#got ptsd triggered by going past my old church because i took a wrong turn because i was. crying about not being able to return my glasses

[ghostofasecretary]

it's been a while since i've cried hard enough to have a headache but. sure got there today, babes!

[wh6res]

“𝑰’𝑴 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻, 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 𝑺𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑶𝑼𝑹.”

part of the 21 ways to kill your lover collab hosted by the lovely miss solange @du0tine

pairing. entity! xdj & f! reader | word count. 5.4k

synopsis. he wasn’t a god, he wasn’t a devil, and fuck, he’s surely not an angel, but he will be your saviour and your light ‘till kingdome come.

warnings. tread with caution. yandere/possesive themes, religious themes, violence, mentions of gore, swearing, mentions of ptsd, mentions of physical abuse, a lot of character deaths, manipulation, stalking, and implications of suicide

disclaimer. i do not condone whatever tf i wrote in this nor does it reflect my beliefs or values or morals and such. it is all pure fiction and i also dont think xiaojun from wayv would act like this in real life.

a soul’s vulnerability gives him strength. he has scourged far and wide and has yet to encounter a soul as interesting as yours. he never thought a heart filled with hatred and a fragile mentality can be such a sweet combination. xiaojun would be stupid not to latch his greedy talons onto you.

he hides in the darkest corners of your room at night, unseen and unheard, just watching over you like a predator to his poor unsuspecting gazelle before diving into the anticipated chase. 

he moves in with you into the cheap apartment you got for yourself here in the big city—which he thinks is an awful move because of how lonely it’ll be. but hey, it wasn’t anyone’s fault that you got chased out of your own home by your stepdad, your very own biological mom too scared to say a peep of defense to your name. 

your downfalls became xiaojun’s highlights. 

he would’ve felt sorry for you after finding out about that abusive old man. ugh, he scowls. your stepdad makes the entity’s blood boil and he doesn’t even have blood to begin with. the same man who holds the bible in his left hand when he preaches sermons for the people, is the same hand he uses to hit you across the face. 

the same hand he uses to pull at your hair. the same hand he uses to punch your gut. the same hand he uses to shove your mom down when she tries interfering. 

xiaojun may hate men of god but above all, he absolutely detests the kind your old man is—a faker, who thinks he can get away with the shit mess he’s making. xiaojun would never take that preacher’s murky soul even if he offered it to the entity voluntarily. fake. fake. fake. fake. fake. xiaojun should’ve killed him. xiaojun should’ve slit his throat. xiaojun should’ve torn his eyes out—

ah, ah, ah.

he can’t afford to make you any less vulnerable than you already are, now, can he? after all, he can be anything you want but he’s no angel. 

so he watched from the sidelines. 

watched you cry. watched you bleed. watched your scars form. watched the hate and resentment you have for your own family fester in your heart until it grew to a size you can’t hide within yourself anymore. 

and then you left home. 

xiaojun has to admit, for a second, maybe leaving home will make your soul unworthy, will break the mold he’s already had of you and will completely spoil his well-thought out plans.

so really, he can only scoff when he watches you walk around the apartment wearing that pretty dress on a sunday morning, darting around with calculated steps to shove everything inside your bag to go to church. the dress hangs nicely against your skin but he’d rather you stay and wear nothing. 

maybe you’d finally find contentment and happiness in this place, in this city, on your own. soaring high without a cage, without someone to hold you back—these things fill his thoughts like a plague until you come barging back into the door 30 minutes later. 

he’s been watching you long enough to know church service wouldn’t end for another 30 minutes or so. xiaojun’s eyebrows quirk up. why would his fragile little gazelle come back oh so early? but his question is immediately answered when he detects your shaky breaths and the unshed tears in your glistening eyes

you’re suffering the post-traumatic effects your shit stepdad has caused. seeing another preacher must’ve been a trigger, he thinks, eyeing you with a look on his face. xiaojun felt a little stupid. of course, swimming to the surface will be tough with all that trauma anchoring you down.

it’ll be tough, indeed… so why not sink you even deeper?

it didn’t take much energy for him to start manipulating your dreams. every nap, every deep sleep, he’d replay all the horrible things your stepdad has done to you and he realizes how dreams depicted from his perspective took a larger toll on you versus the ones from your own point of view—witnessing for yourself how weak and helpless you had been seemed to chip away bigger parts of you, he notices. your terrified screams when waking up in cold sweat getting louder and louder with every passing nightmare.

he pushed, and pushed, and pushed until you were standing right at the edge of sanity. until you start questioning your own self-worth and judgment, the invisible chains of the trauma too strong to break. until your radiant skin looked deathly, with gaunt cheeks and white lips. until you developed a fear of sleeping because no, you don’t want to witness those horrors again. no. no. no. no, please don’t hit me—

xiaojun can’t help but admire his handiwork but no, he doesn’t have time for that! 

the next time you fell asleep you had been desperately holding onto your 5th bottle of gatorade like it was a torch breaking through the darkness. you’ve intake so much of the energy drink that your body has grown used to it. you would’ve switched to caffeine, but from how much you drank it prior to the energy drinks, your blood is practically coffee at this point. 

“you’re living in my house now, young lady! i’d like to see some respect from your or i’ll fucking beat it into you!”

“stop! please. hit me instead, hit me!” 

“this is all your fault, bitch! how can you raise one daughter wrong? no wonder your husband left you!”

murky and black, you can’t even see the bottom at this point. it keeps pulling you down, and down, and down, until you couldn’t breathe. until your head feels light. until your heart beats erratically within your ribcage as you fought to the surface. 

with all the negative emotions surging through you in thunderous waves, it’s a wonder how no other lonesome, starving entity has latched onto you like xiaojun. although realistically, he was here first, as if he’ll let any other being like him go near you.

it took a greater amount of energy to twist and manipulate the plotline of certain events in a dream. if xiaojun hadn’t grown strong from all your negativity, he’d never be able to do it. 

he can never forget the day he first appeared to you in a dream. to have you cling onto him as you willingly took his hand—not that he was caught by surprise, anyway. every second of every hour of every day xiaojun spent plotting your demise has led to this fruitful day of “meeting” you for the first time. 

“i’m right here,” he said, shaking fingers tracing over your cheeks. a soft caress you have never experienced. 

the man in your dreams is someone you’ve never met before—you’re positive that you haven’t because you’d never forget a face as handsome as his. he appears like an angel casted over divine light, with a soft smile that can cure the plague as he offers his hands for you to take. it was beautiful, how your nightmares turned into dreams the moment the mysterious man arrived. 

how’d you ever know, that the hand you grabbed is the wolf in sheep’s clothing?

it’s sad really, how you’ve only managed to escape one horror only to jump into the next but xiaojun can’t find it in himself to feel bad. well, maybe a little, it’s a fleeting thought. something that disappeared as quickly as it had passed by.

it was only after a few weeks of constantly appearing in your dreams did his plan start to backfire. the change in your behavior isn’t subtle, either, and it angered him all the more. he didn’t see this coming, not even from lightyears away.

simple to say you’ve grown a little more… how can xiaojun put this into words? well, a little more outgoing. adventurous. meeting new people and going to new places and experiencing new things. he can see everything as clear as day—you were healing from your past, leaving the dark chapters in your life to write newer and brighter ones that revolved on having actual healthy relationships for once. 

his seething anger of his failed plans had made all the windows in your apartment burst into thousand little pieces. if you had fine china dishes displayed on your kitchen cabinets he would’ve broken those too. how can you go against him like this? look at you all happy and smiley even as the room turned ice cold because of xiaojun’s suffocating presence. you never even thought once about it—how naive. 

tormenting you through dreams isn’t working anymore. xiaojun has to up his game if he wants to break you down and revert you back to that paranoid, sensitive, and frail self that couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t talk to any other human being without feeling the ghost of your abusive step-father’s hands against your skin. 

who says he can only control you through mind games alone? after he’s done what needs to be done, grief and self-pity will go hand in hand. a combination so cruel and heavy on your shoulders that xiaojun can already savor the metallic tangy taste of victory. 

“no! yeji—!”

xiaojun watches unblinking when he makes one of your new friends walk out the sidewalk and right into an overspeeding car. 

tires skidding across the pavement, the breaks not working, glass shattering, bones cracking against the force of the hit—dead, right on the fucking spot.

he’s never heard you scream that loud and he shudders in pleasure as the vibrations of your shrill voice courses through his veins. 

he missed this, your complete and utter misery. 

but he wasn’t done yet. 

“don’t you think it’s a ‘lil chilly in here?” ryujin asks, looking over to your side before drinking the hot chocolate she prepared for both of you. 

grieving together with a friend can be good, hence why you’re now in her apartment a month later after yeji’s funeral. 

you answer after taking a sip. “no, not really.” 

xiaojun grins, giddy and a skip in his step while making his way towards you as he side-eyes your friend, who religiously drank her hot chocolate all the while bundling up next to you so you both can watch the movie together playing on the laptop. 

this one, well, he particularly doesn’t like this one. 

if your other friend was meant to be a casualty, a death borne from not one smidge of personal vendetta, this one, this ryujin is different. heck, he even remembers her fucking name.

no, no, no. xiaojun can feel his skin crawl as ryujin cuddles intimately closer as she stares at you from her peripheral, feeling out whether you’d react or not as she sneaks an arm around your waist. his anger turns a fever pitch, seeing you with someone else driving him up the wall. you were meant to be his sad and hopeless little gazelle and his alone.

xiaojun hoped the poison travels fast or so help him he’ll fucking rip her off of you—and he would’ve, when he saw you and ryujin slowly leaning into one another, head angled and obviously going in for a kiss. he would’ve, when one of ryujin’s hands come up to cup your face. he would’ve… until the poison reached its destination in her body, right when your lips were about to touch. 

ryujin’s lungs seized, breathing becoming an agent to her demise as the oxygen from her lungs disappear into nothingness. the last thing she saw is your horrified face, tears streaming. she swore you were shouting something, probably her name, but it’s overpowered by the incessant ring in her ears.

when her mouth foamed and she laid limp on the couch right next to you, you knew ryujin would never wake again to give you that kiss. 

xiaojun steps back to admire the havoc he wreaked. two of your friends dead, that should be enough to incapacitate you—whether it be permanent or not, he just wants to see you drown in misery. 

and as he slowly dissipates into the void, there’s a little smile on his face as he stares you down, burning the image of your histeria in his head, the echoes of your woeful cries music to his ears. 

you never dared step foot out of your apartment. 

groceries were delivered to your door, trash is slowly but surely building up, and the place was a whole mess. the entity haunting you has never seen you this… shattered, even when you left home. it was like your brain has stopped working and your body turned into nothing more but a cusp of who you used to be. 

it’s scary looking in the mirror and not recognizing the reflection—so, you painted all of them black. it was an in the heat of a moment kind of thing that took place the moment you came home from the police station, on the exact day she passed away before your eyes. 

xiaojun just has to “misplace” a few pints of paint you had used from when you renovated the apartment in the past, putting the cans where you can easily see them and think that the idea belonged to you when in reality, it’s the entity that put the idea in your head. 

there was a blanket over your shoulder when you came back from the station. it wasn’t yours, they gave it to you while you sat opposite to a stoic detective in a cold interrogation room, yet you made no move to shrug it off even after arriving at your apartment, fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline and refusing to believe whatever that had transpired in ryujin’s apartment. 

eyes unseeing, stumbling with your steps, back hunched with the curse of the universe weighing down on your back—xiaojun couldn’t’ve been more proud of what he had done.

you were spiraling out of control. a self-destructive cycle you cannot seem to fight your way out of as your nightmares came back to haunt you. the tall waves of anxiety and paranoia drowning and pushing you under the surface. 

for once you don’t fight the current, you just let it pull you under. 

every time you close your eyes, you can hear the deafening screech of rubber tires against concrete before the car hits yeji. can vividly see the foams of the poison coming out of ryujin’s mouth as if it was caught on tape and is now playing on loop. 

your other friends have donned you as bad luck, cursed to have a fucked up life and will fuck up other people’s lives too if they get even as close as an arm length to you. too scared to lose any more people, you decided to completely push everyone away and had completely shut yourself out from the world beyond the four corners of your apartment. 

it’s like your trauma from before has come crawling back to you, only now, he brings himself a little friend called guilt. 

what are the odds that your two friends died after the other when the person they’ve each last spent time with was you? even the police found it too much a coincidence. if it wasn’t for the cctv cams in the corners of ryujin’s apartment, you’d be facing trial for a murder you didn’t commit. 

you eye the usb stuck in one of your laptop’s ports. it’s black, with an srj poisoning case written in red ink on the small patch of masking tape pasted onto the back of the plastic. 

after being stuck in an interrogation room for the last two hours, you had sneakily swiped it out of the detective's desk on your way out of the station. you remembered it was the usb with a copy of ryujin’s cctv cams, some underling busting into the interrogation room while in the middle of your questioning, holding the tiny usb between his fingers. 

your stomach churned when the detective looked at you spitefully, as if he couldn’t fucking care less of the evidence presented to him in a silver platter and would thoroughly take pleasure in throwing you in jail himself, guilty or not. the last look he shot you still sends shivers down your spine, the sharpness in his gaze as he regarded you. “you killed them. i know you did.”

a week of self-induced isolation later and you start to believe in it yourself. 

in the middle of screaming your lungs out and cursing the gods above for your sorry excuse of a life, you had thrown the usb somewhere in the apartment. not that you bothered to look for it right after, you were too busy wallowing in self pity before passing out on the living room floor. when you wake up, you’ve forgotten all about it. 

so it was interesting, seeing the usb again after days and days of wallowing in grief. you had fallen off the couch while in the middle of a slumber and you spotted the small piece of tech lying underneath it with the other empty coke cans. 

eyeing the laptop on the coffee table, you remember you haven’t taken a look at the evidence yourself—the detective had given you the stink eye when you tried shuffling closer to peep a look. carelessly, you shove all other objects off the table to pull the laptop closer. you plant yourself on the ground cross-legged, not batting an eyelash even when you feel the crumbs of chips against your skin. 

you boot the laptop on, thankful you’ve yet to forget its password, and plugged the usb in again. it was simple to navigate, to say the least, the folder popping up in a matter of seconds. you thought it stored a whole collection of her cctv footages but alas, it didn’t, saving you the time and energy scourging through unwanted boring files. 

hands shaking, you clicked on the video. 

and it was as if you’re thrown back into that event in your life that has now become a distant memory. the hug ryujin gave you when she opened the door, her words of comfort when you opened up about your deteriorating mental health after your friend passed away, and finally, the warm feel of the mug against the palm of your hand. 

wait a minute. 

you perk up from your seat, groaning aloud when your knee hits the underside of the coffee table at your haste, fingers darting around to press the back 10 seconds button. the sweat starts forming in your forehead and palms, making your hand feel clammy and disgusting but it was the last of your worries. 

did you see that correctly?

the quality is a bit low and the camera angle isn’t optimal. you can only see ryujin’s side profile but her glassy eyes are unmistakable and her actions look robotic at best. 

this is after she made your hot cocoa and had delivered it to your shivering, sniffling form on the couch, all bundled up snug and cozy in the blanket she provided. you remember ryujin winking as she walked back towards her kitchen after you thanked her. 

the way she poured poison in her own mug ruled her case as suicice. the evidence is right there in your face but the unease still sits heavy on your stomach and confusion clouds your brain like cannabis. 

this doesn’t make any sense. 

you knew her, ryujin. she’s never one to succumb to her negative emotions, always facing her problems with head held high. her overall mindset, in general, made her the last person you’d think would ever commit suicide. you’ve replayed the video a thousand times by now, still unable to wrap your head around the fact that she killed herself. 

having the sudden urge for another bottle of gatorade, you pressed the pause button as you try hauling yourself up with your arms. 

you pause. pushing your face closer to the laptop screen, rubbing at your eyes incredulously as you eye the corner of her kitchen. 

ryujin’s apartment isn’t that luxurious, nor is it too rundown, but there can be little exceptions here and there. 

like the cheap LED bulbs attached rather messily onto her ceiling, one of the six sources of light flickering on and off. you remember how many times you’ve told her to get it fixed yet she never really paid you any heed.

with shaking fingers, you replayed it one more time, hoping on everything you believe in that it wasn’t what it looks like. this can’t be it—how is that possible—

it’s him, the man who has appeared like an angel in your dream to sweep you away from evil. but standing in the corner, under the flickering lights of your friend’s kitchen, he looked anything but an angelic. 

your mind is going haywire, your body shook in confusion, and sweat started dribbling down your neck. you would’ve thought you made a mistake because how is this even possible? the angelic man in your dreams isn’t real—he can’t be real, he can’t appear like this when you aren’t even sleeping because he’s not real!

he can’t… right?

he doesn’t look too harmless, what with his hands crossed and leisurely leaning against the wall. but one look at his eyes and you know you’re wrong. even through the shit quality of the cctv footage you can still feel the fury and the absolute hate his eyes held as he stared her down menacingly, unblinking.

stared her down as she made her own cocoa, as she hunches down to open the sink cabinets to get that pesky rat poison, as she poured it on her mug, as she swirls the spoon around to mix the deadly concoction all together in a hauntingly robotic way that looked too much like ryujin was being told what to do.

and as you let the video play the rest of its content and felt like the tragedy was unfolding right before your very eyes again—you couldn’t breathe, panic gripping onto you like a vice, the sharp talons of fear sinking deep under your skin. 

you don’t register the coffee table toppling over in your haste to stand up. desperately putting a distance between you and the laptop as you turned and stumbled towards the hallway leading to your bedroom. 

you stop, pathetically landing on your knees before the open archway. if you hadn’t been shaking in fear before, then you surely were now. 

he’s here—can you even call it a he?

the man stands at the end of the hallway. in that similar, non-threatening stature with his arms crossed and body leaning against the wall. 

but the mischief in his eyes is enough of a warning. 

he’s come for you. 

he’s come to finish the job. 

“finally figured it out?”

you screamed, throwing the closest thing you can at him as you shuffle someplace else in your apartment. his laugh sounded pleasant in the ear when you were off in dreamland, but now? it sounded like nails grating against a chalkboard. 

your legs eventually led you to the front door. appearances be damned. you weren’t even wearing a bra and you haven’t showered for days but fuck no you’re not going to stay here with that—that—that monster!

“baby, don’t leave! the fun hasn’t even started yet!”

you grab the doorknob and twist, practically throwing yourself out into the hallway, eyes frantic as you stumble and land face first against—

sticky. the floor’s sticky and there was a smell you can’t seem to pinpoint. it’s tangy, metallic, and you can almost taste the scent yourself in your tongue and when you look down—you want to throw up. 

lying next to each other in pools of their own blood, lies yeji and ryujin side by side, faces towards each other. their eyes hauntingly empty and unseeing as they stared up at you. 

you shrieked, voice scratching against your dry throat as you threw yourself back into your apartment, the door slamming shut in itself. you didn’t care if there’s now a huge mess of blood staining the carpets on the foyer. you curl in on yourself, hair sticking to your face as you covered your ears and shut your eyes. 

“oh, my love…”

you felt his presence before you can hear him. 

a flashback plays in your head—hot chocolate, soft blankets, and a friend who you loved with all your heart. “don’t you think it’s a little chilly in here?"

you answered. “no, not really?”

the tears start streaming like waterfalls, mixing with the blood and sweat already caked in your face. ryujin knew, she felt it back at her apartment yet you disregarded her completely.

“it’s not your fault,” the entity’s hands are ice cold when he gently pulls at your wrist. “everything is as it should be. now, open your eyes. there’s nothing to be afraid of. i’m not going to hurt you.”

stubbornly, you shook your head as you squeezed your lids even tighter, refusing to look at the monster dead in the eye.

“don’t be like that, my love. if i wanted to hurt you, i would’ve done it a long time ago.”

you don’t listen, hunching and curling your knees even more against your torso as you try to block out his voice. it’s unfair how gentle it sounded but your blood ran cold when you realize this is how he got ryujin to poison herself, this is how he got yeji to walk in front of a speeding car—

“hail mary, full—full of grace,” you pray under your breath, shaking like a leaf. “the lord… the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women…”

“you’re praying?” there’s an underlying mocking to e in his voice. “this is fucking hilarious!”

your incessant mumbling partnered with how you rocked your body back and forth, made something snap within xiaojun. he already stated he won’t hurt you! did he break you so much that now you’re unable to hear stuff properly, too?

“holy mary, mo—mother of god, pray for us sinners, now and—and at the hour of our death, amen. hail mary, full of grace…”

“stop.” his body twitches, having the sudden urge to pull all his hair out and burn this fucking building to the ground.

yet you continue. “the lord is with thee, blessed art thou among—among women and blessed is the… the fruit of thy womb, jesus…”

“i said stop, [name]. don’t fucking test me.”

“holy mary, mother of god—pray—pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our—”

you screeched in pain as your forehead comes in contact with a mirror, the sound of it shattering is deafening to the ears. his icy fingers let go of your nape, letting you fall hard to the ground. your ears perk up at the sound of streaming water. 

you weren’t in the foyer anymore, you feel cold tiles instead of the rough texture of the dirty carpet underneath you. eyes fluttering, you slowly pry them open, and the first thing you see is the faulty pipes found underneath your bathroom’s sink. patches of your clothes start getting wet. 

“you think a prayer of all things can stop me? i’m insulted!” you hiss when he grabs your face, hands so cold that it feels like you’re skin is burning off. “i was going to play nice.”

he pulls you towards him, hand encased around your throat. he shoves the open hair dryer into the half-filled bath tub as you feel him vibrate against you. “you don’t know how long i waited, how much energy i needed to appear to you like this.”

it’s with dread you realize that he’s actually giggling.

you whine, eyes feeling like it’ll pop out of their sockets when he squeezed your neck tighter. with a sudden rush of adrenaline, you anchor your wrists against his arm but it proves to be useless when he’s too strong. 

“please,” you wheezed. “i did… i did nothing wrong. let go—please.”

in the corner of your eyes, you stare at him from the mirror, stomach twisting in discomfort when you see him throwing his head back, eyes rolling up after taking a long whiff of your hair. “this—this fear you have, my love, only makes me stronger.”

“nothing… i did nothing wrong—please! please… let, let me go…” you’re starting to feel lightheaded, black spots floating around your vision. 

“nothing? are you sure about that?” 

you cringe when he licks up the tears in your face, toes curling at the sheer disgust you feel. but the words he spews next is far worse than the hand he’s wrapped around your throat. 

“didn’t you left your mom alone with that abusive asshole? didn’t you make yeji walk into that incoming car? didn’t you make ryujin drink that poison?”

he whispers them so softly, so gently that you almost mistook them as proclamations of love. 

“no…” your voice breaks. 

“yes. yes, you did,” he knew you like the back of his hand, knew what to say and how to say them for you to break in his arms. “you killed them, my love. you’re a murderer. you don’t even deserve to be alive after all of the things you’ve done.”

it’s almost pathetic how you shake your head, eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge the truth. 

“that’s… that’s not true…”

“you’re a curse to the people you love, the embodiment of they're suffering. don’t you see it?”

“stop lying!—”

“am i?” he retorts, maneuvering you around to face the mirror. you swore you covered the whole thing with black paint. “just look at yourself.”

oh, how badly he wants to shove your face against the mirror but he mustn't get ahead of himself. 

“did any of your friends even visit you to see how you’re doing?” no, they never did. he smiles like he knows what you’re thinking. “the answer is all before you now, my love. you need to see through the haze and accept it for what it really is. no one loves you. even the god you’re praying to didn’t answer. there’s nothing, no one, left.”

and for the first time since he has you in his tight hold, you stopped fighting. sobs wracking through your body as your shoulders slump and accept defeat. 

xiaojun automatically lets you go, cooing like a lover in your ear as he tucks you into his embrace. “you want this all to stop, don’t you? someone to save you?”

you nodded, unable to look at him as his hand came up to wipe away your tears. no one has ever done that for you in months ever since yeji and ryujin died.

“i’m here,” xiaojun says, running fingers through your hair comfortingly. “i’m your light, your only saviour. you want that, right, my love?” choice is a mere illusion but he likes keeping up with formalities. 

you fail to notice the steps he took towards the now overflowing bathtub, too lost in the new highs and lows of emotions you feel. 

“yes.”

it only took seconds to push you into the tub. its water buzzing with a live electric current brought by the hair dryer he dropped only minutes ago.

the effect is instantaneous. he watches your muscle spasm, your skin growing darker as the live water fries your body alive. quickly, xiaojun reaches down to lift your head out the water, not wanting to ruin your pretty face.

the last thing you feel is xiaojun’s cold lips pressing against your own, the gentle caress as he wiped your tears away… and the electricity finally passing through your heart. 

when the entity pulls away from your dead body, he only whispers three things—“mine, at last.”

[aloisofmissouri]

A Journal Entry

July 20th, 2021

11:44pm

Trigger Warning:

 Sexual Assault, Self Harm,Mental Health, physical health, and occasional swears.

Dear Reader,

I’m only eighteen but I have experienced a lot, and so have many other teens I know. I know at least four of my classmates have been raped at some point in their life. And who knows what others may have been through and I never knew. 

But I’m not writing to share their story, unless they decide that they want their story told. As of now, I am writing to share my story. 

So, let's start with my earliest memory.

My earliest memory is watching Elmo and Little Bear from my crib in the living room when I was probably a toddler. I don’t remember much, other than enjoying the cartoons. It was happy and innocent. One of the few childhood memories I can look back on and smile. 

I was really young when I was first raped. First raped, you caught that part, right? Yeah, I wasn’t raped just once, but multiple times by one man. The man I had grown up calling my father. The man on my birth certificate. I’m not exactly how old I was when it started, but if I had to guess, I was probably in the first or  second grade when it went past the occasional groping and lewd comments. 

Near the end of third grade, my mother decided to take me and my sibling to live with our grandmother. But that didn’t last long.

We ended up moving back in with our mother and abusive father when I was in fifth grade. I didn’t want to but my father manipulated me into doing so. He threatened to place a restraining order on my grandmother when I wanted to stay with her. 

Things were miserable and the abuse continued. But luckily I was able to go back to my grandmother by sixth grade. But I still had to deal with what happened.

I believe my grandmother meant well, but she use to tell me not to let people know what had happened to me. She said that no one would want to be with someone who was raped because a lot of people view them as used or damaged goods basically. 

My grandmother was a bit emotionally damaging, though I know she more than likely didn’t know that she was being so. I have reason to believe that she has dementia and possibly a personality disorder. 

I remember her saying that I shouldn’t wear plaid or spotted clothing because it would make me look bigger than the broad side of a barn. She also told me to stay away from bright colors because they would have the same effect. I refused to stay away from plaid though, I kept that jacket from middle school until junior year when I could no longer zip it. But it took me a long time to wear bright colors, and it is still hard. I also have a hard time feeling comfortable in my own skin, and not just because of the occasional comment about my weight from my grandmother, but also because of the abuse I had dealt with from my father. I spent the majority of school always wearing jeans, jackets, and dark clothing. I didn’t feel comfortable wearing shorts. And I’m still getting used to wearing them. 

I had to go to court in middle school. Someone had apparently turned my father in for what he had done to me (I was living with my grandmother again by then) and we still do not know who reported them. I wish I could thank whoever turned him in. 

Sadly, they only gave him three years despite the evidence. And he was only going to have to serve one and a half years because of the amount of time spent in a jail cell waiting for court that kept getting rescheduled. He died of stage four lung cancer though before he was half way through his time.

My freshman year I finally realised I had anxiety and that there was something definitely wrong with me mentally. By my sophomore year, I was self harming and in counselling and diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, OCD, and Anxiety. By junior year I was on a lot of medication thanks to a pill happy psychiatrist. And I was miserable. But thankfully, I found a new psychiatrist who quickly helped me get cut down to just one pill. Near the end of junior year, I quit self harming. And I also finally started to get a bit of control over my mania and my depression.

I have a Google Doc somewhere that has over 150 pages of poetry, and the majority of it is about depression, trauma, and anger. And they were all written during middle school and highschool. Writing poetry helped me then. Now, I don’t really write poetry anymore. I have only written a handful of poems within the last year. And they were mostly in Shakespearean English because I thought it would be fun.

I believe I might have religious anxiety. I don’t remember the technical term though. I grew up going to Baptist Churches and had a heavy christian influence. But sadly, Christians aren’t quite as christian as they are supposed to be. 

Due to being constantly worried about sinning and about being too filthy and being damned to hell, my depression and anxiety got to me from a different angle. I kept breaking up with everyone I dated if I feared we were getting too close. I would either feel like I wasn’t good enough or I would fear that we would have sex and I would be damned. I also hated myself for my sexuality, though it took me a long time to figure that out. I supported my LGBTA+ friends but when it came to myself, I couldn’t accept myself. 

When I self harmed, I would do it because I felt filthy and had this urge to scratch my skin off my body because I never felt clean. I never hurt myself too severely, just scratches and shallow cuts on my wrist and my thigh. But I still found it hard to quit. It became far too easy to always turn to the blade, regardless of if I was feeling filthy or if I was dissociating or if I was having a panic attack. 

Despite what had happened to me, I’m finally starting to become me. Even though I am still discovering who I am. I quite self harming, I don’t have quite as many panic attacks or nightmares, I lost my virginity, learned I am demisexual (leaning a bit towards asexuality though) Panromantic and Nonbinary. I also discovered I have some other health issues outside of my mental health. I am apparently allergic to alphagall, peanuts, and wheat. Thankfully I just get slightly sick if I eat those things though, but it is still a bit annoying when those things are basically in everything you like to eat. 

I also found out that the reason my menstrual cycle has always been so irregular is because I have cysts. Originally I thought I had PCOS but now after some ultrasounds, it is looking like Endometriosis. I have cysts on my uterus and my ovaries. The doctor told me that my insurance should cover the surgery if I were to get a total hysterectomy. 

I never really wanted to give birth so that part of this doesn’t bother me, my fear is that there will be issues from the surgery. And it has also spurred some identity issues. But so far, I am sticking to they/them pronouns. Even though my family still calls me she/her. But I haven’t really come out to them. They know I’m not 100% straight, but who wants to sit down and explain to their grandmother (who dropped out of school in eight grade to care for her grandma, has a flip phone, and just a few years ago decided to accept the lgbt+ part of her family) that I’m nonbinary? I barely manage to explain to my mother (highschool dropout because of pregnancy, has a touch screen phone and understand some things of the current century) that there is more than just straight, gay, and bisexual. I explained to my mother the other day what omnigender and nonbinary is. Had to explain transgender to my mother when I was a junior and introduced her to a friend of mine who was afab but went by he/him pronouns. 

I suppose that despite all the shit I’ve been through, at least my mother doesn’t give two flying fucks who I like. When I told her that I thought I was pansexual in middle school, all she did was ask me what that meant. Then she just nodded her head and went with it. Same thing when I decided I was Wiccan in middle school. She even bought me a pentacle necklace and every book (mostly fantasy) that mentioned witches. I no longer identify as Wiccan, I mostly just stick to animist. But my point being, my mother didn’t throw a fit when two of her nine kids came out as gay. Even if she does identify as a Saturday Adventist, she supports us. She even listens to me ramble about mistranslated things in the Bible and my views on theology. And my rants about Supernatural. Though she did laugh when I spent about an hour crying after the Supernatural second to last episode of season 15. She did listen to me rant about Castiel and the plot lines and everything. Though I had to keep explaining some of the characters to her. 

Despite the things I’ve been through, I managed to graduate high school, survive my severe depression and anxiety, and now I am thinking about possibly applying for Law school and going to college. And I now also have the confidence to do what I want and wear what I want. Though I still feel all nervous about asking out a girl I’ve been friends with for about three or more years. I’ve now made the excuse to wait and see if she mentions not being completely straight. Oh, and she now has a boyfriend too so yeah, gonna have to wait a bit.

Until next time,

Alois 🐧

[hobohumanitarian6]

This is a long post so please be warned!!! I need to get some things off my chest....

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING POSSIBLE⚠️

Feedback to this post is open-ended. You cannot offend me and will not be blocked.

�� So here's the thing: one of my late grandmother's friends just posted that her 29 year old son died in his sleep with seemingly no explanation. This really shook me I guess. For one, I used to hang out with this kid during the summers a lot. My specific memories are very vague, but deep in my consciousness I know that I have called him friend in the past. For another, many things lately have been prompting me to ask the difficult questions ie

Why in the fuck am I here?

What's the meaning of it all?

When is my life going to get better?

How do I prepare myself for better things?

Am I blocking me or is something else blocking me?

What am I doing wrong that the universe doesn't think I'm ready for a new chapter?

Am I really with the right person?

What about the afterlife?

Am I going to be silenced or speak out?

What if I can't do some of things I want/dreamed of?

What is going to satisfy me if my future doesn't go as planned?

⭐ I've been doing quite a bit of soul searching through all of this, established the framework of the person I want to be and

BAM! 🧱 💥 🏃🏻‍♀️

Straight into a fucking. Brick. Wall.

⭐ I am in one of the worst continental states in the US (by even statistic) and before all of the shutdown and pandemic began, I had plans to be relocated with my new job, a place to call home & reunited with family by June 1st. Clearly that didn't happen....

⭐ I am spending $900 a month for a 250 ft² motel room just so I am not out on the streets.

Homelessness. Can we talk about that for a second? People getting arrested for being out past curfew because they don't have a place to go, put in jail because they're in the way, not tested or treated for the virus because they generally have no insurance, giving people loads of food stamps so the emergency assistance funding is broke-

600 dollars of groceries is a lot if you have a fridge, freezer, microwave, oven, toaster, etc not if you have to buy your food from overpriced convenience stores and gas stations and fresh food from grocery stores that 70% of the price is for the packaging it comes with!!

Soup kitchens closing because they don't want to risk contamination. Who's feeding those without a hot meal? Do they realize malnourishment is the quickest way to get sick with any pathogen!?

Shelters closed because of overpopulation. Domestic violence homes turning battered women and children away because there's too scarce of resources and funding. Yet people care about big corporations going bankrupt? Please tell me what the difference is between a goddamn human fucking life and a couple lawsuits because you didn't know how to prepare for an ever-changing economy.

Thank the universe i am sheltered with minimal resources to take care of myself and I have a steady job due to an enormous company's "chance on a down-in-the-dumps contractor." This job I have held steadily for a year despite chronic health issues has been the best thing to happen to me by far in a long time. I am definitely not by any means complaining about my job or that I even have life necessities right now. Several million don't have that.

⭐ The problem with this state is there are no resources for a person who's struggling to make an honest living. I lost my apartment two years ago because I had to take a medical leave of absence at my job then, got behind on rent and was evicted without a chance to catch up. The power was cut three nights before I had to leave, and I owe a deposit on the electric company to get any type of service back in my name. The realty company who owns the apartment complex will not allow a payment plan without a fraction of the principle paid down, so therefore I cannot apply for private or realty housing and I have been on the waiting list for federal housing assistance for 3 years without a single word. I also had my bank card stolen with my ID when I was trying to catch a bus to work a few weeks after that so whoever it was made small purchases that my bank applied interest and late charges to so that is also standing in debt. Thank universe my current employer allows direct deposit to a savings account at a bad credit institution or I'd be royally fucked.

⭐ Before I made the hard decision to doll out almost a G a month just for a room, I tried sleeping in my pickup. I even took the effort to pallet it for a platform bed & make benches to live in free campgrounds, cemeteries, truck stops, boonie dead ends, and behind abandoned buildings. I had a 12V converter that I connected to a rice cooker and made a tin can stove to grill small portions of meat on a single-egg mini skillet. I kept getting chased off by rangers, cops, annoying people trying to do crack and not get their lives better, and eventually violently detained for "suspicious activity" - I was thrown on the ground, put in handcuffs, patted down by a male officer with no female present, searched my vehicle without consent & written a citation: this was 2 am, I had a campsite reservation, I was clearly sleeping & my vehicle was current. The officers did not give me their name or numbers so I could not make a report.

⭐ I have chronic health issues - hip dysplasia & hyper mobility (not severe enough to be EDS), anemia, rexhia (NOT PRO ANYTHING), pre diabetes, H.S, BPD, PTSD, endometriosis & chronic migraines. I have filed time and time and time again for medical assistance but have always been denied. Every time I try to see a doctor, they claim I have this-or-that infection caused by this-or-that disorder, sent to an overpriced pharmacy with illness-irritating antibiotics that just keep me in an unending cycle of flares and barely-managable pain. Do not let anyone privileged or wealthy confuse you - you are not treated the same if you don't have coverage. Sorry to say but it is indeed a fact.

⭐ With this job I work 40-50 hours a week, eat as healthy as I can on a dime sized budget, and cover all my expenses. Yet I cannot move forward in this state on to better things. I want so badly to have a family, to go to college, etc but I cannot do this with living month to month someplace that isn't even my own.

⭐ The emotional affect this has had on me is tremendous. I am embarrassed of my situation, and never allow any guests in fear they'd judge me. I never take any photographs, which is heartbreaking because it has been one of my long-time hobbies. I am extremely guarded and I lie about small details to protect myself. I have severe trust issues and I always hold a dagger at my waist because I have to assume any minute you'll pull out a Glock.

⭐ Naturally I am an empath and this has brought me more compassion and understanding than I ever thought possible. The police brutality against people of color and racism in socio-economic programs truly breaks my heart because as a white female and all the struggles and discrimination I've endured, I can only begin to understand it's 1000x harder for people of color especially. I stand behind your protests 100%. I beseech you, go fight for what you deserve! I will be begging higher powers for your protection indefinitely!

⭐ I have gained a new perspective on non-profit organizations and volunteer work. Some are truly amazing and their stories move people to tears; others are truly wicked stealing from the poor, embezzling cash flow for their own vanities. Please please please research the charity you are interested in thoroughly before getting involved. Volunteer work will always be appreciated- and will teach you many invaluable lessons. If you help these organizations and need help yourself: respect yourself, hold yourself high, and ask for the assistance. They will generally be more inclined to help. If you are turned away, try not to be bitter. Administrators only do as they see fit.

⭐ That's another thing - bitterness. This has been the most vile and roughest character default I've ever had to battle with myself. When you've been through the shit and you can't see the sewer (sts) it's so easy to stay in the dumps. It's so easy to feel entitled because you've clawed your way to the top. It's easy to feel angry with everyone because it's you vs the system. It's so fucking easy to give up completely and stop trying and just lay down and die. It's easy to step in front of a two ton bus, oncoming freight train, taking the entire package of extra strength Excedrin not because you have a migraine, but just not to feel a thing, go completely numb for one single second. It's easy to go down to the head shop and get a nickel bag of weed to chill and get a 5$ pizza and forget you have responsibilities.

IT'S SO FUCKING TOUGH MAN

⭐ Growing up strictly religious, I tend to shy away from Christianity or other "preachy religion" now. I hate having Jesus shoved down my throat at a service before a hot meal on a Tuesday night and the "speaker" automatically assuming I need to stop smoking crack and going to jail and get my life back on track and God will bless me when I'm in the 46% who has never been to county and hold a job while trying to get back on my feet.

ADDICTION IS NOT POVERTY GUYS

I still support people who go to church and speak in tongues if that satisfies them. I still support people who are strictly vegetarian and make a pilgrimage to the mecca if that satisfies them. I still support people who have 7 two week long feasts a year for something that happened 4000 years ago if that satisfies them. I still support people who believe in baptisms for the dead and not drinking coffee if that satisfies them. I still support people who call Jesus the Nazarene and believe that Lucifer the Dark Lord will prevail if that satisfies them. I still support people who call down the power of the moon into their plant babies and give thanks to the triple goddess if that satisfies them. I support religion or practices of all kinds.

I believe I was meant to be tolerant and be good to others. That this life will give back what you put in. That there is a higher power that governs all and it is up to you to determine just what that is to you. Not to tell people what is wrong with their lives just based on your personal story.

⭐ During this pandemic, I have done a lot of soul searching. Journaling, listening to podcasts, listening to seminars on values I'd never know existed, trying to discover who I am. This journey has included empathy training, reiki, yoga, somatic movement, feldenkrais methods, and astral meditation. I just have a list of these questions I'd like answered or given suggestions to:

What do you believe is the meaning of life? Is there any philosophers, speakers, teachers, theologians, writers, musicians etc that can help answer this?

What is your definition of religion in it's rawest form?

Do you know of any resources I may not have thought of?

Is there any criticism you can give good or bad?

Am I focused on one thing and neglecting another?

Do you have any further opinions on the topics listed above?

Do you have a suggestion of the next right step?

Do you have ideas on how I can help with the aforementioned problems?

How do I stop feeling like I'm wasting my time?

How do I find contentment in everything should I die tomorrow?

What is your opinion of the afterlife?

How do you find happiness in the midst of bullshit?

What did a friend/relative/mentor tell you when you were going through an existential crisis?

Have you felt trapped too? Due to the covid or otherwise?

Any curse words, songs, books, movies, etc of use?

🌸🌸I sincerely appreciate any feedback 🌸🌸

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

choking on sugar cookies: a monologue

A Monologue by Noelle Zingarella

Rated for Mature Audiences

Trigger warnings for domestic abuse, PTSD, religion, violence

I don’t make Christmas cookies with my kids.

It’s not that I don’t want to—I love cookies, and I love cooking, and I love my kids—so you’d think those things would go together nicely.

Except that, when I make cookies, my heart starts racing and I forget to breathe. I start moving as quickly as I can, trying to get the process over with, all the while giving myself a pep talk and attempting to feel my feet on the floor; saying things like “I’m okay. It’s okay. I’m safe. It’s 2019. I can do this. I can handle this.”

My heart rate doesn’t come down until the last cookie is out of the oven, and the kitchen is clean again. That’s the reason I’m rushing. I have to get that kitchen clean. I have to hand wash all of those dishes immediately, even though I have a dishwasher that most of them could go in. I have to put everything back the way I found it.

You see, if I don’t, my mother will come and get me.

Okay, that sounded creepy. My mother won’t actually come and get me. There are four hundred miles and a state line between us. But the one that lives in my mind will. That voice that follows me around, judging me, criticizing me, pointing out everything I’ve ever done wrong—it’s her voice. In my nightmares I see her staring at me, telling me with her eyes that she hates me even as she sucks me dry.

Except, I see that when I’m wide awake too.

When I was fourteen, my mother wanted us all to make Christmas cookies together. Shape cookies. The kind you cut out with whimsical metal cutters and frost and decorate with sprinkles. We had a nice collection of cookie cutters, some from my mother’s childhood, bent with age and charming. It should have been a nice way to spend a December afternoon.

Except, I hate making cookies with her, and those cookies in particular. The activity combined everything she detested—messes, cooking, and me. It was sprinkle-littered ordeal punctuated by my mother’s iconic sighs of disapproval—sounds that hurt more than yelling ever could. It took hours to complete, and by the end I’d be an exhausted basket case of nerves. And, to top it all off, the cookies weren’t any good. Nobody ate them until weeks later when the other desserts were gone and they tasted like stale, sad cardboard.

So that year, I said no. I didn’t want to make the cookies, and I wasn’t going to. I was going to my room, and I was going to read, and that was that.

You would have thought I’d set the house on fire.

My mother got my father, her faithful stooge, involved, and the two of them cornered me, my father spewing venom about what an ungrateful brat I was. I knew that this argument was leading up to them spanking me, and I saw red. I was NOT going to be spanked anymore. I didn’t care if they grounded me, or punished me some other way; but damn it, I was fourteen fucking years old—I was in High School! I was far too old for corporal punishment. It was simply not going to happen again.

As my father came at me, I slid into a wider, lower stance, and started using the blocks I’d learned in the karate class I’d been taking at the YMCA. I hadn’t planned to react that way, it was an in-the-moment decision. And for a moment, it felt so, so good.

But only for a moment.

My father told me to “stop using that karate shit on him,” and redoubled his efforts. Once my mother got involved it was a lost cause. I wasn’t very large and I was still basically a child, while they were two full grown adults. My father grabbed me under my arms and my mother grabbed my ankles, and they dragged me down the stairs and shoved me out the front door. 

“Come back in when you’re ready to act like an adult,” they said, slamming the door in my face and locking it tight.

It was a relatively mild day—for December in a place of the world that regularly saw snow and sleet that time of year. I stood there on my front stoop in my stocking feet, with no shoes, no coat; evicted from the house by my parents. I stood there in shock at first, but then my survival brain started whirring. I had to get around to the back of the house before they thought to lock that door too. If I could beat them, I could at least get my shoes.

I sprinted to the back door—the door was unlocked—I gasped for breath, my heart pounding with the adrenaline. I had just gotten my shoes on my feet when my father confronted me, demanding I get back outside. I looked at him and told him calmly that I had only come in to get my shoes, while my blood pounded in my ears. When he didn’t engage me further, I turned and walked back out the door.

I didn’t even take my coat with me.

I walked across our backyard, through the neighbor’s yard, and through a few more yards. This was out beyond the limits of town—there were no fences or sidewalks or street lamps. It was a gray day, as I remember, and the sun would be setting soon. Eventually I came to a house where a young lady, Hannah, lived. She was in college, and she had baby-sat for my siblings and me in the past. I liked her and I looked up to her, and for some reason, I thought she would understand.

Hannah and her mother were surprised to see me, but they sat me down at their kitchen table and listened to my tale of woe. I still remember the looks on their faces as they tried to think of something to say. They seemed entirely at a loss as to what they should do. In the end, they told me to try to be patient and trust that things would get better. Then they sent me back home.

I was glad that they had listened to me—but I knew that things were never going to change.

My parents said nothing to me when I got home. I went to my room and stayed there. At some point they informed me that my punishment would be that I was not allowed to perform with the church choir for Christmas Mass. I protested that this was unfair to the other people in the all-volunteer choir who were counting on me to be there, but this was ignored. Besides, I should be happy to get off so lightly.

I suppose I might have asked why I was being punished further, being as I’d already been shoved outside the house on a winter day with no shoes or coat—but it didn’t occur to me at the time. Somehow I’d known, even when I’d been sitting in the safety of Hannah’s house, that there would be more punishment waiting for me when I went home. It’s just the way things were.

On Christmas Day I sat with my family in the pew while the choir performed without me. I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible—I hated how reactive I was and how my parents would use this to make fun of me and as proof that I was a childish baby. But my throat was tight with my unshed tears. Afterwards my father told me that he was proud of me because I’d borne my punishment with “Christ-like dignity.”

At the time, I stared at him in disbelief that he’d said such a thing. But looking back now, I wish I’d asked him: “If I’m taking my punishment like Christ, who does that make you?”

So, no, I don’t make Christmas cookies with my kids. Not now. Not yet. And it hurts me and I feel guilty about it. And maybe all this is why it’s hitting me so hard this year that I’m not able to sing. I’ve been off work, crippled by my PTSD for months, and I thought I’d gotten used to it. But, if I were busy with singing gigs, like I usually am this time of year, I’d be able to use that as my excuse for not making baking memories with my little ones. Instead, I can’t escape the real reason that I avoid it. And the fact that I’ve been sidelined reminds me so much of that year when my parents put me on the bench. 

Looking back, I wonder why Hannah’s mother didn’t call the cops when I brought her my story. I guess there wasn’t any proof, and I guess she had no way of knowing that this was not an isolated event, never to be repeated. And I don’t know if I would have been better off if they had called the police. As Aslan said, we’re never told what would have happened.

I want so badly to be free of these memories—or at least to have them stay memories and not triggers that engage my limbic system and cause it to send me into the fight/flight/freeze/appease response that they do now. 

I want to make cookies with my kids. I love cooking, and messes, and children, and all of them together. But that’s not going to happen this year.

I want to sing. I’m good at it, I love performing, I love music, and I think I love God (as much as I understand what love is at all) and I love all of them together. But that’s not going to happen this year either.

I feel that I’ve hit rock bottom more than once this year—but maybe, in a way, that’s a good thing. 

Maybe there’s no where left to go but up.

End Notes:

Names have been changed to protect the innocent--and the guilty.

Resources for help in a Domestic Violence situation can be found at:

https://www.domesticshelters.org/resources/national-global-organizations

International crisis helplines can be found listed by country here:

http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html