#had the worse migraine ever today but managed to still draw her

[cosmosnout]

More Rouge art bc I’ve missed her

[sondepoch]

II: Neutral Route (Saeran)

Where Futures Begin

Life used to be simple for you. Peaceful. But the Savior had other plans for you, and in moments, she ruined what you thought was your one shot at happiness. Blinded by anger, you escaped the Mint Eye, but that triggered a series of events that would bring you further into the world of brothers Saeran and Saeyoung. And further into the twisted world of your love for them.

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

MASTERLIST 

Mendelssohn's violin concerto in E minor, easily among the most beautiful violin concertos of all time, lasts nearly thirty minutes. Yet this is the fourth time it's restarted today, and Saeran and (Y/N) still haven't stopped dancing.

Their feet move slowly, waltzing at half the tempo of the piece, less focused on dancing and more occupied with basking in each others' warmth, staying as close together as possible.

The Recruitment Ceremony concluded a little over two hours ago, and all the new believers were celebrating their faith and loyalty to the Savior by indulging in their first taste of happiness at the Mint Eye, at this feast.

For Saeran, though, food was the last thing on his mind.

The dress the Savior gave (Y/N) fit perfectly, hugging her curves in a way that Saeran thought made her too gorgeous to risk leaving for the whole ballroom to see. He had never glared at anyone the way he stared daggers at the new believers that were ogling (Y/N)'s body shamelessly.

Saeran made a mental note to ask the Savior to give (Y/N) more modest dresses. He slipped an arm around her waist and tried to subtly pull the dress down, quickly bringing his hand back to its original position afterward. Her amused giggle made him realize that she had indeed noticed.

"Oh, Saeran~" (Y/N) cooed, dragging his name out in the same way that always tangled his thoughts, "Do you not like this dress?"

"O-of course not. I mean. Of course. Wait..." Saeran stuttered, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing, "It's a nice dress. Especially on you. B-but it's really short... have you noticed how the new believers are staring at you?"

Saeran heard (Y/N) laugh again, and he wanted to bury his face in her hair and hide the blush that he knew was spreading across his face. Her hair...her beautiful, beautiful hair...Why did I have to style it like this today? I should have done something simpler, something that would draw less attention, I could have avoided this!

"Saeran, the dress is barely above my knees. And you have nothing to worry about." (Y/N) brought her hand from his shoulder to his cheek and stared at him with those familiar, trusting eyes. "None of them would dare lay a hand on me after this."

"This?" Saeran cocked his head, puzzled.

"Saeran, we've danced for nearly two hours, and if looks could kill, every man in this room who even glanced my way would be dead. You've made it very clear that I'm off-limits." (Y/N) kissed Saeran's cheek, and he could hear the smirk in her voice.

"I-I didn't mean to..." Saeran murmured half-heartedly, even though he knew exactly what he was doing when he first dragged (Y/N) onto the ballroom dancing floor. And he may or may not have given the middle finger to a particular believer who had been staring at her rear.

"Sure," (Y/N) said with a chuckle, before abruptly stopping and clasping Saeran's two hands in her own. "Anyway, let's get food. I haven't eaten since breakfast, I'm starving."

"Alright, princess, you pick a table, and I'll bring enough food for both of us."

"I can get my own food, Saeran!" (Y/N) whined as Saeran guided her off the wooden floor and toward the buffet, but Saeran was bent on being a gentleman. The way the men were staring at her figure, he'd much rather have her bottom in a chair than up and about.

"Technically speaking, I'm your boss now. You're no longer a disciple, so you'll be helping me out with perimeter management and software protection in the Security Room. That means you have to do what I say, princess, so go get us a table."

Without giving (Y/N) any room to protest, Saeran made a beeline for the buffet. He filled two plates with all his beloved sweets and all (Y/N)'s favorite dishes. Only when he actually got to the table (Y/N) had selected did Saeran realize that he had only gotten dessert items.

(Y/N) didn't seem to notice, though, immediately indulging in the array of treats Saeran had brought back.

The two ate in silence, enjoying the now familiar melody of the music that was being played in the background. Saeran found himself unable to draw his eyes away from (Y/N) as she ate; everything about her looked perfect. Even her hair, which Saeran always thought looked a little off when he tried a sophisticated hairstyle like this one, had held its shape throughout the night. And god, the dress was still driving him crazy. Had the Savior consciously chosen something that would make him feel this way? The woman had been asking an awful lot of questions about (Y/N) at Saeran's previous meeting with her. Still, Saeran thought that was because they were discussing (Y/N) joining the Savior's council.

Saeran groaned inwardly and forced himself to stop staring at (Y/N)'s bare shoulders and tried to focus on the dessert he was eating, but he quite suddenly found that he had an appetite for a different kind of dessert.

Shit, stop it, Saeran told himself, It's bad enough that you almost kissed her earlier in her room. Now this? You need to control yourself.

"So," (Y/N)'s voice broke Saeran from his thoughts. "The Savior said that I'd have to go through secondary commitment. W...What do you have to do for the secondary commitment?"

Saeran swallowed, keenly aware of what (Y/N) was really asking.

There were two commitments one could make to the magenta: primary and secondary. Primary commitment was the first step believers took in joining the Mint Eye. It was their first test to see if they were truly committed to building and sharing the magenta.

It was quite a simple process, actually.

Drink the Elixir of Salvation.

The pain that accompanied the Elixir alone would typically be enough to distinguish true believers from fakers; in (Y/N)'s case, though, her primary commitment had been extended, and the dosage doubled, the Savior particularly hesitant about accepting her into the Mint Eye.

Saeran had never told (Y/N) that her commitment was any different than the usual, though. He didn't want her to begin harboring any kind of distaste for the Savior that would warrant further Elixirs. After all, Saeran had been by (Y/N)'s side the whole time, dabbing away at her sweat as she slept, helping her drink water in her delirium, holding her hand and never letting go as she sobbed in pain. He never left her side last time, and he'd be there for her this time too.

"Secondary commitment is worse," Saeran said bluntly. He didn't want to continue, he didn't want to talk about it, but the fearful look in (Y/N)'s eyes forced his mouth. "It's a repeat of primary commitment with some...extra things added."

Saeran saw (Y/N) shudder and bite her lip, a habit that only came to light when (Y/N) was scared. "What extra things, Saeran?" Her voice was gentle, despite the fear she must have been harboring at that moment.

"Well...extra time, for one. Secondary commitment takes a-a month." Saeran brought his hand over the table and placed it on top of (Y/N)'s, trying to comfort her in the terror he knew she was facing as she mentally braced herself for the hell that she was to embrace the next day.

Saeran knew what she was going through. When he found out about secondary commitment, he was so scared he actually tried to go back to being a disciple, even though it was out of his hands at that point.

He continued, "You'll be assigned a handler. You can't back out of secondary commitment, so your handler will force the Elixir down your throat if necessary...you'll most likely never be able to forgive your handler for the pain they give you."

"Go on." (Y/N) said after taking a shaky breath.

"Your eyes...you're to be one with the Mint Eye. You'll adorn the namesake, and your eyes will be bleached to this color," Saeran pointed to his own eyes, trying not to recall the pain that accompanied that particular feat. (Y/N)'s eyes grew even rounder in fear as she stared at the unnatural color Saeran's eyes were. No doubt, she had previously thought they were contact lenses.

"Your hair...it isn't magenta, so your handler will bleach your hair and then deprive your body of nutrients for the month. Your body won't be able to keep your hair at its color, it'll be too deprived of the vitamins it needs, so your hair will become a lot thinner, and it'll lose color. It'll feel like the worst migraine you've ever had, but it's not too bad when compared to the other things..."

Saeran didn't want to say more. He understood that (Y/N) needed to know what she was about to go through, but reciting the details of secondary commitment was bringing back some horrid memories for the boy.

"Saeran, please." (Y/N) squeezed Saeran's hand and looked at him with earnest eyes. I'm so weak, Saeran thought to himself, I should be the one comforting (Y/N) right now, but she's the one holding my hand. "I can't walk into the commitment room tomorrow and not know what I'm in for. I almost didn't make it through primary commitment for that very reason."

Saeran dropped his eyes and stared at the untouched flan on his plate. "That's mostly it. You'll be branded with the sigil of the Mint Eye, either burnt or given a tattoo like the one I have. But...(Y/N), there's one thing I haven't told you."

Saeran swallowed nervously, unable to meet the eyes of the precious girl he cared so much for. This time, (Y/N) didn't ask him to continue, but the slight squeeze of his hand gave Saeran enough boldness to tell her the truth.

"I'm to be your handler for secondary commitment," Saeran whispered, "Savior's orders."

Saeran felt warmth leave his hand and looked up to see (Y/N)'s entire form withdrawn in fear. Saeran extended an arm to caress her cheek, but she recoiled at the first contact. "I-I'm sorry," she murmured, standing up, "I-I need some time alone t-to..."

(Y/N) trailed off and forced herself out of the seat, making way for the large double doors at the end of the room.

Saeran didn't let her get that far, though. "(Y/N), wait," He told her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her smaller body into his, him practically spooning her as they stood, "Please." Saeran whispered, and that one word communicated all that needed to be said.

(Y/N) turned around and faced him, and for the first time since her primary commitment, Saeran saw tears in her eyes. "I'm scared, Saeran," (Y/N) whispered, "I don't want to hate you. I don't want to do my secondary commitment. I don't want to be a part of the Savior's council."

Saeran wrapped his arms around (Y/N) and let her tears flow into his shoulder, her tearful face protected from the stares of all the believers in the Mint Eye. "I know, princess." Saeran mumbled, stroking her hair, "I know."

Saeran was about to enter the worst month of his life, he knew. It would be worse than his own secondary commitment. Because this time, he wouldn't be on the receiving end of the pain.

He would be the cause of it.

MASTERLIST

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

Word count: 2.0k

Notes: Happy new year! Well, it's happy for some people. I'm a bit bummed right now  -_- school starts back up in eight hours for me but honestly who even cares about school and sleep when you have Tumblr? Btw: this story will shift from the pov of (Y/N) to Saeran to Saeyoung and even Rika, so make sure you check the chapter title so you know who the chapter will focus on!

Comment & Like

Next Update: 1/06/20

I do not own the rights to Mystic Messenger or any of the characters within it.

[scarmander]

Lily Evans and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Fic summary: The day after Lily ends her friendship with Snape, she wakes up with this little tiny twinge of pain in her shoulder. It only gets worse from then on. She blames those bloody Slytherins. Oh, and also that one messy-haired toerag and his prattish friends.

Rated T

Chapter 1  | Chapter 2

You can also read it on Fanfiction.net

Chapter 3: Bloody Lips and Beating Hearts

“O-oh fu-uck,” she breathes out, her voice interrupted by her heaving chest. She can feel the hiccups building up in her guts. They’re walking up to her, now.

She’s sniffling, and wipes her face on her sleeve, and shoves her other hand in her pocket. It’s a good thing her make-up is already ruined. She doesn’t feel so bad about it now. She doesn’t want the bloody gits to see her crying like this. She needs to put on a brave front. She cannot let them take this away from her. They’ve already taken too much from her.  She swallows, closes her eyes for a second and wiggles her fingers around her pocket. Why isn’t her bloody wand in here? She tries another one, and a third one, on the inside of her robes. Her pockets are decidedly empty, and they’re drawing closer.

Where the bloody hell is her wand? It’s the third time today. Did she forget it inside? Is it in the Library, that’s the last place she remembers seeing it, and using it. Shit. Alright, alright. Breathe in, breathe out. There are three of them. And Mulciber is perhaps twenty feet away now. There’s Rosier too, strolling behind, but she doesn’t recognize the girl next to him.

Is the bloody wand in her bag? She needs to check, very quickly. She gets up, sniffles some more, picks up her bag and opens it – almost rips the top off, actually – and starts digging around, desperately. She pricks her finger on a quill, finds another one of her hair ties, that’s always good but she feels like throwing the damn thing away, and finally, finally finds what she’s looking for, stuck underneath one of her books.

“What are you doing here all by yourself, hmm? Aren’t you afraid someone might take advantage of the situation?”

Lily snaps her head up, and takes a look. Shit. They’re right in front of her. Her heartbeat quickens and she tenses up.

“Especially now… You know – that you have no allies left? Who’s gonna protect little miss Mudblood now?” Mulciber continues, and she hates him so much in that moment she doesn’t know whether to tackle him to the ground or to hex his head off.

“Who says I need to be protected?” she scoffs, and hopes he cannot sense her fear, her sadness. She doesn’t feel particularly brave, right now. She feels tiny and lonely. They’re three against one. She cannot let them see her afraid. She cannot be afraid. So, she lets anger take over, glares at them and tightens her grip on her wand, her hand still shoved inside her bag. She can easily disarm one or two of them before they even have time to say a word. She’s going to have to be quick, if need be. She hopes it doesn’t come to that.

“I think your time is up, and you know it. There’s no more Snape to defend you, now, you’re no longer off limits. I can’t wait to have my fun with you.”

“You know I’m still a Prefect, right? You know that, you see that badge on my chest, right?” She points at the shiny golden pin.

“What are you gonna do, take points off Slytherin as you scream in pain? I can’t wait to see you try.” He has this sinister grin on his face, and she knows he means it. The things he’s done to students thus far… She stares him right in the eye, she won’t let him scare her.

“I’m sure Dumbledore will be very happy to know you haven’t learned your lesson. You do remember what he told you, right?”

“Oh, no no no, let’s not bring the old man into this.”

“Why, you afraid of him? You should be. Hell, I think you’re scared of me. Look at you, you haven’t even drawn your wand out, right now. I think you have every right to be scared of me. I know all your dirty little secrets. All your special tricks. You don’t know mine.”

She’s tempting the devil, now. She’s acting braver than she really is, it’s really stupid of her, but she cannot stop herself. She’s so angry, not just at that evil, inhuman piece of rotting fungi in front of her, but at everything and everyone. And alright, maybe at him in particular. And maybe a little bit more so at… Snivellus. Yes, that’s his name now. It has to be.

“I think you should learn to know your place, filthy beast!” roars Rosier, who bumps into Mulciber as he makes his way towards her. He’s taller than Mulciber, broader, too, but he doesn’t scare her nearly as much as Mulciber does. Maybe it’s because she knows what kind of perverted, demented stuff Mulciber likes to do to people, maybe it’s because she knows that as beefy and aggressive as Rosier is, he’s not the smartest kid around. She doesn’t know who the girl hiding behind them is, she looks younger than them, she can’t be too much of a threat. That’s what her world has turned to – trying to figure out whether or not a twelve or thirteen-year-old is a threat to her.

“Alright, Rosier, keep quiet, you’re gonna give everyone a migraine. Don’t make me take points off so close to the end of the year, what are you, this year, is it in third or fourth place? With all those Quidditch matches you lost, it’s no wonder.”

The two nitwits are on the Slytherin Quidditch team, and holy hell, she has to say that they got purely and properly trounced this year. They won one single match, very narrowly so, against Ravenclaw, and that was after they’d managed to send half the Ravenclaw team to the Infirmary with countless foul plays. She knows how mad this makes them, she’s seen their faces after every match, has heard from Se… Snivellus, about the grudge that’s deepening between them and the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They’re all terribly jealous of Potter’s talent. She wants to rub it in their faces.

“What do you even know about Quidditch, you Muggle bitch?” Mulciber shouts and she rolls her eyes.

She’s not even really offended any more, she’s heard those words too many times for them to still have an impact on her.

“Enough to know when you’re getting your sorry asses handed to you by the Gryffindor Quidditch team – wasn’t it twice, this year? I think it was twice. That was nice. Really, Potter outdid himself all year. What was that last score again? Something around 350 to 60? Man, wasn’t that something to behold.”

And that’s it. That’s how she gets the both of them to draw their wands out. Predictable.

“What do you think you’re doing? Do you want detention? Is that what you want? Put those away.” She draws hers out of her bag, takes a single step towards them.

They’re staring at her, and unlike the girl behind them, they’re not moving. Their wands are still pointed at her, but they haven’t thrown any curses at her yet. This is slightly confusing.

“I am going back inside. Amycus is waiting for me,” the little girl speaks out with a haughty tone. “Bye now, see you in the Common Room,” she waves vaguely towards the two boys, who don’t even so much as turn their heads towards her, spins on her heels with a very straight back, and walks away.

“Training them early, aren’t you?” Lily dares to ask. “Are you planning on training them all at that age?”

She’s being stupid. Stupid and brave. Too brave for her own good. Her dad would be furious at her. Her mum would probably cheer her on.

“Oh, you have no idea what we’re planning to do, once the right people are in charge,” Yaxley snarls at her, his face twisted in disgust.

“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s got something to do with mass murder, torture, and the suppression of human rights, but go on, I might be surprised. Are you planning on giving out free Butterbeer? Will there be free concerts? Man, I really want to meet Stubby Boardman.”

“You better watch yourself, you Mudblood scum. It won’t be long, now.”

“I can’t wait. We both know who’s better at magic. You’re all talk, the both of you, with your wands pointed at me, threatening me… But you haven’t even tried anything yet. I think you know, you both know, that if you’d so much as tried anything I would win, and it wouldn’t actually be that hard. And so, you don’t do anything. Because being bested by a girl and a Mudblood at the same time? Oh, now that wouldn’t look good if Voldemort ever found out, would it?”

“DON’T YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME!” Yaxley’s at it again, his loud voice should terrify her, it doesn’t.

They’re positively seething right now. Yaxley is shaking with fury and his face has gone all red, which clashes fiercely with his blonde hair. He looks like a strawberry-vanilla ice cream, she thinks, and the realisation makes her giggle.

“Voldemort,” she says, still giggling.

And that’s when it all takes a turn for the worst. Men and their fragile egos.

She had imagined that as soon as they’d barely even had had time to point them at her that she would have shouted “Expelliarmus!” and sure enough, both of their wands would come flying towards her. But they hadn’t done that. They’d stayed put. She sort of wishes they had tried to curse her. But, it doesn’t really quite go how she had naively thought it would. She ought to have known, by now, to expect the unexpected.

So, what she hadn’t expected – but really, really wishes she had – is the fist that comes crashing into her jaw, instead of a spell, which forces her to stumble backward and she feels the back of her head hit the window sill behind her, the blunt edge of the wood digging into her scalp. Her hand instinctively goes to touch her face as the other reaches back to try and steady herself.

Well, she’s not giggling any more.  

“Who’s the Muggle, now?” she sneers immediately, pushing herself off of the window. It takes her another second before she realizes there’s something dripping from her lips. She slides her fingers towards them and feels the warm liquid coating her skin and nails. Her head feels tight, she can feel a blinding pain emanating from the back of it, her mouth is numb and she has trouble understanding what’s just happened. The shock of red on her hand as she lowers it to look at it is what makes it all click. She’s bleeding, quite profusely so. She swallows and tastes the iron on her tongue. They did this to her.

There’s blood on her face, on her hands and in her mouth. There’s bloody damn blood in her mouth. This is the same blood that they hate her for, and there it is, in blatant display, for everyone to see. She hopes it terrifies them.

The pain shocks her, humiliates her. The red of her own blood on her hands stains her, marks her. They’ve left their brand on her. This is what they want, her body is somehow no longer entirely hers. She feels their hatred pulsating through her teeth, as the pain echoes around her bones. She grips her wand so tightly there are sparks flying off of it in small bursts. It’s funny, in a way, because they look like the stars that are dancing in front of her eyes. Merlin, she can feel the headache already beginning to worsen. Her head is throbbing, it’s kind of nauseating, in a way.

So, she thinks, they’ve really been letting her out easy for the last five years, haven’t they? This is the first time they’re resorted to actual physical violence against her. There’s a newfound form of anger inside her that won’t ever be settled with magic or words.

She spats the blood in her mouth on Mulciber’s shoes, throws a full body-binding spell at him, as she shoves past him to reach for Yaxley. There’s loud thud behind her, but she doesn’t even flinch, he’s probably fallen on the ground.

Yaxley must have realized what he’s just done, what he’s going to have to deal with, now, because he’s taken a few steps back. She’s furious – enraged, really. And she really, really wants to blow his head off. And she really, really feels like running back to her dorm to hide in her bed for the rest of the day. She doesn’t do either of those things. There’s a strange sort of cold determination that engulfs her, and she sees the flicker or fear behind the pale blue eyes that are now avoiding her. She scares him. This is both very satisfying and terrifying to her. That’s not the kind of person she is. She doesn’t scare people, she makes them laugh and tries to make them as comfortable around her as possible. How can she scare someone so badly they won’t even look at her? And yet, here she is, blood dripping from her face and onto her robes, sticking to her fingers, anger burning her alive, she doesn’t feel the pain in her jaw. She takes another step, and when the coward raises his wand at her, she sends it flying without a single word. She doesn’t even have time to realize she’s just done wordless magic before she raises her bloodied hand to her face to wipe her mouth and slaps him across the face. She marks him with her own blood. There he is, now, bloodied strawberry and vanilla. This is everything he hates, she thinks, and he seems too shocked to even move.

So, she shoves him – she wants him out of the way, away, far away from her – and her wand sends another burst of sparks as it collides with his robes, and ends up burning the fabric. He stumbles back and shrieks in pain as he tries to stop the fire that’s starting. He dives down towards the ground to reach for his wand.

She accios her bag towards her, because there is no way in hell she’s staying here a second longer. She hears shouts of pain and anger behind her, but keeps on walking. There might be some stubborn stars still dancing in front of her eyes, but it’s alright, she’ll go inside. Inside is great. Her vision is starting to get blurry – and so she pauses for a second, rubs at her eyes with shaking hands, then starts walking again. She tries to shake off the dizzying blur, but fails miserably.

Except she stops dead in her tracks a few steps later. There he is. She hasn’t seen him since yesterday and there he is. Of course he’s here. Of course he’s seen what just happened and didn’t do anything to try and stop it. Of course. Severus Snape – the name is out now, she can’t hide from it any more – is in front of her, and her face is covered in blood, her jaw is probably red from the blow it has just received and he’s staring at her with this pathetic look on his face. She blinks a couple of times, tries to swallow. Her throat is tight.

“Lil...” he tries to say in a soft voice. She wants to slap him across the face with the same bloodied hand she’s just used.

“Don’t,” she growls. And he at least has the decency not to continue.

He wants her to forgive him. The nerve! She glares at him.

He wants her dead. He wants her dead. She wants him gone. He can see her anger on her face, it’s always been very obvious. He knows her too well not to see it. She hates him. He can see it on her face, too. There’s no going back from that.

She’s still bleeding.

Her heart won’t stop beating hard against her ribs and she’s still bleeding. And he’s staring at her with disgust on his face, now.

This is too much. The world starts spinning dangerously. He wants her dead. He’s right in front of her and he wants her dead.

So, she tells him so. Bleeding lips, bruised jaw, fierce gaze and all. “They want me dead. You want me dead.” She’s not even accusing him of anything. It’s a statement, pure and simple, her tone is even. He doesn’t get to refute that.

And yet, he tries.

“I never...” he begins.

“You do,” she cuts him short. He doesn’t get a say in that. He’s never going to speak to her. Never again. This is over. This is how it ends.

Her legs start to wobble around, struggling to hold up her own weight. Shit, is she going to faint? Not right now. She can’t faint now. She can hear her heart in her ears, that’s never a good sign, but she has worse things to deal with right now.

“I hope it’s worth it,” she hears herself breathe out in a voice she barely recognizes as her own, as she looks him dead in the eye. She wipes her own mouth again, puts away her wand in her pocket, and walks away. He doesn’t even say a word. There’s nothing else to say. There are no tears left in her eyes. This is over.

When she stumbles into The Great Hall, she doesn’t quite understand why everyone stops talking and why they all stare at her. She’d been walking aimlessly, her mind too far gone between the shock and the numbness for her to realize where she’d been heading. This is the Great Hall. Alright. Great. Familiar ground. She quite feels like ice cream right now, she hopes there’s some for dessert.

“Evans? Evans, are you alright?” someone’s voice calls out.

She doesn’t answer, truth is, she doesn’t know.

“What happened?” someone else asks her. She just shrugs, closes her eyes for a second. Now that’s better. The light is blinding her. The noise starts getting louder, voices and clattering forks and knives that make her head pound. She doesn’t want to open her eyes again. This is better. So much better.

“You’re bleeding!” screams another voice. “Lily? What’s happened? Lily!”

There’s so much noise. She clenches her eyes, but the sound won’t stop and her head hurts. She drops her bag on the ground, next to her feet. Now if she could just go sit down on that bench...

“We’re gonna get you to the Hospital Wing, Evans, okay?”

“No – No I’m good, here. Hey, is there ice cream? I really want ice cream.”

“What? No, no, you have to go to the Infirmary. You’re bleeding everywhere.” She feels gentle hands, and she’s trying to see who’s taking her away from the noise and clatter but her eyes won’t focus, even when she blinks and blinks.

“I’ll just go fetch Dorcas and the others, alright? You take her there, please don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not going to just dump her somewhere! Who do you think I am? Honestly! I’m taking her to the Hospital Wing, McKinnon, for real. Oh, grab her bag, please.”

“Yeah, alright. See you in a bit, alright? I’ll find them, they can’t have gone far.”

All she can see are spots of colours floating around. They’re leaving the Great Hall, now, she thinks.  The voice is still complaining. “The nerve of that girl, I mean, I wouldn’t leave you to die in a corner, you know?”

She makes a non-committal groan in response, because she has no idea what he’s actually saying.

“Alright, yeah, that’s too much blood. I’ll just...” Lily hears some more mumbling before she feels a tingly, cooling sensation on her lips. “There, I stopped the bleeding. Hang on a second, will ya? I’ll just… Scourgify. That’s a bit better.”

“That’s nice of you, thank you…  But, err,  who are you?” she decides to ask.

“Oh Merlin, you’ve gone barmy, haven’t you?” the voice answers, and she’d be positively offended if her head didn’t hurt so much and she could actually focus on the words. “You know me, insane woman. My name’s Sirius Black, we were having a chat just an hour ago? You remember that?”

“No, I know who you are, Black, I just can’t err, what’s that word? The one with the eyes thingy?”

“See? Oh fuck, is it that bad?” he sounds genuinely concerned, and he stops pushing her towards… She doesn’t actually remember where they’re going. He puts both of his hands on her scalp and she lets out a yelp.

“Fucking hell. You’re bleeding there too. What the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t know, just… He punched me and… Where are we going?”

“The Hospital Wing, I’ve already told you.”

“Did you? That’s nice of you. You’re nice, you know, for not letting me die. That’s nice.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re welcome, Evans. But shit, have you been cursed or something? Is it a memory spell?

“No, I don’t think so. There was a fist, and that was it. Just bam, you know, and then blood. Loads of that.”

“Well, alright, Pomfrey will be thrilled to have to deal with that. I mean, worse case scenario, you stay like this forever. Won’t be much of a change, will it?” he sniggers. “I mean, you’ve always been a bit weird, but not proper insane weird, you know?”

Quite frankly, she doesn’t know. Do people really think she’s weird?

“Am I weird?”

“No! I mean, you have your moments. But it’s alright, you’re fit enough so that it doesn’t really matter. Err… Don’t tell James I said that, alright?”

“Why would I talk to James? Who’s that? Do you mean Potter – James Potter?” she manages to say, as she struggles to keep both of her eyes open. They’ve reached the stairs, there are many, many people around. The noise is killing her.

“Yeah, you barmy bint.” Black tells her, with a nudge, except her balance is way off and she almost tumbles up the stairs, but he catches her just in time.

“Oy! I’ll have you know I defended his Quidditch talents earlier, that’s why I have – this,” she says, as she points her finger towards her face in a circular motion. “So be respectful. He owes me my face.”

Sirius is actually halfway lifting her up the stairs at this point. He’s put his hand around both of her shoulders and is basically carrying her sideways. She lets him do so because she doesn’t quite trust her legs to work properly.

“That’s nice of you. I’ll make sure to tell him that. That’ll make his day. Who did this to you anyway?”

“Do you mean who punched me or who... you know, was er... there?”

“Both,” he says with an assured tone. He hates the Slytherins more than she probably ever will. It’s a very complicated story, apparently, and she doesn’t even know the half of it.

“Yaxley’s the one who punched me. Mulciber was there too. Then there was… Snivellus.”

“Oh I see you’re sticking to that, then? It’s a good one. My personal favourite. I thought it was a one-time thing yesterday, but I like that,” he starts, with a somewhat cheery tone, but then stops abruptly, and she doesn’t see his face, but she can clearly hear his voice get angrier. “So… They’re just going around punching girls now? Just so you know, they’re dead.”

“That’s nice, you’re nice, right now, that’s weird,” she says, as she just leans on his shoulder, to rest her head.

“Wow, you really are out of it. How many times have you told me I’m nice in the last five minutes? Ten? We’re going for a world record, I reckon,” he’s trying to spark up a conversation, but she’s too tired to keep talking. He seems to have understood that, and she thinks it’s nice of him to continue talking instead. “Alright, you’ll be okay, we’re almost there anyway. But we’re gonna get them good, I promise you.”

“Yaxley might already be in there, he was on fire when I left,” she manages to mumble, barely opening up her mouth, but he seems to understand what she’s saying anyway.

“Nice! How d’you manage that?”

“An accident, I didn’t mean to. My wand just, er, does this thing when I’m too angry, with the, er… sparks thing?”

He lets her slip from his grasp for a second, and she feels her body slide down, her knees giving out under her. She’s about to fall down in a rather pathetic manner, just sliding down towards the floor when he catches her again.

“Oh shit, alright, I’ll just...” She feels both of his arms grabbing her and lifting her up. “You’re heavier than I thought, Merlin. Alright, see, we’re almost there. Just this corridor next.”

“Thank you, you’re nice. Have you always been nice?”

“Oh I like you so much better with your head all bashed up… Alright, we’re here.”

She heard the loud creaking of the doors as he opened them up, and saw the light pouring in through her closed eyelids.

“Poppy!” Sirius yelled, way too loudly for her taste, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and so, she didn’t complain. And sure enough, she hears quick footsteps coming their way.

“I thought I’d told you to stop… What’s happened?”

“She says she got punched, but I don’t know, she hasn’t opened her eyes in a while, I feel like maybe she’s been cursed, somehow?”

“I haven’t! I just got punched is all.”

“Alright, bring her over there.”

She can feel herself being pushed towards the end of a bed, and then hears the screeching sound of a chair being dragged across  the floor… And then Pomfrey is touching her head. All that Lily can think about is that her hands are cold.

“How did you hit the back of your head, dear? You said you got punched, didn't you?” Pomfrey asks her worriedly.

“I don't know – all I know is that I got punched.Then there was blood, and my head hurt and that was it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, dear, it’s alright.”

She doesn’t know how long Pomfrey spends trying to find the right things to put on her head to stop whatever the hell is happening, but it doesn’t take very long. She’s feeling way better in a matter of seconds, her head still throbs painfully, but she can see, finally, and she’s pretty sure her brain has started functioning properly again.

So, all in all, Pomfrey works wonders very quickly. Unfortunately, it’s not long enough for her to be gone once the Pratty Bunch actually shows up.

She knows because she hears Sirius yelling threats at them as they come in. She has to lean sideways and a little forward to look at what’s going on. Pomfrey gets up in a matter of seconds –  she’s definitely very quick – and goes to look at what’s happening. Sirius Black doesn’t care about her splitting headache, about the fact that Pomfrey is right there, or that there are probably other sick students in need of a good rest. He will absolutely yell profanities in the Hospital Wing, no matter what it may cost him in the end.

“Fucking wankers! You fighting girls, now you bloody fucking cowards? If you want a proper fist-fight, mate, I’ll give you one alright!”

“Mister Black! Go and sit down right now! I don’t need a scene! This is a place for sick people! Do not disturb their rest! Go! Now!”

Lily can see her push Sirius away from the group of Slytherins who has just come in. He’s coming back towards her and Lily is getting up from the bed where Pomfrey had been tending to her wounds.

“We should go, I think, I’m feeling better,” she tells him, her tone slightly awkward. He looks very angry, which sort of scares her because he has this intense look in his eyes she’s never seen before. He’s always so cocky and happy and joyful and the sharp contrast takes her slightly aback. “Come on,” she tells him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his robes, and they leave the Hospital Wing in a hurry.

“I’ll bloody fucking wreck his face,” he grumbles, once they’re out the doors. “Oh, wait ‘till Prongs hears about this. That’s gonna be something else alright.”

“What the hell is a Prongs?”

James Potter had had a very quick lunch, he’d been feeling too sulky, still, to enjoy the food and the friends that came along with being in the Great Hall. Lily wasn’t even there anyway, and what was the point of sulking if he couldn’t stare at her longingly whilst doing so? He’d gone back to his dorm, leaving Sirius and the rest of the group downstairs. Lily’s friends had come to eat pretty soon after they’d been – rudely and unjustly – kicked out of the Library, but she wasn’t with them. He’d been sure she’d been headed towards the Great Hall, and now he had no idea where she actually was. So, he’d gone upstairs, both to sulk and to grab one of his – theirs – most treasured possessions: the Marauder’s Map. He wanted to know what had happened to her, and if need be, he’d go find her on his own before the Transfiguration O.W.L., but little did he know that he’d not made it to the third floor before the girl he’d been looking for had barged into the Great Hall, covered in blood, shaking and looking as pale as ghost. He had no way to know, either, that most of her friends had left the Great Hall too, trying to figure out where she was, and that this meant that it was his very best friend, Sirius Black who’d brought her to the Hospital Wing.

So, by time he’d actually made it up to his 5th year dorm – after having had a longer-than-planned chat with Benjy Fenwick in the common room, who’s been trying to have a chat with him about their Quidditch strategy for next year for the past few weeks – James Potter finds himself staring at the map with a confused look on his face.

Why in Merlin’s pants are Lily and Sirius in the Hospital Wing? Why the hell are the Slytherin dolts heading towards them too? He can see them quite clearly, the three little dots with the names Yaxley, Mulciber and Snape in the Hospital Tower, they’re getting close.

So, James grabs the map, his bag and wand and bolts towards the Fourth Floor, where he knows there’s a staircase that leads directly towards the Hospital Wing. He’ll be there in under five minutes if the stairs are feeling generous today.

And so he runs, bumps into passer-bys and mumbles quick, unintelligible excuses to them, and only stops running once, when he has to wait for the stairs to align. He doesn’t even stop running when Peeves tries to taunt him to get him to pay attention to him. He’d do it any other day, he’d have a laugh with the Poltergeist, play a prank on him or plan one with him. But not today.

“Ohhh, where’s little Potty going in such a hurry?” Peeves jeers, floating, looming, ominously overhead as he throws what looks like fresh dungbombs at shrieking students.

James has half a heart to sigh. He’s probably managed to break into Filch’s office again.

“Not now, Peeves!” he just yells as he tries to avoid Peeves’ arsenal of dungbombs, he manages to dodge them all as he heads into a side corridor.

The first sign of them he gets is her laugh. She’s laughing, this is good. He feels relief wash over him, from head to toe, and he slows down. He’s breathing hard, his sides hurt and his lungs feel cold. He should run more often, he’s clearly out of shape.

The relief doesn’t last very long, though, because once he sees her, he almost faints. She is covered in blood, her jaw, lips, throat, brows, clothes, hands, every bit of skin that isn’t covered has blood on it. His eyes go wide, he opens and closes his mouth, he wants to say something, but somehow his brain doesn’t find the proper words.

“Oh hey, mate, we were just talking about you!”

“What’s happened?” is all he manages to croak out. He wants to run to her, to hold her face in his hands, to caress her skin, to make sure she’s okay and to hold her close. He takes a step towards her, feels his arm threatening to extend to try and hug her, but he stops himself before he manages to embarrass himself in front of her. She doesn’t want him, she’s made that very clear to him yesterday. And yet, he yearns and worries. He avoids another embarrassing situation by shoving his traitor of a hand into his decidedly untameable hair, and he uses the other one to shove the map in his pocket.

“Well, err, fuck you’re gonna be mad. I’m pissed off, already. I mean, shit...”

“Are you okay, Evans?” His voice is weak, his eyes are frantically searching for clues about what’s happened to her. Sirius is not of much help, right now. His heart is beating way faster than it should, and James doesn’t know whether it’s because he ran all the way towards here or because he’s so worried his heart might give out.

“Oh, don’t pretend you worry that much, Potter,” she says with a huff, and rolls her eyes.

“Oh, come of it, Evans, you were defending his honour, earlier,” interrupts Sirius, who nudges her with his elbow, before flashing a grin at her.

This is surreal. He’s probably asleep right now. How and why in Merlin’s sodding socks are Sirius Black and Lily Evans being… Friendly? Why the hell aren’t they answering him? What the fuck happened to her? He can hear the furious beat of his heart, it just won’t stop pounding against his ribs. He thinks they might hear it too.

“Oh, I told you that, didn’t I? Yeah, that was my bad. Head injury-related issues, you know. Thanks again, by the way, for not leaving me to die in a corner.”

“What’s happened?” James finds himself repeating himself, he really, really has to know. This is driving him insane. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“Yaxley fucking punched her.”

Lily groans at the words. It takes him a second to register the sentence. And then...

“WHAT?” he yells, he cannot even really believe the words he’s just heard.

“See, I told you it’d drive him spare,” Sirius tells Lily with a smirk, and she smiles weakly at him, she’s so pale, and there’s so much blood on her. How the hell are they not angrier? What the bloody hell is happening?

“WHERE IS HE?” James roars, he’s already heading towards the Hospital Wing, fuck it, he’s just going to have to kill the bastard in there. “IS HE IN THERE? I’LL FUCKING...”

“Prongs, mate, alright calm down.”

But the doors to the Hospital Wing open, and oh, dear Merlin, if he’s not ready to fucking pounce right now.

[stygian-omadas-epic-chronicles]

Death Doesn’t Bargain (Deadman’s Cross #2) extended excerpt

Kalder was stunned by Thorn’s unexpected confession. How could the demon bastard have set him free into the world again, if he really knew who and what Kalder was? What he was capable of doing? It made no sense. . “You knew?” Savitar accused.             “Of course, I knew.” Thorn was indignant. “I’m not stupid. I leave that precarious state up to you, surf-for-brains.” Savitar sent a blast of fire straight at Thorn. Thorn returned it in full measure. “Don’t you even start with me, Chthonian. Or I’ll wedge your surfboard sideways into a piece of your anatomy you won’t ever forget.” “You traitorous bastard!” That sobered Thorn who stalked Savitar like a savage predator after the beast who’d wounded it. Rage bled out from every part of his body. “How dare you of all creatures accuse me of that!” Now it was Savitar’s turn to be indignant. “I beg your pardon?” “Beg all you want, but you won’t get it. And you heard me. As if your hands are any cleaner in this fight than mine, or that you’d be any less likely to switch sides. If you ever think for one heartbeat that I’d shift loyalties to my father, then you’d best think again, and remember that the day I do, I’d kill my son and wife in the process. So fuck you, Chthonian! And your suspicions! You can take them both and shove them up your ass and down your throat! My ties to the right side of this fight are a whole lot stronger than yours will ever be!” “Wife?” The captain gaped. Thorn froze instantly. Then took a step back as if suddenly remembering that he and Savitar weren’t the only two on the island. His features paled as he glanced about, and he became acutely aware of just how many had borne witness to his slip of the tongue.     Savitar gave him an evil smirk. “Yes, punkin’ we all heard what you said. Want to keep going? What other interesting tidbits are you planning to let out in the midst of your verbal spewage?” Thorn narrowed his gaze. “Careful, punkin’, you know what they say about those who live in glass houses.” “They get a lot of sunshine?” Thorn sneered at his sarcasm. “I was thinking they get covered in a lot of bug shit, myself. But tomato, tamahto.” Savitar twisted his jaw in a way that said he was barely restraining the urge to punch him. “You really make it hard not to gut you some days.” “Ditto.” “Well, I should have known . . .” Cameron gaped as a man appeared next to her and Kalder who was equal in height to Savitar. Which was to say, he was gigantic. Only instead of muscular, he was lean, yet every bit as lethal and powerful. There was no mistaking his power that said he could easily match the rest of them. And then some. The only difference was that he had exceptionally long black hair and eyes of mercury silver that swirled like the sea during a storm. Aged eyes that said he’d seen more than his fair share of trouble and misery. And he wore a plain black woolen coat more akin to the captain’s than an ornate one that was favored by Thorn, Bart or Will. At his approach, Thorn and Savitar stepped apart like two errant children who’d been caught squabbling by their parents, and wanted to hide their misbehavior before a grand spanking ensued. “He started it.” Savitar jerked his chin at Thorn. “Acheron!” Janice shouted in happiness. “Get me away from these idiots!” Cameron’s eyes widened as she realized that this was the mysterious Acheron Parthenopaeus who led the Dark-Hunters— the group of warriors charged with protecting mankind from the Daimons who preyed on them and their souls. Unlike Thorn’s Hellchasers who sent demons back to their dimensions after they escaped or broke whatever rule had allowed them a temporary reprieve, or the Necrodemians such as her brother who killed the dark demons who refused to go, or were too dangerous to be corralled without risking danger to the world or to humanity. Pausing in front of Savitar, Acheron arched a quizzical brow. “Question. Who locked my Huntress in a cave?” Kalder raised his hand. “That would me, but she’s free to leave at any time. I only did it to protect her from the sunlight.” “Then I won’t kill you.” Acheron made a sharp turn back toward Savitar and Thorn. “And you two idiots. . . . Seriously? We have a major demon infestation, buckling gates, and a Malachai on the loose, and you two are fighting like infants right in the middle of it all?” With a perturbed sneer, Savitar crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, you’re not so old, or so big, that I can’t spank you.” Sancha raised her hand to volunteer. “Might I have the honor of it? Or I could hold him down if you’d like. If he struggles, all the better, I say.” Acheron scoffed at her offer. “Careful, love. My bite is much worse than my bark.” She flashed an inviting grin. “Counting on that, love. Definitely, counting on that.” She gave him an inviting wink.

Now it was Thorn’s turn to smirk. “What can I say, old Ack? They were damned for a reason. And some, more so than others.”

Acheron shook his head. “Makes me glad I just have to wrangle Dark-Hunters. And a few stray Dream-Hunters and Weres.” “And I have to wrangle morons.” Savitar gestured at Thorn. “With the Lord King of them all standing right there in front of us. So I dare you to ask him about (parts removed for SPOILERS ). Go ahead. I dare you.” Acheron went still for about a heartbeat and a half. His eyes rippled red as his black hair fanned out. Yet unlike Savitar, he didn’t react. Instead, he pressed one finger to his temple as if suppressing a migraine. “Thorn . . . tell me you had a good reason for what you did.” (parts removed for SPOILERS ) Sadly, I miscalculated how long it’d take me to get to him, and Vine’s resourcefulness (parts removed for SPOILERS ) For that, I apologize.” Thorn cleared his throat pointedly. “To you, Ash. Not to surf-bum.” Thorn sighed heavily. “Hindsight, stupid plan. But given that I was in battle at the time, with Michael and Gabriel breathing down my throat and all manner of hell breaking loose, it was the best I could come up with.” Savitar finally calmed down. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” “You didn’t give me a chance, psycho-douche.” Acheron held his hand up. “Enough, children! With Adarian running loose in the Caribbean, we have enough problems without you two going at each other. Now play nicely, or I’m feeding you both to she who won’t be named.” Thorn rolled his eyes, then turned to curse at Kalder. “Of all the islands in all the worlds. You had to land on this one? Really?” Kalder shrugged. “I’ve always had bad aim.” Zumari laughed at that. Unlike him, the Maasai warrior was renowned for his skills at throwing knives and spears. “No lie to that. You should see him at a spear toss.” Growling low in the back of his throat, Thorn faced Mara and Devyl. “How long will it take for you to make a new ship?” Mara bit her lip as she considered it. “From scratch? Months. But I could bond with one quickly.” Her amber eyes danced with amusement. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare one just lying about, would you?” They all turned toward Acheron. At first he appeared irritated by the fact that they deferred to him, but with a sigh, he resigned himself to it. “Frigate or sloop?” he asked the captain. Devyl grinned. “First-rate, man-o’-war. I’ve always been partial. Besides, me aeromages need the room to maneuver in battle. And me lady doesn’t like to be cramped.” Acheron nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll have one docked and ready by dusk.” He jerked his chin at Savitar. “Can you manage to be hospitable until then?” “I’d rather be disemboweled. Or better yet, disembowel them.” “Sav . . .” He sneered at Acheron. “Don’t give me no lip, twerp. How’d you come by that wonderful pirate coat you’re wearing again?” Acheron gave him a droll stare. “Moral of the story isn’t to draw first blood. It’s to draw last.” Savitar rolled his eyes. “Fine. But remember you owe me. And Thorn owes me twice.” “Me?” Thorn groused. “Why do I owe you?” “I didn’t eat your little Thornkateers when they showed up on my beach without an invitation.” Thorn sputtered in indignation. “Need I remind you that you personally recommended about half of them for my crew? Doesn’t that make them Saviteers?” “Or would that be saboteurs?” Belle asked with a wicked gleam in her eye. In complete synchronicity with one another, Savitar and Thorn turned their heads to glare at her. And with the same, exact grimace of disdain. An impressive feat, indeed. Bart laughed while William grimaced. “Do those two always argue like an old married couple?” “They do,” Acheron said with a sigh. “Be grateful, you’ve only had to listen to them for a few minutes. I’ve had this shite ringing in my ears for over ten thousand years.” Bart scratched at his beard. “And you’re still sane?” Acheron shrugged. “That’s a matter of opinion. Besides, sanity’s overrated.” “But silence isn’t. So let there be silence on my island. And peace, boys and girls. You can camp in the Omegrion chambers since I doubt the Were-Hunters will be visiting— and they better not be visiting ‘cause I can’t take any more creatures here today. There’s a reason I live in seclusion! Means I tend to eat anything that intrudes on it!” Savitar growled again. “Acheron, since he apparently has nothing better to do with his immortality than stick his skinny little nose in where it doesn’t belong, can show you where that is, then see about your ship so that you’ll be gone before I finish with my siesta. Thorn will watch you while you’re there, and make sure none of you piss on my rugs.” Thorn sputtered. “Excuse me?” “I tried to make an excuse for you once and this is what happened. I got stuck with you being a pain in my eternity. So be a good parent and mind your children while I nap. Keep them out of my underwear drawers and off my furniture for the duration of their stay.” And with that, Savitar vanished into thin air. Thorn ground his teeth. “Is it too late to summon an angry sea deity and sink this place?” Acheron gave him a cocky grin. “I can think of a vicious goddess of destruction who would love to help you out in that department. Especially since she’s not overly fond of him. However, there is one serious downside to releasing her.” Will cocked his head. “That is?” “End of the world,” the captain answered. “Hence the whole goddess of destruction moniker, lad. Goes with the territory.” “Mmm,” Acheron concurred. “Much like Sallie’s soul, once she comes out of her container, she’s a little hard to put back in it.” “Aye, but the last time she came out, she sank Atlantis.” Thorn glanced about the island. “This is considerably smaller than that. I’m thinking . . .” A bolt of lightning flew at his head. Thorn deflected it. “You missed me, Savitar.” A coconut hit him in the back so hard that it left him face down in the sand. “No, I didn’t.” The disembodied voice was plain and clearly Savitar’s. “I seriously hate you, Chthonian.”

[jenroses]

Sometimes it’s really hard to write about other people’s happy times when it reminds me of when I was strong and thought I could do almost anything. 

Sometimes it’s an escape, but sometimes it’s just a really rough reminder of how hard I’m struggling right now. 

The true answer to “How are you” behind the cut. It ain’t pretty.

The nausea is bad right now. Every week it’s a little worse, Saturdays. The dosage hasn’t changed, once a week I sit on the toilet lid while my husband is in the bathtub, and I swab alcohol between the stretch marks on my belly while he reads some old book or another (literally old, he’s on this kick and I think he’s up to the late 18th century? Maybe 19th? Idk.) 

I swab the top of the tiny vial of vile chartreuse poison. It’s thick:  in the little glass container it rolls thinner than honey, but thicker than oil. 

I pull out a syringe and draw .8 ml of air into it to push into the vial, in order to not create too much suction inside when I’m trying to pull the thick liquid into the needle.

The flashback comes when I get ready to inject, every time. When I was pregnant, I pushed a much larger amount of fire into my belly twice a day, every day, for most of ten months. It hurt, it bruised, and it kept me from clotting, and it meant that I survived a pregnancy without clots, long enough to give birth to a bundle of ornery sunshine. 

Methotrexate does not keep me from clotting. This is poison, and it’s only once a week, and the needle doesn’t even hurt going in. It doesn’t hurt pushing the medication in. But I know what’s coming. 

I do this before I head to bed. It’s almost always six or seven in the morning, because I dread it, and I want to milk the last of the “feeling okay” I’ve finally managed to achieve by the time I’m six days out from the shot. So I stay up too late, and then collapse into bed and cease to function for the rest of the weekend.

I sometimes think that I’m making too much of it. It’s only a little bit of chemo. For cancer, it would be 10-25 ml, not .8. It could be worse. I could be taking it orally and killing off my gastrointestinal tract. With the blood thinner I’m on, that seemed like a bad idea, so shots it is. 

When I let myself think that way, I do ill-advised things like decide I can fix shit and push through, like I did today when there was a crisis in the house over the fact that a DVD had come from the library as a blu-ray, for which we have no player. So I went to a store that had no electric cart to buy things that are literally way more expensive than a season of Game of Thrones could ever be, and came home to discover that there was literally no way to install anything on the computer that was supposed to get it. I sat there for an hour trying, on the wrong chair, which I should not have done, and then spent another hour trying to figure it out on a different computer. I emerged victorious, with a migraine and a blossoming fibro flare. 

I take... take feels like the wrong word. I subject myself to methotrexate in order to keep my immune system under control, to prevent my body from waging war on my gut, my liver, my salivary glands, my lacrimal glands and the membranes around my knuckles. It doesn’t work nearly as well as steroids at making me feel good, but might have fewer side effects long term? It’s hard to say. Something is going to kill me, and whether it’s the rheumatoid arthritis or the medications to fight the rheumatoid arthritis, or the blood clotting disorder, or the meds I take to prevent clots from forming (when the real problem is that once clots form, they just don’t STOP)... I don’t know. My grandmother lived to be 101 and right now that feels like too damn long. 

I have children. I have a husband. They need me, god knows why, and so I stay. I spent most of my time with my son today yelling at him. He’s five and it’s absolutely not his fault that my skin is so sensitive that touch is painful to me. I’m sure there’s probably a more graceful way to tell him that I just spent every last bit of energy I had making a couple of eggs that may or may not stay down and no, I don’t have the energy to deal with him wanting a new packet of salami and cheese when he hasn’t finished the cheese from the last one. He spent most of the day hanging out with his dad and his oldest sibling. My daughter is fortunately well cared for. We are protected from each other, but I wonder often what she thinks of our new reality, where she always has someone, but it’s almost never her mother because I can’t risk her feet or her teeth, because I can’t risk my temper or my lack of coping. Because I can no longer lift her, this child that I carried on my back for three straight years because she hadn’t learned to walk yet. I only stopped because I ended up with a clot and couldn’t lift anything. 

Writing has been hard this week, because when I write I draw on my experience, and right now it hurts to remember that once, I was a dancer, once I was a competitive swimmer, once I stood in front of people trying to ignore a bigot and roused them to speak out against him.

When I write I remember the things I could do and the places I went. I did so much. And it feels like that is over. The last convention I went to hurt. I had a scooter, and pillows, and a hotel room to retreat to, and it hurt so, so bad that I now associate conventions, which were fun, once, with blinding pain. 

The last one I went to was just before I was diagnosed. My joints were on fire. I thought I would need a wheelchair forever afterwards. 

I’m afraid to go back to the doctor and tell them how much the methotrexate is hurting me because the alternatives are thousands of dollars per month.

We can afford it, I just hate being that much more of a burden. That money was supposed to let us enjoy my husband’s retirement. But the idea of going on a cruise? I don’t see it happening and I don’t know how to break it to my husband that it might not be possible. 

I keep feeling like there are things I should be doing, like I should be trying, TRYING to exercise, like I should be trying to do something about my weight even though I know that trying to do something about my weight is not actually going to result in making healthier choices. There are barely any foods I can eat. No foods that are unambiguously healthy for me. The last thing I need to do right now is tell myself I can’t eat the few foods that don’t actively make me sick.

But today I tried to push through and I feel like I’m going to lose the entire week to it. 

I have no extra resources for social niceties. I’m completely social-scripting my responses to comments on my fic (please keep making comments, it matter so much, just understand if my responses are short.) I’m making huge social errors because I’m misreading things because the only way I social is by applying cognitive effort and I just don’t have it right now. 

I hear about people living and doing relatively normal things with RA. But my RA was not correctly diagnosed in a timely fashion. In retrospect, I think it started in 2014, but they didn’t have the right test in common usage so they shrugged and attributed my symptoms to “I don’t know some sort of inflammatory process probably related to EDS” and so by the time I was diagnosed, 29 joints were on fire and the antibody levels were so high they could not be accurately measured.

A lot of people with RA just have RA. 

I have RA, EDS, Hashimotos, Sjogren’s, fibro, sleep apnea, allergies, IBS, and Factor V Leiden. I’m probably autistic, definitely neuroatypical, with massive sensory issues and a brain that does amazing things in a lot of areas and is utterly inept at the things people expect to be easy. If I write people well it’s because I’ve been studying human beings like an anthropologist since I was three years old. (I gave my mother a sheet of paper on which I’d drawn a wide variety of facial expressions because I was trying to understand facial expressions.)

Someone asked me once, “Have you considered that your problems might be psychological?” I laughed in his face. The idea that I could, via mental illness, magically clot the blood in my veins or sabotage my own thyroid? I mean, I absolutely have anxiety and intermittent depression issues, but ffs, those things don’t make my salivary glands swell to the size of golf balls. I get tired because my body is attacking myself, and exercise makes that process worse because it fucks with my immune system which is pretty good at fucking its own self up.

Someone asked me once why I pursued so many diagnoses. The answer was, “Maybe if they figure out the right one, they can fix something.” It’s not because I *like* collecting diagnoses. I miss being able to eat normally. I miss being strong and physically fit. I used to swim 10 hours per week. I used to ride horses. I used to go camping and loved it. I used to be able to build things with my hands. 

I have to remind myself not to do those things.

I have to, because pretending I’m not sick makes me sicker.

Every shot I take seems to push me into a flare. Not a huge flare, just a few joints reminding me that this isn’t over. That this will never be over.

I got through the twice-a-day-Lovenox routine because I knew it was finite and i knew there would be a baby I wanted very much at the end of it.

I will be on methotrexate or something like it for the rest of my life. 

It feels like poison. The sneaky poison that you think isn’t poison until your lips go numb even though you didn’t drink it. And then I sleep and think, “Well, at least I can sleep.”

And then I wake up and my whole body hurts, and the exhaustion pulls at me so hard, and I’m supposed to eat something so that I can take the small dose of steroids I’m still on, and I don’t want to eat because my stomach is on a boat. 

Saturdays might as well not exist. Sundays aren’t much better. By Monday I can drag myself to physical therapy. By Tuesday I can drag myself to the grocery store. By Thursday I start to think, “I really should exercise” and on Friday I fight dread about the coming shot. 

This morning my husband said, “I blame Trump.”

And I said, “You might as well. Stress increases inflammation, and most of my stress in the last six months has started with That Man.”

It is no mystery to me that so many people died last year.

The mystery is how we keep going when it’s hard.

“How are you doing?” asks a cashier. They all ask this. Everyone, locally. It’s a reflex thing.

And my brain won’t let me give the flip lie of an answer. I can’t say I’m fine. I’m not fine.

“I’m doing,” I echo. (Right now this feels like a lie, too.)

Sometimes they say, “How are you today?”

And I just say, “I’m here.”

Sometimes what doesn’t kill us just doesn’t kill us (yet). 

I’m not stronger, I’m just not dead.