from the hotel approaches Jerry and Elvis with a bucket of ice water and a thermometer.  Jerry places it in Elvis’s mouth gently.  “Let’s get your jumpsuit off. 

“What’s he gonna wear?” Priscilla asks. Jerry turns to her.  She’s standing off to the side with her arms crossed. 

“His boxers and undershirt.  Anything else and he’ll overheat.”  Jerry takes the thermometer out and gasps. “105.4.  Is the car ready?�� Tell the hospital we’re coming.”  He takes the blazer off of Elvis’s head and find that the bleeding has stopped, so he starts working the jumpsuit off as best he can.  When the jumpsuit and Elvis’s shoes and socks are off, he starts taking handfuls of ice water and pouring them on Elvis’s torso. 

“Jerry—“

“—he could get heatstroke if we don’t get this fever down.  Now.”

Joe rushes into the room. “Jerry.”

“What?”

“The car’s ready.”

Jerry doesn’t know where, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but he somehow manages to find the strength to pick up Elvis bridal-style and carry him to the hallway.  Elvis is completely out of it and his breathing is shallow.  

“Stay awake, Elvis.  Don’t fall asleep now,” Jerry says.  Elvis is in and out of consciousness as Jerry eases him into the backseat of a black car.  Priscilla gets in the other side and Jerry situates Elvis so his head is on Jerry’s lap and his legs are on Priscilla’s. Elvis instantly curls up, clearly freezing.  Jerry puts a hand over him and is about to shut the door when Joe stops him.  

“Jerry.”

“What?”

“I been on the phone with the colonel.”

“So what?”

“You broke his arm.”  Jerry swallows. 

Waits. 

“He’s pressing charges against you and Elvis.”

[associatedwithpumpkin]

Ghost From My Past

At eleven years old, my world fell apart,

The man I called father was nowhere, no start.

His laughter, his warmth, a love I had craved,

Invisible, like whispers, leaving me enslaved.

As a little girl, I spun dreams in the night,

Wondering what he looked like, searching for light.

What is he doing? Does he think of me too?

Will he ever come looking? Does he ever feel blue?

Does he hate me for questions I dare not ask?

Did he forget all the moments, the love I would bask?

Is he pretending I’m lost, just a shadow of time?

I sat with these thoughts as I tried to climb.

Then at nineteen, he resurfaced, or so I believed,

For a fleeting moment, I felt a reprieve.

But now here at twenty-eight, he’s gone once again,

A ghost from my past, with no way to amend.

Haunted by echoes of what might have been,

Each passing year feels like a cycle of sin.

It’s like mourning a death, yet he’s still out of reach,

A ghost in my heart, with no words he'd teach.

Where is he now, in the depth of the night?

I know that he’s there, just beyond my sight.

This torment, this longing, it cuts to the core,

With questions unending, I keep wanting.

So I sit and I wonder, just a girl in a dream,

His little girl still, though he’s lost in the seam.

I search for the answers in shadows and light,

Hoping one day, we’ll reunite.

Mamaa's Poem

Mama, oh Mama, the memories flood in,

A childhood of struggle, where do I begin?

You were my anchor, my light shining bright,

But the years slipped away, fading In & out of sight.

You held me close when the world felt so cold,

Yet your presence was fleeting, like stories untold.

At sixteen, I lost you, our bond started to break,

In search of affection, my heart learned to ache.

You bought my love when the price was just right,

But I craved something deeper, a warmth that Felt bright.

Yet every time I reached out, you built up a wall,

You’d turn away quickly, leaving me feeling small.

Now here I am, at twenty-eight years old,

Trying to create a life, a family to hold.

But your voice has to echo softly, filled with disdain,

For the man that I love, who you think brings me pain.

I wish I could tell you how hard it’s become,

To navigate life when I feel so alone.

I mourned our connection for the very first time,

Realizing I had to let go of the climb.

I cut off the contact, it hurt me so deep,

But I learned that this silence allows me to keep

The love for myself that I’ve fought hard to claim,

I wish you could see me, but it’s just not the same.

You’d make the same choice for the man you Know, So I wish you knew,

I had to be brave and finally break through.

I’m building my future, with dreams that are mine,

And though it feels heavy, I know I’ll be fine.

Mama, oh Mama, I hope you can see,

That I’m growing and thriving, just trying to be me.

I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I’ve learned to let go,

And though I still miss you, I’ll continue to grow.

Goodbye To My Childhood

In the quiet of night, I whisper goodbye,

To the ghosts of my childhood, the dreams that ran dry.

A little girl’s laughter, now echoes in pain,

Yearning for love, just to feel whole again.

Daddy, oh father, you were never quite there,

A flicker of hope in a childhood unfair.

I chased your reflection in the depths of my mind,

But the warmth I imagined, I never did find.

Mama, sweet Mama, you held me so tight,

Yet your love was a flicker, lost in the night.

You bought me your affection, but the price was too steep,

In the silence surrounding, my heart learned to weep.

Now I stand here, a woman reborn,

With the courage to shatter the chains that were worn.

I grieve for the childhood I longed to embrace,

But my journey is mine; I’ll carve out my space.

In the depths of my sorrow, I gather my strength,

To finally say farewell, to go any length.

The shackles of silence, the burdens of blame,

I refuse to let them define who I am.

So here is my farewell to the parents unmade,

To the love that was absent, the memories that fade.

With each step I take, I release the old pain,

Embracing the future, where hope will remain.

I’m shedding the echoes of neglect and despair,

With a heart full of dreams, I’ll rise from the air.

Goodbye to the shadows, I’m ready to soar,

For the girl who was lost is now wanting no more.

In the courage I find, I reclaim all my worth,

I’ll build with the fragments, a life from this earth.

With love as my compass, I’ll navigate free,

Goodbye to my past, I’m finally me.

[enchantedbats]

You're really testing my fucking patience today and I'm not in the fucking mood🤬🤬

[ivetried27nameswhataboutthis1]

Okay you people not liking the Spongebob one is so fucking unreasonable. It’s clearly the best one. This has the same energy as the dumb ass Toucan one having 700 notes even though it makes no sense. Be fucking serious. I am outraged and disgusted lmao bye

[kenapiece-main]

Can you believe I'm having to make this meme even after successfully finishing up taxes and applying to job

[beaft]

my mum forbade me to say anything to my dad about the top surgery thing, and it's just hit me how funny it would be if i got it done and didn't tell him and just waited for him to notice. i mean, what's he gonna say? "didn't you used to have tits?"

[starrysharks]

ghanaian miku

[vamprisms]

adhd will have you fighting for your life to do beloved hobbies that bring you nothing but joy

[mugiwara-lucy]

With Kamala/Walz going up DAILY, I've seen more people talking about voting third party/Jill Stein (EW) and I believe the above screencaps from @three--rings can explain WHY Third Party votes NEVER work NOR is this the election to screw around in.

Everyone....like she says above.....PLEASE LEARN FROM HISTORY!!!

(Because if Trump gets in, he's NEVER LEAVING).

[noodles-07]

to be fair to Cain if nobody had ever died before and I didn't know it was possible I would probably also hit my brother over the head with a rock if he was being really annoying

[shoomlah]

I have a feeling that beneath the little halo on your noble head There lies a thought or two the devil might be interested to know You're like the finish of a novel that I'll finally have to take to bed You fascinate me so

You Fascinate Me So, Blossom Dearie

[badolmen]

WARNING 18+

19

[associatedwithpumpkin]

I’m proud of myself for standing up to the biggest narcissist, I’ve ever known. I’m Proud For Finally Setting a boundary I have never been able to and creating distance from somebody, I thought I couldn’t. It’s a Certainly kinda starting to feel like it was Stockholm syndrome. Love is not enough to keep someone around. Here’s a breaking repeated patterns… Cheers 🥂

Dear Mom,

I need to set some very clear boundaries regarding our relationship, especially concerning how you speak about my partner. Despite my multiple warnings, you continue to talk negatively about him and try to influence me against him. I want you to understand that he is the best person I’ve ever been with—someone who brings out the best in me that nobody else ever has.

I see parts of you in me, especially when it comes to our struggles. The key difference is that I have been committed to therapy and medication since I was nine years old, and now, at almost 30, I’m still working on myself. You, on the other hand, have never sought therapy and have only taken a fraction of what I have in terms of medication.

I want to be honest: marijuana is not helping you. It exacerbates your BPD, enhancing your worst qualities. There are actual studies that indicate not all medication works for everyone, including marijuana. For the past four months, I haven’t even touched it myself.

Michael is not taking advantage of me; he has not pushed himself into my life or my home. He moved in because we both wanted to share our lives together—something I approached responsibly for the first time. He is a responsible, mature person who supports me, allowing me to feel capable. It’s disappointing that you view me as incapable and irresponsible, while I know my worth and what I bring to the table.

You need to address your erratic moods with medication, just as I do. I suggest therapy not because I think you’re “crazy,” but because I believe it could help you develop social skills, like how to communicate without resorting to name-calling or cursing, which only escalates tensions and doesn’t solve problems.

I’m trying to build my own life and family because I realize I’ve never had the support I needed from the family I was born into. I’ve worked hard to reach this point, and I had hoped to reconnect with you and my family in North Dakota. However, I now see that if I never felt like I belonged, then I won’t find that connection now.

I’m genuinely happy and at peace, doing things I never had the chance to do before, thanks to the positive support from Michael. Building a life requires a support system that believes in you, something I feel is missing from our relationship. A lesson I’ve learned in therapy is that conflict resolution starts with understanding each other’s perspectives, not trying to place blame or prove who is right or wrong.

This difference between us—my commitment to mental health and your refusal to seek help—has led me to back away. I need to distance myself from you, not out of desire, but out of necessity. I’m going to continue living my happy life with Michael, and I’m sad you haven’t taken the opportunity to get to know him. He truly respects me and supports my happiness.

I cannot tolerate being treated like a child or being made to feel inadequate any longer. I’m aware that you see the boys as adults because of their progress, but your perception of me feels stuck, overshadowed by how you view my life through a screen. It’s painful, and I hope you realize your role in that.

I love you, but I can’t allow you to undermine the happiness I’ve found—a happiness that has helped me grow and love myself for the first time. Your words have often made me feel stupid and inadequate, and that’s something I can no longer accept.

I expect that my message will be met with defensiveness, but I need you to take accountability. You’ve chosen not to seek help, while I’m striving to be better every day. Your journey is yours, but I need to focus on mine now. I won’t respond to your messages or phone calls, and I’m stepping back from social media. I’m choosing emotional intelligence for the sake of my peace.

What I want from you is love, and it shouldn’t come with a price tag. I doubt I’ll receive that, but I will still wish you well. Merry Christmas, happy New Year, happy birthday, and all the holidays I’ll miss. This isn’t a choice I wanted to make, but it’s one I need to.

Goodbye, Mom. ✌🏻

[adaarsvitaar]

reminder to myself and whoever else needs it to stop feeding the machine. I'm aware I'm yelling into the void but look at the past couple years of games. They're pushing $70, $80, $100!!! for games that are completely unfinished, unpolished, and sometimes completely unplayable. Yes the game showcases were cool. The doom game looks sick and I don't even go there, but they're shaking the shiny keys to distract you and get you swept up in the hype. They're going to push so much fomo marketing to get you to jump for it full price.

Wait for sales. Wait and buy a used copy. Hell, wait a couple days (even hours!!!) after launch and reviews and breakdowns will start coming out. Our game backlogs are already packed, and mr big AAA studio can deal with some of us waiting to see if they actually delivered what was promised.