#fuck you five pebbles for making me have dreams of this scene for over two weeks

[killer-blowmybrain]

Rain world spearmaster's compaign spoiler below so be careful:P

AND PLS CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY IT LOOKS BEAUTIFUL BUT TUMBLR FUCKD IT UP😭😭😭😭

hello today i cooked at the animal Jam art game because i'm the fucking BEST🦅🦅🦅💥💥💥💥

[i-mybrunettelady]

50 / 31 / 19 look like very interesting prompts 👀

[ @thoseofuswhoblossom ]

Thank you for the ask!! And sorry for being a little late - had some trouble setting the scene, but now I finally have it!! Have some gay cats!!

--- prompt: I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you + People are staring

--- Black Citadel, 1319 AE

Thad got that promotion four days ago and for those four days, all they've been doing is drinking and celebrating. Their Centurion was of an understanding sort, for which Liv is thankful, as he thought he'd start hammering half-assed weapons with the pace that was placed on him and other engineers, and getting drunk is always good. Iron whiskey burns ever so good down your throat, you're with your warband, your crush looks so happy and Liv can't help but feel happy for him too.

It's the same crush that sinks his heart when he sees Thad pull another charr close and whisper something in their ear. Liv knows what it means and for a moment, Thad lifts his head and locks eyes with the engineer.

All Liv can offer is a shitty, weak grin after he drowns his cup. Thad looks a little... disappointed? worried? anxious? for a moment before he shouts, "I'll be back in a five!"

"So, cub," Danni Stormmender drawls, "when are you gonna get some Thad for ya?"

"I'm not a cub," Liv mutters into his cup. "Just because you're older than me doesn't mean I'm a cub."

"But you haven't fucked yet and no, Euryale doesn't count. So, you're a cub."

"We... tried," Liv offers weakly. "It's not my fault it wouldn't-"

"Cut it off Danni," Frieda roars from a nearby table. "For real, though, he just... asked you if you wanted to be in that charr's place and you refused?"

"He didn't ask! He looked at me!" Liv wants to crawl in a hole and die. Somewhere in Grothmar, preferably.

"That's how he asked," Frieda says gently. "Cogs, you're a lost cause."

"That's not how you ask someone to kiss you!" Liv groans, leaning back on the counter. "You-you approach them and you make advances and you-" He whimpers a little. "You don't make them jealous."

"Eh, you got a point there," Danni says. "Still, you shouldn't take it personally. You know he didn't mean to. It's charr."

Liv looks down, tasting shame on his tongue. First his magic, now this. He wants to be smaller, to shrink down to a size of a pebble. He’d be a very bad pebble, but at least he’d be better at it than being a charr.

Frieda shots Danni a look. Somewhere in the pub, Euryale yells. “I better go help her out,” Liv says, scrambling from his seat.

A few days later, he’s in his workshop. Sounds of the forge and metal, as well as smoldering heat, help take his mind away from the incident at the pub. His fur and mane stick to his skin as he hammers away at an axe, shirtless and comfortable in his big chair.

He doesn’t hear Thad approaching. “Liv,” he shouts and Liv looks up after a particularly hard stroke that make him grunt with exertion. “Smodur’s rusty eye, it’s so hot in here, how are you not on fire yet?”

“Flame legion dam,” Liv says jokingly, setting the hammer down.

“Yeah,” Thad rumbles and Liv suppresses a small gasp. That tone of his never fails to attract. “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you. About that thing in the pub.”

“Hammer’s down,” Liv says, leaning on the table. He can’t have chosen a worse moment, he thinks, sniffing the stench of sweat radiating from his body. He’s been in here all day, his arms hurt from the hammering, and he considers postponing.

Thad’s dark eyes look at him and he’s powerless to say anything more.

“I was... I was a jerk to you. Frieda slapped me on the tail for it the other day and I thought about it. Yeah, I was a big old jerk. You’re a good guy and I behaved like that. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Liv says, blinking tears away. He’s charr, he can’t be affected by this shit, yet he is. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Thad curses. “You’re not fine. You’re my ‘bandmate. I shouldn’t treat you like this. You don’t deserve to get run over, especially by me, your legionnaire. Danni got an earful too. Just ‘cause he’s had partners before doesn’t mean he has the right to talk to you like that.” He sits on a nearby chair.

“I’m charr,” Liv says. “I shouldn’t-”

“Being a sissy and being hurt are two different things,” Thad roars. “Do you think Tribune Brimstone never gets hurt by shit others say? Imperator Smodur, Bangar?”

Liv is quiet.

“And, uh...” Thad’s voice gets quieter too, thick and heavy. “I can’t pretend those no-name charr are you anymore.”

“You-what?” Liv’s heart wants to leap out of his chest.

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re my ‘bandmate and all, but I really, really don’t wanna be just your friend.” Thad looks so anxious, while Liv stares in utter shock.

“Same,” he manages to say. “I, uh.. Same.” Very eloquent, Liv.

“Really?” Thad leans a little closer, nuzzles his snout against Liv’s mane.

“I probably smell like shit,” Liv mutters. “Cogs, I do smell like shit. But yes. Really.”

“Better than those scrappers after a punishing day,” Thad quips. “Remember them?”

“Oh yeah,” Liv chuckles, “poor sods. What did they do to deserve that?”

“Didn’t get the guy of their dreams,” Thad says and Liv suddenly feels like furnace swallowed him whole.

“You’re impossible,” Liv says fondly as he nuzzles Thad’s neck. “Just-impossible.”

[gallavictorious]

Fic: Claim

Mickey wants back into Ian's life. Ian wonders if, and how, to let him. Or, the one where our boys conduct their meaningful conversations not by talking but by having sex. Not nearly as smutty as it sounds, though; it really is all about their emotions.

Basically, this is a 3,341-word exploration of their season 4 reunion and reconciliation. Includes the infamous blowjob scene and its aftermath, so warnings for complicated consent and Ian not being in a great place in general. The angst has a happy ending, however.

Read it below or on AO3.

Claim

Afterwards, you’re almost sure they were really there. You’re almost sure you didn’t just dream them.

Debbie, grown two inches and with a face no longer quite that of a kid. Lip, looking much the same as when you left, but worried in a way he can't quite hide and you don’t think you care for. It's harshing your groove, that pinched look. They're not here to party and their voices – no, I'm good, can we talk, arrest you, stealing government property, let's go outside – cut through your happy buzz, sharp pebbles in your shoe on a sunny day, and maybe that's why you haven't told them you were back, 'cause you'd know it'd be like this. They're family and they're good people, sure you're glad to see them, but Lip's questions just clashes with the beat of the music and this is supposed to be a good time, man, so why they've got to bring up all that stupid, boring shit that doesn't even matter anyway.

You have to go mix another drink, because that's your job right, and when you look up they're gone but there are other drinks to mix, and then it's your turn on the floor and Stephen's here tonight again and has brought his usual treats, you lose him later but there's a couple of other dudes throwing a party at their place and you go and then you go to the gym for good measure – or maybe you didn't, you're not sure, but it was a good, real good, only now that strange dull ache in your head is back and you're almost sure your brother and sister came by to see you last night.

You’re almost sure.

Mrs. Bergdoll calls a greeting as you stumble past her on the way to the bathroom and you reflexibely pull your lips into half a smile, call something back. She's nice; doesn't mind you staying here even after Monica went off with some guy she met when getting thrown out of Rover's.

You shower. The water is cold but at least there's water, fuck knows how it's still running. It clears your head a little, the cold, and you start to feel better again. Sharper. What does it matter what happened – or didn't happen – last night? Today's a brand new day, and you have a feeling it's going to be fantastic.

Work doesn't start for another couple of hours, so you do a bit of writing – gotta keep up with those ideas, these thoughts you keep having; gotta write them down before you forget because what if you lose something important? – and you go for a run and grab some Subway, and then you're on the L headed for the Fairy Tail, music in your ears.

That's when it catches up with you, the thought behind the thought, the one you've been trying to outwrite, outrun, outlisten. You turn the music up up up, loud enough for the lady next to you to glare, but still the thought comes, you can't stop it, your mind keeps drifting back to last night and  –

If Debbie and Lip came to see you yesterday, if they were there, if they know where to find you...

Will they tell him?

And if they do... will he come?

No. No. You don't want to think about that. He made his choice, he put on a goddamn tux and made it loud and clear for all the people to hear, in front of his fucking dad, I do, his hand in that whore's. He loves you – you are sure of it, still – but he did that, so what's love really worth, huh.

It's over, done with. He made his choice; you made yours. Maybe it didn't go exactly as planned with the army, but so what, it's better this way, you're rolling with it. Made lots of new friends, even if they don't know your real name, who cares about names when every night's a fucking party, and you wish you'd known this years ago, that life could be like this, fun, easy, no fucking heartbreak and no fucking hiding, no cares.

It doesn't matter anyway. He won't come.

It doesn't matter.

---

Two nights later you're giving one of your regulars a lapdance when there's a slap to your arm and a curt “time's up, lovebirds” and you look up and there he is.

There he is.

“Get up,” he says and you move without making a conscious decision to.

“It's my turn,” he says and sends George running and you don't know what to do or where to look and you don't even know if you're actually surprised that he's here.

“Curtis?” he says and there's a familiar sneer in his voice and you realize that you don’t want him to see you like this and it pisses you off, because you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, nothing to be ashamed of.

You could just walk away. Could call security and tell them he interrupted a lapdance or whatever, and if that doesn't get him thrown out the bunch of insults he will invariably throw at whoever comes to set him straight certainly will.

“Twenty-five bucks get you a dance,” you tell him instead, because fuck him; because you don't want him thrown out; because that’s all he is to you now, a customer. That’s all he chose to be, when he walked down that aisle.

He spits and he grumbles but he pays. He'd never have let you give him a lapdance when you were together but he pays for it now.

You push him down the black leather couch and straddle him, lean in, how's your day going?

He smells wrong. Something scented, spicy-sweet. You don't like it.

He wants to talk. You're giving him a fucking lapdance but he wants to talk and he's angry and looking at you like you're so annoying, like you're out of your fucking mind. You can still feel his semi pressing against your ass when you switch positions to lean against him, though, and as you turn your face towards his, getting close, you can smell him through whatever perfumed shit he's wearing,

Mickey.

He got married. You can't do this. He's still talking.

“Twenty-five bucks only gets you one dance,” you tell him. You stand up, away from him.

He won't let you go. Hey. You don't wanna hang out, fine. Your dad's dying. Ian. Your family. Liam.

Liam.

Something is about to burst and break open but then Roger is there and you don't know if you're relieved or not but when he asks you if everything's okay here, Curtis, you quickly reassure him, shifting to stand next to Mickey.

As you walk away, you think about how immediately, how reflexively, you moved to shield him.

---

You wake up a the crack of dawn, and maybe you should be surprised to find yourself in the Milkovich house but you're not.

Mickey's asleep in a chair in the corner, still fully dressed.

The bed smells of him, but smells of someone else too. You don't recognize the scent, but you know whose it must be, and fuck no, you're not sleeping in the bed he shares with her.

You should get out of here, maybe; get out and far away before he wakes up, but you're too tired, your legs are too unsteady for that and your thoughts too dull and slippery, so you just grab a pillow that smells like Mickey, and a couple of blankets, and you fall back asleep on the floor.

---

You wake up with a headache and to the sight of Mickey's pregnant wife towering over you. It startles you – where is Mickey – but you try to for cordiality, grasping for a couple of (probably) Russian phrases a guy you met at some party taught you.

Your attempt at charm wins you nothing. You leave.

---

“I forgot to say,” Mrs. Bergdoll tells you when you stop by the old house for a change of clothes, “but there was a couple of kids came looking for your the other day. Said you were their brother. I told them you were at work. They find you?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

She nods and blinks at you through the cloud of smoke from her hash pipe. You consider asking her for a hit to take the edge off the comedown from last night, but you don't.

They know where you work, and they know where you live.

Nothing for it then. Time to go home.

---

Liam's alive. Frank too, so far, but you don't care so much about that. Fiona looks overjoyed to see you, but looks haggard and worn thin too, and you hate that, but... you can't help but feel the tiniest bit relieved when you realize that everyone will be too busy dealing with the ramifications of her brutal fall from grace to worry very much about yours.

---

He comes for you, and this time you thought he might. He blows you, which you thought he wouldn't.

It feels good, his mouth on you, but feels like something else too, something that for a moment is better than good: vindication.

His arms are heavy on your tighs, his fingers dig into your sides as he holds on to you to keep his balance, and you close your eyes and lean your head back and mingling with the rush of pure carnal pleasure is the rush of knowing that, sure, he married her, but he'll get on his knees for you. He'll come looking for you and find you and bring you home to his – their – bed and once you run off he'll come looking again.

He'll suck your dick, just because you asked him to.

I'll do it.

You hadn't expected that. You'd laugh in surprised glee, but – because you can't quite believe it, because you won't let him off that easy – you push instead. “Do what?”

His lips twist. He glances at you, immediately glances away. “Don't make me say it, asswipe.”

You don't. You could make him; he admits as much. That can be enough, you think.

Still, you're no longer some lovesick puppy who'll come crawling back all grateful with your tail a-wagging the second he realizes what a fucking idiot he's been, you're done chasing him, so you don't bother to hide the smug teasing in your voice as you spell it out for him. You don't tell him it's cool, you don't have to when he moves to crouch between your legs.

The face he makes suggests that you're a fucking nuisance, says yeah okay whatever, but the eager quickness of his hands and the way he looks up at you with pupils blow wide suggests that maybe he, too, has longed for this; dreamed of it, maybe, and ached.

His hand is warm around the base of your dick; his tongue wet with spit as runs it along your length, once, twice, before taking you into his mouth.

You bite back a moan. You're already fully hard. It's hurried and a little sloppy but it's him and he's good at this, though fuck knows how that happened, because you're pretty sure he's only ever done this with you, and not very often at that. He likes this, you know that he does, but know too that it still costs him something; is intricately tied to all the things he's still struggling to admit and express.

You love me and you're gay. Then gentle bob of his head tells you that he won't deny it again.

Fuck, but you've missed him. You have tried not to; have tried not to think of him at all – he made his choice, he married that whore, and you've spent the last few months running from the memory of him, trying to drown the taste of his lips in the taste of strangers, there's a whole world out there, guys, so many of them, they like you, and they're not all afraid to be who are they are and want what they want.

Some of them sucked your dick. It never felt like this.

You come in his mouth. You expect him to pull away when you make a small grunt to let him know you're close, but he doesn't. Stays right on you, around you, through it. Swallows.

He's never done that before.

He wipes at his mouth and looks up at you, eyebrows raised in half a challenge, like are you fucking happy now? but there's something else there too, a hint of vulnerability still, uncertainty lingering: are you happy now?

A curious tug at your heart; a softening, and a brief flash of something that feels real, in a way not a lot of things have lately.

You allow it. You allow your walls to lower, just enough to allow him right back in, into your life and all the way into your stupid heart.

Fuck, but you've missed him.

You scoot forward and reach out to cradle the back of his head, pulling him up for a kiss. Again, you half-expect him to pull away, and again he doesn't. Instead he lifts his chin to meet you, arms wrapping around your back in a loose embrace, and the two of you never kissed much, you didn't have the time needed for it to become a habit before everything went south, but like so much else with him it just works; you just fit.

You can taste yourself on his lips and on his tongue and that's strange but you don't care. You breathe him in, his shampoo, stale tobacco, no fucking perfume that smells like someone else, Mickey,

He straightens, getting to his feet only to push you back onto your back and climb on top to straddle you, and you don't resist and the familiar weight of him pressing down on you is heat is thrilling is comfort. Your hand is in his hair, his hand is around your wrist, but after a moment he shifts to lace your fingers together. He is kissing you like you're the first gasp of air after almost drowning.

You can feel his erection against your stomach, trapped between your bodies, but he doesn't seem bothered. He kisses you, like that's all he's ever wanted to do, like that's all he'll ever want to do.

For a little while you allow it, losing yourself to press of his lips; to his nose brushing and bumping against yours; the feel of his hair in your clenched fist. For a little while you let yourself know nothing but him, and the joy of being claimed. For a little while – but then you shift, twist and push to roll over, so that you're both lying on your sides, face to face. You keep kissing him – but slower now, deliberate – as you reach down to undo his belt buckle and unzip his jeans. You don't immediately push your hand down his boxers, though: you let your fingers brush over his soft skin just above the waistband instead, let them skim just past the straining bulge of his underwear, unhurried.

His breath hitches; he curses against your mouth, but it's a soft thing, half-swallowed. He pushes forward, just slightly, looking for friction, anything, and you promptly pull your hand back, and  your head back too, just far enough to break the kiss.

His eyes snap open, searching yours, and you see his face still, caught, when he finds you already watching him.

There's a question in his eyes; uncertainty; confusion. Annoyance too, in the way his brow furrows. You just raise your eyebrows pointedly and hold his gaze.

He stares at your for a moment. You wait for him to consider telling you to get the fuck on with it, Gallager, nobody likes a fucking tease. You watch him bite his lip and you wait for him to decide against demands. When he stays silent and slumps ever so slightly, relaxing into aquiencense, the thrill coursing through your body are equal parts triumph and excitement.

You take a momen to watch him and he lets you. He doesn't look away or ask what the fuck you're staring at. His face is open, beautiful, his eyes that startling blue. You used to dream about it, a long time ago; about him looking at you like this, soft.

Your eyes never leave his face as you slowly run your hand down his chest and slip it under his t-shirt to rest on his belly, and you smile a little when he lets out a long, unsteady sigh. Leaning in once more, you claim his lips for another kiss, and he responds eagerly, taking whatever you will give.

You can feel the tension in his body as your fingers roam the sharp curve of his hip; as they brush over his pubic hair; as you scratch at his inner thighs, caress and tease. You can feel the gust of air as he hisses into your mouth whenever your wrist brush against his dick.

But he keeps still. Waits.

There's a new sort of pleasure in this – in being allowed this – and for a moment you think that maybe you could keep it up for hours, but in the next you know that you could not, and his quiet moans are growing more frantic and you're starting to grow hard again, so you slide your hand inside his boxers. He whimpers as you wrap your fingers around his cock and it's not much of a handjob, really, it's rushed, too dry, but he doesn't seem to mind and you just want to feel him; want to hear his breathing quicken as his kisses grow sloppier.

He comes quickly, with a long, stuttering gasp, spilling over your hand, over his quarter zip, the sheets.

You don't say anything, just press your forehead against his, dry against damp. You hold him tight, sharing breath, while his hearbeat slows and steadies.

A minute, two. Your dick softens; you don't mind.

Eventually he pulls back a little, opening his eyes. He's flushed, still, but his gaze is sharp and clear.

You wipe your stitcky hand at his quarter-zip just to be a dick and he makes a disgusted face. “What the fuck, man?”

“It was already dirty.”

“Uh-huh. So's the fucking sheets, asshole, use those.”

You can feel your lips curl into a wide smile and see his doing the same, and then you're both laughing, like idiots, like giddy kids. He reaches for you and this kiss is languid, comfortable, and when you break apart you're still grinning.

Rolling over on your back, you reach for a cigarette, taking one drag before handing it to him. He accepts it with a pleased little hum in the back of his throat, a sound you've heard a hundred times after you've fucked him good and hard, and it goes straight to your cock, but goes straight to your heart too, so maybe you really are too fucking soft.

But he's here, isn't he, so maybe you are right to be.

You think you'd be happy to stay like this for a while, on the bed with him, just smoking, talking maybe, but: “Probably should head down and grab some dinner before they come looking for me again.” You glance at him. “Wanna join?”

“Nah, man, I'm good.” Doesn't feel like dealing with your family, most likely, but that's fine. You get it.

“Okay.” You stand, adjusting your pants and making sure there's no telltale stains. He remains on his back, looking dishevelled and loose and content, with his jeans still open and the smoke between his swollen lips.

Fuck, but you've missed him.

“I could bring you up a plate later?” you offer casually. “If you're staying.”

His eyes dart up to you and for a moment there's so much on his face, hope, worry, longing, caution, joy, but all he says is, “Yeah?”

You smile. “Yeah.”

---

A/N:  Yes, Ian is being rather unfair in not considering the fact that Mickey's been through hell, and no, it's not very charming, but he's a teenager dealing with quite a few issues of his own. It is what it is.

I'm operating under the idea that Mickey went by the old house to look for Ian when he learned Svetlana had kicked him out, and found out that Ian had grabbed his things and left, and that this is what he refers to when he says “took all your shit”.

I'm actually very bothered by the fact that they don't use a condom for this, since Ian's been out and about  and Mickey's had unprotected sex with a prositute, but then again, I don't really expect anything else from these stupidly reckless boys. Don't go have unproteccted sex unless you're monogamous though, kids. STD:s are real.

I guess this is kind of like the fic version of this meta I wrote a while back, I highly recommend reading the additions by other people, because they are very interesting and thought-provoking.

[selflovebesson]

delicate, part vii — jack avery

requested?: yes oof

a/n: this is the final part of delicate!! idk man i cried writing this but maybe u wont idk

________________________________________________________

we stood in the same exact spots for so long my feet began to throb. my back was aching and my heart was pounding in the silence.

i was the first to sit down, my posture straight, my hands laid on my knees, my eyes shot forward at the blank white wall.

freddie honer had decided he would talk to jack in private, and i was preparing myself for the reality of that situation.

“y/n,” jonah spoke, but he sounded so distant. i was too distracted trying to make-out the mumbles coming from the room beside us.

of course not!

no!

i would never fucking—

i think i’ve heard loud sounds. fire alarms, ambulances, zach itching for attention on christmas day. but nothing had prepared me for the loud bang that went off just then. a bang so loud, it filled my brain. for instance, i knew the boys were screaming, scrambling to run, but i sat seemingly unbothered, and listened to the softer loud of the thud of the presumably lifeless body hitting the floor.

i didn’t move. perhaps i couldn’t or maybe i just didn’t want to. maybe it hurt too much to move. either way, jonah was the one to throw me over his shoulder as he ran, along with the other boys, through the zigzags of the home until they hit the driveway and im not sure why but they were running and running and running.

-

california is known for how hot it is. at least that’s how it was when i was growing up. california was the hot state. summer even during winter. beach days everyday. i never imagined the heat could close my throat the way it was right now. but then again everything else was closing, too.

“what the fuck are we going to do?!” jonah.

“im not sure, man, but jack—“ eben.

“don’t you dare say it.” corbyn.

sobbing, i knew that was daniel and zach. the two distinct cries were unmistakable to me. i’d heard them millions of times before.

i felt myself unfolding, coming undone, as my brain drained the long gone banging sounds from replay. i looked around, trying to make sense of what was happening, but all i could see was grass. grass and a pile of boys holding back terrible tears under heavy breathing.

“corbs?” deja vu. i shivered at the reminder of the driveway scene, but shook it off because i knew this time it was him, this time i was met with glowing blue eyes not cold brown ones.

he kneeled down beside me, where i sat with my back against a wooden fence. “hm? yes, dear?” his voice was choked, his attention forced, and i felt my own tears starting a lump in my throat.

“where are we?” i managed, swallowing my emotions.

“uh,” he looked around, running his hands through his fallen flat hair. “i think, about 40 miles from the city.” that means we were only 60 miles away from honer. from malis. from jack’s dead body.

you know how they say good things come to those who wait? i waited all my life to find somebody like jack. and when i finally found him, he gets ripped away from under me like some sort of faked welcome rug. so perhaps good things only come to those who earn them, or maybe its just at random.

i felt my feet itch and i shot up from my spot on the grass, surprising all the boys around me. i gave him each a look before i began speeding down the side of the road. mostly because i knew they’d follow suit. and anything was better than staying put at this point in time.

“y/n we can’t run 40 miles!” corbyn called from not so far behind me but i only picked up my pace. should i prove him wrong? show him all the adrenaline i have rushing through me at the moment? maybe. maybe. maybe.

an hour. sixty minutes. that’s how long it took for my legs to give in and drop me to the gravel. the crunching sound of my knees on the pebbles and pavement stopped the five boys behind me as well. my chest heaved up and down uncontrollably but not only because of the running. my tears were falling unconsciously and i was doing nothing to stop them anymore.

i grabbed onto everything i could, grass, dirt, fucking concrete, anything that would hopefully feel like something in my hands. i felt like i had been stabbed repeatedly, over the course of a thousand years, slowly tortured by demented beings. but, then again, that’s basically what freddie honer had just done.

my heart was pounding, so loudly i was praying the boys wouldn’t hear it but they probably could because i could hear theirs, too. boom boom. boom boom.

“y/n?” his voice was distorted and faded, my ears rang and popped with such a painful surge. i felt defeated. utterly and completely defeated.

-

i woke up the next morning to the comfort of my own bed. i woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. my hands were drenched in the liquid, as were my thighs and arms and face. i was breathing heavily, and everything that happened before, in that moment, had been but a dream.

so i sprinted down the stairs, caring less for if i fell or not, and into the kitchen where the boys sat at the kitchen island, in the early morning darkness, silently. i curved the corner and slapped my hands onto the counter, quickly making a mental count of how many there were. “one, two, three, four, five.” five. only five.

“y/n?” eben’s voice echoed off the walls of my brain but i couldn’t focus on it.

i ran myself back up the stairs and burst in the door of jack’s room. it was empty and cold. oh so cold. my shaky fingers traveled over everything. from his nightstand table to his graduation cap, which sat still on his dresser.

i looked myself in the mirror then, and i felt ghostly. the bags under my eyes spoke for themselves and the tears cascading down my already dry ones, was traumatizing.

i reached for one of the drawers, popping it open and grabbing the nearest shirt. it was a blue stripped one he used to wear every so often. he’d bought it on impulse after i told him how much i liked it at the store.

i gripped it. digging my nails into it. it still smelled like him. the strong scent of his cologne filled my nose and traveled to the far away place he held in my mind.

just then, i felt a large hand land on my waist and i jumped lightly, only to be greeted by jonah’s soft expression. he looked broken too. perhaps a bit more put together than me but broken nonetheless. “y/n?” he began. “how long till you’re ready to talk about this?” i shot my eyes up at him as if he were insane. was he really asking me this? jack had only died the night before.

“jonah,” i growled. “jack died last night. do you really expect me to be ready to do anything in less than 24 hours?” his expression turned to confusion in a moments pass and i looked at him carefully through the mirror.

“sweetheart,” he sighed. “im not sure what you think happened. but, jack’s been....gone.... for almost six months. and i know it’s hard because its been hard for all of us but, we need to talk about this at some point.”

“you’re insane!” i raised my voice in sudden rage. “what the fuck do you mean six months ago?!”

“y/n. im sure you remember it rather vividly. the girl. the house. her father—“

“don’t remind me, marais!”

“look,” he grabbed my shoulders and sighed. “my point is, it happened half a year ago, and healing starts with talking.”

“healing starts with talking.”

[shipsbcshesdiabetic]

Chapter 34

Wednesday, June Seventh, Two Thousand Seventeen, 9:00am- Sunshine Foods

It’s amazing how fast shit gets fucked up. In all actuality, it happens slowly, sneakily building and building until the unnoticeable traces of it suddenly explode around you, and in that moment, you finally realize that you never actually sensed any of it until you’re in that one singularity. In one moment, you’re on cloud 9, and in the next, you have no money, no fallback, and all you can feel is the sense of dread that comes with watching your friend roll a stolen turkey across a busy road to you.

Wide eyed with hunger and fear, Kirsten carefully rolls the frozen bird over the edge of the sidewalk, giving it one last good shove so it’ll have a greater shot of making it across the three lanes of busy traffic. I stand at the other side, waiting and ready to catch it. A white truck passes the lane closest to Kirsten, but it doesn’t matter because the turkey is rolling through the middle lane. This must be what football is like for people who care about football. Right as it reaches the right lane, it just… stops.

I lock eyes with Kirsten. I dart out into the road to get it, but just before I can wrap my arms around the freezing, slippery packaging, a huge truck screams as the driver applies the brakes. I spring backwards by instinct, panicking, thrown by my own stupidity. The 18 wheeler jolts very slightly into the air and speeds up. The driver slams his hand down on the horn as he leaves the scene. After the frenzy clears itself from my mind, I spot the turkey, which is now pressed flat into the road. Red spires of shock move up from it and into me.

Once it seems safe to do so, Kirsten helps me peel the mess of meat and plastic off the road. It comes up with a sickening smack. Grimacing, she drapes the pancake over an arm. The juices drip onto the grass. I get into the truck and look out the front window with my eyebrows raised, not even having enough sense to close my door. I’m still processing it all. Seizing her opportunity, Kirsten dumps the flattened bird into my arms. I hug it close, crossing my arms over it. Kirsten struggles to shut the door as she drives away.

 Welcome to North Dakota

The Peace Garden State

 After unbuckling my seatbelt to get in a better position, I hold the turkey at the edges as Kirsten draws circles on the underside of it with her lighter. The strangest sensation of needing to eat while needing to vomit in disgust twists my throat. My arms grow heavier and heavier. It’s dense like a rock, and the stone grows into my body.

“We need to steal something else. This is shit,” Kirsten says, turning the flame off.

I toss the warm, raw meat onto the dash so it has at least the slightest bit of a chance to cook. It might give us food poisoning if we try to eat it later, but at this point, that’ll be the icing on the cake. I’ve thrown up and seen throw up so much that it’s just another regular process.

“Thank god for our lipstick collection, am I right?” I comment, picking up a pink one with golden packaging. I uncap it and stare at it, trying to convince myself to not bite into it.

“I don’t know where we’d be without it.”

I bite into it, my tongue immediately rejecting it. I hang my head out the window and let it fall out of my mouth. I’m an idiot. I watch it slowly crawl away in the grass as Kirsten pulls back onto the road. I don’t understand why I’m so hungry when we ate yesterday. It’s probably because I’m used to eating three solid meals every day, and I’ve never gone without anything like this before.

Even now that we’re in a condition as stupid and poor as this one, my subconscious belongs to her. Over a thousand miles away, billions of synapses away, and she’s still living in my heart. My love does last. I cannot bear it.

“Should we take a bag of dog food?” Kirsten asks, slapping her hand onto the biggest one.

I suddenly find myself standing in the pet aisle of a very large, well-lit farm supply store. I blink several times to adjust to the light. “Sure. Why though?”

“I hate stealing,” Kirsten admits. What she doesn’t say is that we only deserve to eat animal food, and that’s why she picked this place. I think I agree.

“Me too.”

We stand awkwardly still, staring at each other with self-pity in our eyes, waiting for the other one to pick a bag. Kirsten frowns and her eyes widen.

“Fine,” I say. I randomly pick one. “This one helps your pets keep their coats shiny. Whatever the fuck that means.” I throw my hands out to the sides and spin around.

She sighs and looks up. “Should we get cat food? I think it has more nutrients in it. It’s also easier to carry because it comes in a smaller container.”

I walk over, focusing on the bag she pointed out so I don’t have to look at all the dogs and cats on all the packages staring at us judgingly. “It has taurine,” I say, trying to find something positive about any of this.

“What does that do?”

“…I don’t know. Let’s stick to the dog section.”

We eventually settle on a thirty-five pounder with natural and artificial beef flavoring. Ten dollars, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Kirsten bends over in an L shape and puts her half on top of her back, gripping it tightly at the sides. I lift up my end and put it on my shoulders. We look like we’re in one of those weird two-person horse costumes. We slip out of the employee exit, struggling to keep ourselves in one piece. Kirsten unlocks the door, dropping the bag in the process. Rubbing her back, she helps me heave it in the space in between our seats. Once the bag settles itself in, we notice that we each only have half of our original seat space. We shrug and get in.

“I want to eat something else,” I complain fruitlessly.

“I hope you like eating dirt, then,” Kirsten says, ripping open the bag at the image of the golden retriever’s snout. She selects one pebble and eats it. “You know… it’s not horrible.”

I pick up a handful and look at it for a while. It falls from my fingers back into the bag. I’m suddenly not so hungry anymore. A different emptiness violates me. She’s not here. But, in a deeper way, she is. It’s powerful, like I could see her again if I’d just turn around. If I could just gain the courage to say her name out loud.

I never could have guessed that what we had was so flimsy. It didn’t make any sense until yesterday. It still doesn’t make much sense at all. It was like a secret that felt as solid and as final as a law, as unmovable as the fixed stars that live on the firmament. It’s so expansive that life itself does not understand, yet it was born of consciousness. The air we breathed was supplied by an entity greater than any calculable thing. It gave every discordant force in our sphere an ultimatum- kill us, or let us fester alone. It’s a wonder that something so quiet and tender could cause such a pain- a pain that inspires its keepers to lay down their life and the lives of others for just one more butterfly. It was like I’d end if it ever stopped. And yet, no one approved. Love her, or die. Love, and die. It has all the workings of a tragic Shakespeare play, except instead of dying a romantic death, Romeo’s in North Dakota eating dog food.

Swords drawn bring forth my bleeding heart and expose it to the morning light. I’m in an ancient Verona fighting for a deadened love without armor and without skin, yelling at enemies that don’t exist in a drizzle of illuminated rain. I’m slashing at the air, desperate to sever the lines dividing me from her. In turn, deep lines appear in my flesh. I don’t bleed because I shouldn’t. I live and fight because I don’t want to do anything else, and I don’t know how to do anything else. This resolve cauterizes my lifeblood. The silver of my sword briefly sends righteous light into my eyes. My muscles taut with anticipation, insufficiencies rip up what lies within my ribcage, sending pure, red guilt simmering with the heat of my instability. I walk the streets proudly, waiting for anyone who might dare to take her away from me for good. My veins dare my enemies to slash at them again and again. The rain lightens up. I focus on a random raindrop. To me, it’s the past, present, future, unseen forces, things that were, and the things that will never be. It hits the tip of my sword, covering me in dry blood.

She isn’t going to make my day ever again. She’s not going to show up with a bouquet of flowers, another $1000, and a portable oven for our turkey disk. It would be great if she’d do that, though. But she won’t. I have to accept it and move the hell on. I promised myself that I would never return. Nonetheless, my stream of consciousness keeps diverting to that channel. The phone call changed the wiring of my brain. She changed me. Again. In a matter of moments. The scale in mind keeps tilting back and forth from being aware of my surroundings and being aware of a past I should forget about. The chalices weigh heavily, taking the place of my brain. They are filled with lead and poisoned honey, each cup fighting for the honor of being the most burdensome. Both are thick and dark and equally vile, but one tastes better. I want to beat my head against a fucking wall.

I scoop a handful of dog food out of the bag and start tossing the kibble, one by one, into my mouth. I cry in Beatrice’s arms while we smoke weed in the bathroom. Kirsten yells at me for spilling my handful of dog food. Beatrice gives me a present covered in golden wrapping paper for my birthday. I pick the dog food up off the floorboard. Beatrice shows up to pick me up in the middle of the night for the billionth time. I eat the spilled dog food. Beatrice and I walk into the ballroom. Dog food, and I’m stupid. I hold Beatrice’s hand while she talks about getting rejected from her dream college. Dog food. Beatrice and I look at the stars. Dog food.

I start to feel worse and worse about myself as the memories collect together. Why can’t I let it down the drain? Why must I let myself suffer? Why can’t I kill the affection trapped in my arms and chest? The screen I unwillingly watch keeps dividing, splitting into two memories, then four, then eight, then sixteen, and so on. All the feelings flood out of me. My throat closes up and I clench the contents in my fist. Within the pixels, a bittersweet image shows up- the underlying, the ultimate. I stop eating and rest my head back. The pixels shine in the quiet like candles in a chapel.

 Part I

I stare blankly at a blank gray wall in my room, thinking about what I’m about to do. Dancing on the paint, the light from my window buzzes in my eyes. I know what I’m doing, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I stop sitting in my bed and pace around, badly hunched over. I finished writing a letter to her recently. I’ve been spending all of today preparing myself for what’s next. I know it isn’t going to go well, but I have to try anyway. I don’t think I’d ever be able to forgive myself if I didn’t.

           I had no idea of what to say until very recently. What I had wasn’t a letter so much as a random mess of pain, anger, citations from papers, disrespect, tidbits from blogs, and general stupidity. I was planning a war with the world. Post-it notes were all over my room. It had the energy of a conspiracy theorist trying to prove that George Washington killed JFK and did 9/11. It was so caustic. So I tore it all down. And I wrote a different letter with no notes. No plan. No structure. I started writing it yesterday at 2am, and I didn’t stop until 7am.

She’s a vector of truth. Something fundamentally calming and simple resides within her. When I stepped back and thought about her, the writer’s block unfurled. It was like nothing and everything made sense at the same time. And that’s what I needed. Returning to reality, I find myself standing with my back pressed against a wall. I open my eyes wide and breathe in because I had forgotten to. It falters in the middle of the intake. My reflection looks at me.

And with that, I pick up the piece of paper and walk out my door, down the hall, out the front door, and along the road.

              Once Kirsten pulls up to a laundromat adjacent to an RV park, we dig through our crap to find all our unwashed clothes. I lift up the base of my shirt. It smells like a sweating, rotting thing. I take my dress into the laundromat with me and change into it in the bathroom because it smells the “best”. It has a giant scorch mark on the front, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m only going to wear it for an hour. We really should have washed our clothes ages ago.

           Kirsten emerges from her stall wearing her off-white wife beater and baggy jeans. No leather jacket. A woman gives us a dollar after watching us scour the floor for loose change. We thank her. I hold the bill in my hand, feeling feathery, but that subsides once I remember everything. Now it feels less like being on the receiving end of an act of kindness and more like I sucked money from someone who needed it too. Kirsten puts the bill in a washer and lumps all our clothes into it. It moves slightly from side to side, clanking against the dryer underneath it.

           Kirsten and I look at each other. We remain silent. We agreed earlier that we shouldn’t talk at all today unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s too hot to talk. There’s also nothing to say.

           My hands and feet feel heavy and enlarged with the excess heat in the building. There isn’t an AC or even a fan. Just vents at the top. I sit on a brown chair with stuffing coming out of the seat, letting my forehead rest against the tan-yellow wall. It probably has all the germs in the world. My muscles shift against my will as if I’ve been swimming for hours.

I’m not sure if I miss money or if I miss when I brushed my hair and cared about others. I’m mentally drained. My forehead wrinkles against the marginally colder wall. I put my legs forward slightly so I can balance myself well enough to fall asleep. A vent from another room gently whispers into me. I wilt. I breathe slowly in and out, focusing only on the hot hair blowing on my legs.

  Part II

           I stand in the bushes near the road’s intersection, trying to figure out how I’m going to cross the highway. The road I was on is perpendicular to it, so I might just stand behind the traffic light and run with the cars. Being able to drive would have made this process a lot easier, but since I failed my driver’s test a few weeks ago, that simply isn’t possible. I couldn’t parallel park, and I have to go back once I think I can safely do so.

           I dart out into the road once it seems safe and stand between two cars waiting for the green light. Something in me tells me to quit, but I shove it aside and wrestle it to the ground. This fear is disgustingly human, and I am doing this for a reason greater than most others. A driver yells at me. I turn around and flip the bird.

           Enamored with my own determination, I passively watch the cars race through the main thoroughfare with a big, dumb smile on my face. Revelations about existence spill around me as the smell of diesel and the vibe of impatient cars fills in every edge of me. Complete lack of safety can feel like the safest thing ever. The realization that I am not her other half rushes in. There was never any room for me. I am one of two dyadic wholes. That’s why I’m capable of this. I don’t die with her. Her philosophy returns. People are so scared of existing. People are so scared of talking. People are so scared of thinking. Maybe she’s projecting.

A spring breeze injects my edges with a delirious sense of hope; it’s as if I’m levitating ever so slightly off the ground. It’s a shock of purity that arrives after not feeling that kind of air for a year, for a lifetime. Endless particles with endless variables ricochet off each other, building invisible connective structures. Dominos fall and rise. Anything is possible. The awesome feeling ends. I’m just me.

The light turns green, and I run.

  “Fucking machine,” Kirsten grunts, beating on the glass door of the washer. She pulls up her sagging shorts.

I stand immediately, recoiling upon sensing the crick in my neck. My back doesn’t feel great either. I watch her slam on the washer’s door until something pops. The sound hits something in my ears, making me feel funny. She opens it. Right after she scoops out wet clothes, the door falls off by the hinges and spins like a quarter until it lies still on the dirty floor.

“We’re leaving now.”

We drape the clothes out over our other stuff in the back. It looks like we’re trying and failing to conceal something weird.

Kirsten finds herself pulling into a gas station. We don’t have the money for gas anymore, no matter how desperately we might need it. After a few ear-ringing moments of silence, Kirsten runs out and slams the door. She’s probably going off somewhere to cry.

It’s too hot to stay in the truck, even with the shade from the gas station. I climb out and sit on a bench next to a ten-year-old boy with a half-eaten orange pop. I stare at the spots of flattened, darkened gum on the white asphalt. My mind travels again.

“I hate women,” I sigh.

He just stares at me, his eyes turning into pools of wonder in his pudgy, tanned face. He goes back to biting into the pop.

“They’re too damn confusing. And it’s not even their fault. There’s something about the sheer beauty of a pretty girl that screws with your mind. You end up believing whatever you want to believe, but you also don’t dare to believe. There’s something so incredible about the touch of a woman. It’s easy to see why a lot of songs are about romance and youth… art is the only outlet for such complex things. Don’t you agree?”

He belches.

I’m too impassioned to see straight. The parked cars turn into dizzy lines. “My girl… well, she isn’t my girl anymore. Not really. And that’s the problem, I guess. I think about her all the time. I want to return to her and make everything okay again, but I feel as though trying to do so would be a deep betrayal of the opportunities I have been given.” I stand and pace, wringing out my hand. “No choice is a good one. No matter what side the coin lands on, the other side is still dark. It’s like… do you listen to your heart despite its logical fallacies, or do you listen to your head despite the fact that it has its own set of fallacies?” I gesture through my monologue.

Kirsten carrying a used straw from the trash comes into my view. She blows through it, sending thick strings and droplets of leftover milkshake onto her pants and the parking lot. My stomach cringes. She makes eye contact with a mother filling her car with gas. Unperturbed by the audience, she walks over and sticks the straw into the tank and sips in a bit of it. My jaw drops. The woman swears and tries to slap her away. Kirsten runs over to our truck, accidentally letting the fluid in the straw drip back into her mouth. She makes a sick face and spits it out all over the white concrete. The woman is still yelling.

           “It was nice talking to you,” I say without looking at him. I roll up onto my feet and start walking toward the truck to leave.

Not many interesting things have happened today. I spotted a Prius with truck nuts on the drive over. That was cool, I guess. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that I don’t really want to have anything to do with interesting things. I’m all mellowed out and drained. I’ve retired. In fact, anything completely out of the ordinary would throw me. Today’s me would hate yesterday’s me. In all honesty, I could probably come up with a few good ideas if I really wanted to. Right now, I just want to make sure that I can still successfully exist.

 Part III

I breathe in and out slowly, trying to maintain my cool. I carefully put my finger on the worn doorbell and press it in. I’m definitely doing the right thing.

I don’t care about the bad consequences that could stem from this. There’s a big difference between a good Bad Consequence and a bad Bad Consequence. A bad Bad Consequence is dying from doing something excessively stupid. A good Bad Consequence of this is that I might live too much. I have no self-doubts in this glorious moment. I look at the paper in my hand.

I hear her footsteps storm toward the door. I can tell it’s her. Something strange creeps up in me. She opens the door.

What the shit what the fuck what in the goddamn fuck what sorry shit God I fucking wish things were simple still but fuck me God fucking damn it fuck goodnight. I’m a fucking idiot loser shit pile.

Barbed wires become me. A “what is wrong with you” expression dances on her crestfallen face, as if she opened some long-awaited package and found severed limbs. My eyes widen with the realization of how stupid this actually is. My emotions go haywire when I realize that I don’t know how I feel about her now or even who she is. Her label is a balancing act between The Girl Who Hurt Me and The Girl I Love. It screws with me. Hot and cold waves wrack my body as I stare deeper into her eyes. It’s hard to feel safe when there are walls within her pupils waiting to shut me out again. Her image flips back and forth between being heavenly and devilish.

It’s then when I realize that she’s just a girl. Just a person.

And I’m just a moron. In fact,

I am a crazy bitch.

Maybe I need to write it on a piece of paper and staple it to my forehead for me to learn.

“Are you going to speak?”

“Maybe eventually,” I squeak. I wish I could have been cooler with that.

  I watch the gas as Kirsten continues to drive toward Canada. I can’t believe it, but we might actually get there all in one piece. Rolling hills, marshes, and trees come into view.

Turtle Mountain Scenic Byway

We decide to stop outside of a hotel to see if there’s any complementary coffee. It seems upscale. As soon as we enter, a lady at the front desk tells Kirsten to cover her shoulders more if she wants to be in here. We look at each other. Kirsten goes out to the truck and comes back with the giant yellow sweater we bought at the mall. It’s like a giant sheet of tinsel that swallows her neck and goes down a foot past her knees. She smiles sarcastically at the lady and drinks the coffee. Crinkling the empty cup in her hand, she travels to the trash can by the staircase, observing it for a concerning amount of time. I slowly walk up to her.

“I want to cook the turkey,” Kirsten states.

“So do I, but that’s just not happening. It’s not possible.”

She turns around with a bad idea trapped in her brain. “Well, if I set it on fire, it would cook, right?” Her hands are on her hips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her arms rigidly at her sides.

“Well…”

“We’re setting this bitch on fire,” she decides.

I guess the punishment fits the crime.

We take the hotel’s trash can without saying anything, leaving the bag. It’s a giant dark gray one that is as tall as me minus my head. We could cook a dead, flattened cow in here. We toss it in the back and find another river to set our literal dumpster fire beside. A muddy one with a quick current comes into view. Kirsten sets the can next to the bank and fetches the turkey. Holding it over the opening, she puts her lighter up to it, praying for it to light. A sizable chunk falls into the base of it. Kirsten rips up a fistful of grass and tries that. I go to the truck, get our sunglasses, and hand her a pair.

“For protection,” I say.

She shrugs and takes it. I peek over and watch as the flames consume the grass. A turkey disk flies past my left ear and clunks against the bottom. It finally catches. We stand back at a safe distance and wait for our food. Soon enough, as expected, something decides to go horrifically wrong. The fire begins to react badly to the plastic. Thick smoke billows out of the top as it crackles madly. Flames shoot out from the top, illuminating every single fiber of tinsel on Kirsten’s golden sweater. The fire reaches several feet above the rim. I recoil before braving kicking it into the river. At least we were smart enough to anticipate needing to do that.

After the fire dies and the can gets swept away in the current, Kirsten and I look at each other, horrified. We plunge into the murky water, scrambling to get the turkey back. Thick mud sucks the bottoms of my flip flops with every step. I lift my legs with twice as much force as I normally would, which gives the impression that I have a really bad wedgie. Kirsten is no more graceful. We slog our way to where the trash can caught itself on a branch in a slower, shallower section. Kirsten flings the floating trashcan toward her, only to find nothing inside. She panics and starts raking the bottom of the river with her hands. I do the same, trying to squint through it. It’s exactly like trying to see the bottom of a glass of chocolate milk. I’m covered to my waist in a film of mud and leaf particles.

My hand grips a chunk of turkey. Thrilled, I tear off the tire-marked plastic and chisel away at the charred part. It’s soaked through. It apparently has a burnt layer, a thin cooked layer, and a raw layer. I do the best I can to get the good parts out of it before tossing it way out into the other side of the river. Kirsten finds a piece of her own and eats it like a dog.

Something fleshy hits the back of my hand. I eagerly grab it and bring it up to me. The image hits my brain, and something within me shuts down. It’s sickly pink. And veiny, and cylindrical, and flaccid, and weirdly tapered off at the ends. As it regurgitates more lake liquid out, it droops even further, causing it to curl and stick around my hand. My eyes cross as I notice all the angry flies and other insects buzzing over the surface.

Oh no.

Kirsten looks at me, pauses and stands still, and drops the desecrated leg and lets everything she was chewing out of her mouth. I examine it from different angles, not daring to believe. I don’t know why I’m waiting so long to toss it back into the abyss.

Kirsten stutters. “I think it’s… um. I think it’s a part of the turkey. The neck part.”

I stare at it. “Are we certain of this?”

I toss it back anyway. Even though I’m 90% sure that it’s just a neck, I’m not taking any chances. My hands sift through the murky water in search of more burnt turkey, shivers going through my spine. I find another piece and tear away the bad sections. I carefully bite into the soggy cooked part, careful to not let my mouth touch the remaining raw portion. Out of nowhere, Kirsten kicks a wave of brown onto my back. I’m sure she just did that to start some shit. Hopeless and angry, I swipe water toward her, soaking her front. Mud, water, and flies obscure my vision. The foul water violates my mouth as I toss more fistfuls of crap. The sound of rocky mud hitting the side of my face echoes in my ears.

  Part IV

           My legs stiffen as I fully realize that I’m standing in the doorway of her bedroom, saying nothing. I look at the piece of paper in my hand. “I’ve written you a letter,” I say, stating the obvious.

           Beatrice doesn’t respond. She just keeps sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for me to explain, leave, or die where I stand. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She mostly just looks blank. She finally raises her eyebrows as if I’m an embarrassment to myself.

I look down at the print and think about what it says. My heart is empty of all of it. This was all stupid. Watching her act all dejected tears everything out of me. “This is… weird. I’ve come this far, so… um… so… I,” I pause. “I think I should just say what I was going to say. I’m sorry if this turns out to be weirder than it already is,” I apologize exasperatedly. A breath shudders into my floppy lungs.

It’s currently two in the morning, and I’m sitting on my floor writing this letter to you because I’ve finally made a decision. In situations like these, it seems as though there are no good solutions or ways to move forward. Letting you go is probably the right thing to do, but it also seems like the worst thing I could possibly do. You’ve grown to mean a lot to me, and I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I didn’t try to show you what you’ve shown me. I hope you like the letter, and I hope that I do too, because I have no idea of what I’m going to say yet.

I can’t get it out of my head that we were meant to be. The force that made God surely made that. The fact that the girl who taught me to love without fear fears the way she loves is nothing short of a tragedy. Religion is meant to be a solace from pain and a tool for self-improvement and salvation- not something that destroys the soul. To “fear God” is not to praise a force that loves conditionally and is ready to beat you into submission at a moment’s notice. We were not made to cower and wrap ourselves tightly in a box in order to avoid eternal damnation from a disapproving force that doesn’t understand. To fear God is to be in awe of God. To fear God is to marvel at how such an infinite love could possibly exist, a love beyond what the human mind could possibly comprehend. To fear God is to never fear anything again. I am not afraid of you. I do not fear your fears.

The wrong kind of fear breeds actions that are against the core of religion. This form of strict adherence causes parents to kick out their children and makes those children kill themselves. It is fruitless. Religion becomes a checklist rather than a source of salvation. But where are the people who demand women to sacrifice two doves at the end of each menstrual cycle? I do not know. Very few, if any, people avoid picking and choosing what in the Bible they should follow, and because of this, we are saved. Kill nonbelievers. Stone young girls if they cannot prove their virginity. Women cannot speak in church. Sacrifice God’s creatures to atone for your sins. Women are property. It’s okay to whip your slaves. The writers of the word of God could not help but be influenced by the surrounding truths in the culture they were brought up in. These injustices were truths as old and as solid as the knowledge that the sun would rise in the morning. Women are dogs, animals burn, and the sky is blue. Today, in this millennium, the sky is blue, and I’m not ever giving up.

What is destroyed by religion can be mended with religion. The Bible seemed to show that slavery is natural, but those in bondage read other lines and let their faith carry them and their descendants into a more just world. Countless wars started in the name of God, but those who walk with God walk in peace. Even thousands of years ago, the rigidity of the powerful religious stripped people of their personhood for so much as picking food on the Sabbath. Jesus ate grains and forgave. God takes care of the forgotten, the unpopular, the powerless, always. Faith embraces all who have it.

Others may not accept us, but all of them pale in comparison to God. There is no male or female in His eyes. He cannot see anything other than our connected souls. In His hands, no one can tell us that we are abominations. No one can make you hate who you are. We are not freaks. Was God wrong for making you this way? It is no test; God is not a trickster. Repressing your feelings will not make you closer to Him. Not being you destroys you. You were meant to let yourself breathe. We have a place here. Kids don’t have families, and we can help them. The idea of you in pain over this hurts me as if you were a part of me. It breaks my heart. I will shield you and dry your tears if you’ll let me. I’ll tell you over and over that God wants you to feel safe. I want to help you feel safe.

To sin is to be without God, and by extension, without meaning. Vices provide temporary relief, but they will die with our bodies, and we will be dragged down along with those simple, empty pleasures we used as a crutch. Sin destroys us. It lies. It suppresses the light of God, ruins lives, and does the opposite of what we want it to do. Lust and gluttony satisfy the flesh, but never the soul. You can consume and consume and consume and find yourself lost in emptiness. It doesn’t stay. It never satisfies. Greed, wrath, and envy burn their host to the ground and stave away any hope of redemption. Pride’s keepers believe themselves to be too good for improvement, for openness. Pride is the treasure of the insecure.

I do not believe that what we have is infested with sin. This happiness feels whole, not empty or temporary. The truth blazes within you; it is not hideous and riddled with the deceit of evil. This feeling is not a lie. The way my heart is stitched to yours is not a lie. I’d have to be a fool to feel cursed. Tear out my brain, rip me limb for limb, kill desire, defeat pride, leave only my soul- and it still wants you. Even so, perhaps we really are abominations for some profoundly strange, arbitrary reason. This is something we cannot know. But this is what I do know. My feelings for you last beyond me. Beyond time itself. Heaven comes down to Earth when I’m with you. You expand my heart and mind beyond the brink. This truth overturns every stone and opens every door. Here I am, with you, in your hands, learning. Everything is complex and ceaselessly pours in. And yet, everything is simple. In this, I am made perfect. I am clean.

“Agape” is the unconditional love that God has for us. It wants nothing; it just is. It flows endlessly without question. Agape is what I have for everything that exists, for I am lucky enough to live here in the constant Now. These subtle forces that allow us to be here and breathe are surely a divine gift. This world is a reflection of God, my consciousness a reflection of His love. I see virtue in even the saddest and strangest of places. You, my dear, are a prism; God’s light refracts through you and ignites everything that can be perceived. You are the opposite of suppression. How can you be a vice if you bring me closer to the light? I’m ceaselessly inspired to love the world with all of me. This pours from me and begs me to do good rather than evil, or worst of all, nothing. This love is ancient and forever. Every place I go is a place I hold dear to me. It’s all heavenly. There are no vice-like pitfalls anywhere, and meaning is infused into all I do. I want to love, to share, to mend, to speak endlessly. I love you with this intensity. Agape.

There’s a character in To Kill a Mockingbird who believes that flowers and those who look at them are damned to hell because they’re pretty and distract from the glory of God. She reasons that beauty is a vice and that no one should enjoy it. That vision dictates that the purpose of humanity is to shun all the good things in life and to stay in a rigid line. If that is so, lock me in a box where I can never see another flower, never touch your face, never breathe. If that is what I am to be, I will stand there forever, beating on the walls, begging to be let into a fear-infused paradise where there is nothing but more lists of rules on a wall.

I believe that God is in the flowers. He is in them, and He is in my adoration of you. Too many people pray to the rules, not praying for love, not understanding that God prays for them to love. God prays to be understood. Flowers are not a refuge from the light; the light is in them. God is not some unreachable thing locked away in the heavens, separate from the world and its people. He is not some white dude sitting on a cloud waiting to smite you for eating pork. His love seeps from everything our senses can perceive.

I see God in the clouds. I see God in pain and in resilience and healing. I hear God during funerals. I feel God in my grandmother’s small church on Christmas Eve when everyone holds candles. I hear God in the old cars in our town when they struggle to start. I see God in homeless people and quiet streets. I feel God when we play music from The Cars in your car at night when no one else is there. I hear God in the streetlights that dance on your face. I see God in the kids that recklessly chase each other in the park. I see God when I talk to kind strangers. I see God in you.

You brighten all of these things. There are bits of you in all I experience. The elements on the periodic table don’t have shit on you. You unearth dimensions that you alone can access, dimensions where existence itself is its own grand purpose- depth within depth. I have been changed beyond comprehension. Even though you’re this brave force of perseverance that fears nothing and can make anyone smile, you’re also meek, gentle, and pure. You can do anything and make me believe in anything. You’re the crown of this world that you beautify.

Despite this, you don’t seem to know who you are. At all. When I look deeper into you, I see someone who is unwittingly full of contradictions- a hypocrite with a heart of gold. I see someone who loves everyone deeply and abhors herself with the same passion. You’re torn between letting yourself out or hiding away forever. You don’t know if you can afford to stop hating yourself. You don’t know if you’re brave enough to try. You’re selfless, yet you give yourself nothing. You are wise beyond your years, but you are unsure if your logic is a delusion. You exude peace, but your mind, heart, and soul take part in a daily bloodbath. You want to be good. You don’t know if you should stop caring or care too much. You’re always in pieces, and you’re always fighting those fragments that make you who you are. These things build up.  They build up until you’re lost in the frenzy of a whirlwind. You’re stretched thin across a continuum of uncertainty, false hope, and second-guesses. In those times, you don’t seem to be any one figure. You can’t make up your mind about who you are supposed to be. I think it’s because you’re everything, infinitely.

“I can see you clearly now,” I say into the light.

Her eyes are wide and dewy. I smile at her because I feel the same as I had when it all began. My heart has been restored. I have her again. Her angelic presence renews me. Our souls separate from our flesh and refract into a singular heavenly globe with us in the middle. The golden light warms as I slowly reach my hand out towards hers. The heavens above open for us. No longer star crossed, the warring and bleeding constellations uncross and file back into their order, further blending our lines together. Old grudges, hatreds, and ways within us and outside us melt away with our enlightened love. No one can ever take this away from us again. Everything that seeks to deaden and choke us out has no power over this anymore. We’re immovable. She grabs my hand after I extend it all the way. The saintly outpour of emotion solidifies as our fingers interlock into an unchangeable bond.

I want to keep you close to me. I want us to keep being there for each other during our lives on Earth and beyond as we rest in death among the stars. I want you to be the one part of my life that doesn’t move. If I had to pick and choose one part of the Bible to follow blindly, it wouldn’t be verse banning tattoos, the one that hates shrimp, or even the one that vilifies clothes made from several different types of string. There’s a part in Corinthians that I happen to like the most out of everything I’ve read so far. It says that signs of worship do not mean anything without love. Giving the world everything is an empty act if you do not have it. Love is the foundation of religion, and in its absence, religion is a farce- almost a sin in and of itself. Love never falters; it is the only true constant. As the world keeps going through the spiraling path of the future, all of these things that we hold dear will pass away. Our bodies will rot, and civilizations will crumble as if they were nothing. Science will grow and diminish, songs will be deleted from the canals of history, and the concept of music itself will cease. Fleeting hateful thoughts will fade out into nonexistence. Inventions and human glory will die. New religions with new books and new rules will rise and sink back into the dirt, and the people of the future and their cultures will forever remain in a state of change. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

  A quiet epiphany overtakes me as I come to and watch myself stew in this low point. In the silence, I feel the four tires moving under me and blank again. I barely smell the stale cough of the air conditioner. I barely feel the caking layer of mud that saturates me from my feet to just below my lips. I barely know that I’m being dumb by letting this truck take me farther and farther from her. This quiet state of wonder, this beautiful space between pain and redemption consumes me in a bath of enlightenment. I have not been blessed with true consciousness until now. I was plopped into existence only moments ago to find myself inhabiting a teenage girl who is running away with a bad friend. A grand possibility that I never could have dreamt of until now puts my sparks back in me. I look down at myself and around the interior of the vehicle as if I am seeing the world for the first time. Peace dulls my senses. I close my eyes and inhale sharply. Everything is so easy. In this nothing, I am overcome with great emotion- more than I’ve ever felt before.

“I want to go home,” I say quietly, earnestly.

“What a shame.”

“I’m not kidding. I mean it, Kirsten. I want to go home, right now.”

She sighs and puts her other palm on the wheel. “Why the fuck would you want to go back, especially now since we’re so close to what we’ve been moving toward? The answer is no. I am not turning around on a stupid whim.”

“I have to see Beatrice.”

She gives me a quick, incredulous look. “Why do you have to see Beatrice?”

“I need to talk to her. I think I can fix things,” I say, my breath heavy with my thickening resolve.

“She doesn’t like you. She probably never really did. That’s why she ditched you. You need to get the fuck over it. You were the one that begged me to go on this stupid fucking trip anyway.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love before?”

Her face hardens.

“I bet you haven’t. I’ve known you for a while. You can’t even pretend to love anything. You don’t understand anything about it because you’ve never felt it.” Vitriol fires me up and flies out with every word.

“I damn well understand enough to know when it is and isn’t there. You didn’t even know how to talk to her. And all the better too, because when I saw you two together, it was her talking endlessly and ignoring you and you saying nothing at all. She never shuts the fuck up. And you don’t know how the fuck to breathe. And both of you are real piles of shit for it. You’re like the Shit King.”

“The Shit King,” I repeat.

“She made you her bitch. You were her pet that she’d drag around to do illegal shit with. She controlled your every damn move. Sometimes, you’re so pathetic that it makes me cry. Did you love slinging weed at parties with her? You used to flinch whenever I’d mention so much as smoking cigarettes. And then she didn’t ever even have sex with you… because why? It’s especially funny because I remember that she’d open her legs for just about anything freshman year.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” I mouth.

“Do you really want to do all that again?” she taunts, ignoring me. “Live that fake-ass life? Be an accessory?”

“You don’t know one fucking thing about her and me. You never saw us alone. You never read what we wrote for each other. You never felt the way she looked at me. You’re a miserable person to be around. I don’t like being your friend. I only started talking to you because I felt bad for you because you’re horrible and barely have anyone. And would you like to know who inspired me to do that? Beatrice. Fucking Beatrice. I saw how beautiful her fearlessness was and I decided that I needed her and everything else in my life. She’s why I feel comfortable in this world. There’s nothing ‘fake’ about us. It’s not like you’d even know. You can’t get into an actual functioning relationship of any kind to save your life.” I take in a shuddering breath. “Your sister is fucking dead, and you may as well be too at this point. You’re a useless goddamned bastard. You don’t have a reason to live. I do.”

She looks dumbfounded. Her pupils retract into some unreachable asylum. I feel satisfied for the first time in a while. All I know is that I need to do whatever I can to go back to her. I’ll make it all okay again like I did a few months ago. I’ll do it in a thousand different ways with a thousand different letters, each one better than the last.

I gather my thoughts while she dissolves the blow. “I love Beatrice. I don’t love any of this. Take me fucking home,” I say gently.

I suggest that she should pull up a map on her phone so she can find the fastest route. She retrieves it and types in the password. She bites her lip and points to the “no signal” icon with a single shaky finger.

           “Maybe there will be a signal at the top of the hill over there,” I suggest. I try to keep a much softer tone so I don’t hurt her more than I had to.

           Kirsten squints through the trees, or at least pretends to. She nods and turns the truck on, still not looking at me. Sunlight dances on the road as we reach the base of the hill. She pulls off the road and floors the gas, sending us up it. It mainly has medium-length grass as well as a few shrubs. She turns a little to the left after a minute so we don’t fall off. I look behind at the little dots of trees in the forest beyond the jagged edge. The bottoms of my feet writhe.

           Kirsten lamely exits the vehicle, her phone tightly wrapped in her hand. We walk until we reach the very top. I start panting in the unfiltered heat. She squints at her phone and hits the side of it. She lifts it in the air and checks it a few times.

“My data provider never anticipated anything like this.” Her voice sounds weak. More impatient anger billows up inside me.

She reaches her hand higher and higher into the sky.

I groan. “Maybe if-”

A metallic creak reaches our ears. Kirsten drops her phone. Pangs of fear and disbelief stream through the skin of my neck as I watch the truck begin to slowly roll backwards. Kirsten runs out in front of me before I gain the sense to run. The truck picks up speed, rumbling and jumping in the slanted grassy hill. We stop chasing after it once it gets to the edge because it’s no use. The remaining front wheel jolts upwards as it rolls over the lip of the cliff as if it were raising its hand in a desperate “save me” motion. I reach out my own hand as if I could. It falls and claps against my leg in despair.

“Did you put the parking brake on?” I ask.

Her silence answers me.

I gulp in nothing. The wind ripples around my disgusting rag of a dress. We stand for a while in mourning, our bodies turning into wood. My brain slowly processes our situation. I am too dead to be shocked. I am too shocked to be mad. I am merely an observer of the presence of nothing. Chills wrack my body, but I’m too stiff to shiver.

 (this is supposed to be separated with a line but the format is weird)

Kirsten and Lily stand a car’s length apart from each other as they take in the awe of their own destruction. Their faded emotions knock on the doors of their hearts, begging to be let in, begging to be felt, but they do not bend to them. If even one broke in, they would break. They stand stiffly still in the intermittent wind, scared to move, scared to see.

The camera pans up and down slowly like what one might do to capture the image of a world-class playboy model. Blood spurts and streams down from Kirsten’s nostrils to her chin without inhibition. Her busted lip marks her graying face with a pop of color. Her eyes twitch as the picture moves all the way down the length of her yellow tinsel sweater matted with dried dirt. Her scene cuts. Lily’s mouth is agape. The mud that overtakes the front of her body takes center stage as she absentmindedly tries not to let any of it in. Her matted hair moves awkwardly in the wind. Her faded dress recoils harder every second that it has to touch the river’s excrement. The gigantic, gaping burn in the center is a second mouth. Hairy legs peek out from the brown. Just before her scene goes black, the camera zooms in on her arm tattoo.

Deadpan humor permeates the air. It’s all so hilarious in the same way that ironic deaths and terrible jokes that fall flat are hilarious. Everything is funny, and everything has happened. The girls are plagued with dog food branded into their mouths and stained with badly drawn dicks and thoughts of death and strife, but it’s alright. The cold is a form of heat once the nerves go numb. And though it is not yet even noon, the sun sets, leaving them in darkness.