#having a general expectation that people will care about victims really is a never-ending uphill battle lmao

[evan-buck]

i need to make sure the only opinions i see about good omens and this whole situation are on my dash. impossible for sure, but like don't show me instagram or twitter or let me hear people speaking about it in the street etc. everyone else is so stupid, i just want to stay here.

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch15

Run

The usual blood/gore warnings apply, plus mentions of alcoholism and *gasp* sex.

Word Count - 5,950

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

________

~~~~Reader~~~~

Ugh… why is it so hot in here?

You blinked your eyes and groaned, licking your dry lips as a pounding headache announced its presence. The familiar weight of blankets pressed upon your body, but something wasn’t right. The texture was off, like a layer was missing…

What happened to my shirt?

For that matter, why did your mouth taste like salt?   

Oh shit.

The memories of the night prior flooded your mind, hazy and confused but clear enough to explain the flavor on your lips. Dinner, whiskey and drinking games, and… 

Oh SHIT.

Bedding rustled as you rolled over with a grimace, expecting to find a certain murderous artist by your side. Instead, you found only empty space; the other side of the bed didn’t appear to have been disturbed all night. Was that a good sign, or a bad one?

It didn’t matter. First order of business was getting coffee and some ibuprofen. Everything else would have to wait.

You took your time clambering out of bed, muttering expletives with each motion. The neutral walls and unobtrusive decor did little to ease the urge to vomit, but it was the stairs that made you pause, remembering how you struggled with them last night. 

Just take it slow. One step at a time.

By the time you reached the last step, your hands were screaming to release the railing. Even so, you waited a moment to regain your balance before acquiescing. 

Your tired eyes scanned the familiar shapes of your apartment, searching for a head of tousled ebony locks. He couldn’t have left, could he? Where would he go? Was he out killing someone right this very moment? 

You couldn’t discount the possibility as you found no trace of the man. 

Goddamnit, V! After everything I’ve done to cover your ass…

How could he be so stupid?! If anyone saw him and recognized him, he’d end up right back in police custody! It didn’t make any sense to take the risk, what the hell was he thinking?

You pulled out your phone and opened your email, tapping at the painfully bright screen until you found what you were looking for. It was a long shot, but you were desperate. It might already be too late, you might just make everything worse, but at this point you were screwed anyway.

  You pursed your lips and waited, eyes locked on the screen as if you could make him answer through sheer force of will. Every second he failed to respond heightened your anxiety, innumerable disastrous scenarios playing like a sick film in your imagination. Not since junior high had you been so anxious to hear from someone. Damn him!

Releasing a huff of annoyance, you forced yourself to set the phone down and make coffee. The pounding of your headache wasn’t going to fade unless you took action, and you needed to be able to focus and think clearly. Getting emotional helped nobody. 

As you readied the coffee machine, ears perked in case your phone alerted you to a response, you noticed something odd. The dishes from last night’s dinner were clean, sitting on the drying rack as if you’d scrubbed them in your sleep. 

The madman had cleaned up.

But something was missing.

He stole my sharpest knife. Fuck.

Your head swam and sweat dotted your palms. He might have taken it just as a precaution, but more likely he was out making another art piece. What message was he crafting? No doubt you’d find out sooner or later; the police would probably be in touch once the scene was discovered. At least he did his work in private areas, that lessened the chance he’d be caught in the act. 

But still.

You sighed, hoping against hope that he was safe as you poured a cup of dark roast and took a sip. Bitter and strong, just how you liked it. A dose of ibuprofen accompanied the next gulp. 

I’m not an idiot teenager. Sitting here and waiting won’t make a difference.

Even so, a moment later you checked your phone. Still no response. Damn him!

  Part of you wanted to scream and throw the slim device against the wall. Another part wished for nothing more than a good cry. A whirlwind of emotions, swirling like a tempest at sea, leaving you to battle the waves or drown beneath them.

What if he has another episode? There’s no one there to help him and make sure he’s okay.

Going catatonic at the wrong time may lead to his death. Crossing the street, driving a car, even stalking his prey could leave him exposed and at risk. Heaven forbid it happened in the middle of his creative process; his victim would have the perfect chance to turn the tables and kill him. 

But what could you do to prevent it? How could you keep him safe?

Not to mention the fact that maybe he wouldn’t welcome your aid. It was possible he left with no intention of returning, abandoning you like all the rest. All you’d have to remind you of his presence would be the sketches from his sessions and the absence of your knife. It’d be like he never existed at all, the puzzle of his mind left unsolved.

A tight ball of grief twisted your heart, pins pricking at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to swallow the lump in your throat. After all the people who’d turned their back on you, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the artist did the same. What did you have to offer him, anyway? You should’ve expected it, been ready for it. Why did it always hurt so damned much?

I should just turn myself in… what’s the point anymore? I can’t fix myself; I’m going to be broken forever. No one would miss me anyway.

The thought sent a dagger into your chest, the blade twisting and shredding the last remnants of hope you held. What a stupid thing, to hope. It only brought more pain. Better to accept things the way they were than waste time striving for something better.

Sniffling quietly, you stepped away from the kitchen to part the curtains and grimace at the bright street below, just in case you could spot him. The area you lived in wasn’t crowded; the peace and seclusion brought you comfort in the past. Today, it only hammered home how very alone you were. 

Another glance at your phone. Still nothing. 

He’s gone.

Your shoulders curled inward as a single, strangled sob broke free. Blinking back pointless tears, you swallowed and released a shaky breath, fighting to remain in control. Old habits died hard, and crying wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to indulge in for many years. Even as you were dying inside, you refused to let the agony show. 

Stop it, Y/N. Think about something else, pull yourself together.

A dark sedan caught your teary eyes. Unfamiliar and parked a few spaces down from your own old beater of a car, it seemed out of place somehow. Like it didn’t belong; an outlier. You pursed your lips and looked closer, letting the puzzle of its presence distract you from your aching soul. Why did it stand out so much?

It’s too clean.

Indeed, the vehicle shone with its lack of filth. In a city with a grand total of two car washes, a clean car was a rare sight. Whoever drove it must have an interesting list of priorities. 

Wait… it couldn’t be.

Your focus narrowed on the license plate. From that distance, it wasn’t easy to tell, but the spacing of the digits left a strange void. Right where the three letters that mark all undercover law enforcement vehicles could be found. XMT.

Exempt. 

“You gotta be shitting me,” you murmured, stunned. Cops. Here, at your home.

I’m under police surveillance. 

You stumbled back from the window, heart racing. Did they already have V in custody? Had he sold you out? What the hell made the cops think you merited surveillance? You’d been so careful to play along, something must have happened for them to suddenly be paying attention to you.

Not that they were wrong.

You couldn’t help but release a peal of manic laughter. This was your life now, watched by the authorities and worrying about the well-being of a man who left you behind. Pitiful. 

I can’t do this, I just can’t.

V was right; you’d been hiding for decades. Concealing your flaws as best you could in the hope that you could one day heal them. Pretending to be all right when you were anything but. You’d grown so accustomed to the mask you didn’t even know what was behind it anymore. 

Your body hit the counter, the sturdy structure supporting your spine as you slid to the floor. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around your knees and curled inwards, cocooning yourself as best you could. 

With your life in the state it was in, what was the point of it all? Coming back from this disaster would be near impossible. Just thinking about it made your legs feel like lead. An uphill battle to be fought alone was all that awaited you in the weeks to come. Who in their right mind would come to your aid? No; you had no allies. Others couldn’t be trusted, anyway.

V had abandoned you. Kotomi betrayed you, and Malphas… Malphas simply couldn’t be bothered. He hadn’t reached out a single time since your suspension. He obviously didn’t care about you, and he was far too intelligent not to know what really happened on the day of the fire. No, he knew. He just thought Kotomi was more worthy of his protection than you were.

And those were just the people who’d walked away in the last month and a half.

A humorless laugh split your lips. Maybe your dad was right all along. 

Once they get what they want, the people I care about will forget I ever existed. Caring only brings pain.

~~~~V~~~~

Elegant fingers clutched a paper bag in a tight grip, green eyes scanning the block for any sign of danger. He didn’t think there was any reason to fear, but one could never be too careful. The knife in his pocket comforted his nerves as he crossed the last intersection and peered into the parking lot or your apartment complex.

Odd. I don’t recall that car.

His errand hadn’t taken long, perhaps twenty minutes if he were being generous. All his friends begged him to stay put, but their warnings fell on deaf ears. You really didn’t stock your kitchen well, and after last night you’d need a solid breakfast.

Beanie pulled tight against his scalp, V longed to tear it off and scratch away the irritation it brought. He’d tucked his locks within it and borrowed a hoodie from your closet to hide his tattoos. So far, it had been enough to disguise him, but this newcomer made him pause.

Tinted windows. Shadowy outlines of two figures in the front. The vehicle was parked in the ideal spot to watch the front door of the building; it would be impossible to enter without being seen. While he couldn’t be sure who occupied the car, it simply wasn’t worth the risk.

The artist withdrew, traversing the sidewalk beside your building and thanking his lucky stars for the shrubbery that hid him from view. An urge to look over his shoulder swept through his mind, but he ignored it. If someone was watching, it would only make him seem more suspicious. Better to appear unconcerned, as if he belonged here.

If one cannot avoid being seen, one can still avoid standing out.

From what he recalled, your apartment was in the south east corner, two floors up. With only one entrance on ground level, he'd need to get creative to find a way back to you. 

He smirked. Creativity wasn’t something he struggled with.

Within moments he found salvation; an iron wrought fire escape firmly anchored on the eastern wall. He climbed it quickly. Surely you were awake by now, and hopefully coherent enough to let him in. If not, he could settle in and wait. 

Yet through the gauzy curtains covering your window, he spotted you. Curled up on the floor in the kitchen, head bowed. Likely due to the hangover you were sure to be suffering from. Perhaps he should’ve stopped you sooner last night. He tapped the glass with his free hand.

The look on your face as you lifted your head stopped his breath. Vacant eyes, tear tracks on your cheeks on either side of your red and runny nose. It was a look he knew intimately, one of grief and mourning. He’d seen it on his own features for many months after Nero’s passing.

Whatever happened to summon such an expression of sorrow would meet the end of his blade. Quickly.

He tapped the glass again, rewarded when your face shifted to recognition. Those delectable fingers he so adored tasting wiped away tears as you came to let him in. 

“Where were you?” you asked the moment he was inside. “Is that my sweater?”

This is a waste of time. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.

The artist clenched his hands and growled. “Stay out of it.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his package on the nearby countertop. “Not you; Vergil was being rude.”

You sniffled, dewy eyed and with fidgeting hands . “Right. S- so, where did you go?”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s wrong?”

The blade in his pocket called to him, urging him to wield it against your foes. He would not allow anything to interfere with his plans for you, not when you were making such excellent progress. 

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” you said dismissively. “What’s in the bag?”

It was obvious you were not fine, but pressing the issue might do more harm than good. Better to distract you and ask again later, when you were calm. “Here, let me show you.”

Your eyes went wide as he unwrapped the chunk of meat. Blood dripped from the tissue he’d used to wrap it and beautifully soaked the counter with his favorite shade of crimson. If only he had a camera handy…

“That’s not… human, is it?” 

Griffon’s raucous laughter filled his mind, but V only smirked. “Bovine, actually.”

“Ohthankgod…”

At that, he did chuckle. While the human form made a splendid canvas, it didn’t appeal to him as a meal. He had his limits. “I thought I could make you breakfast.”

As if your strings had been cut, you fell into one of the chairs by the counter and stared at him incredulously. “Breakfast… you risked being seen… to make me breakfast.”

He scoffed and reached for a frying pan, flicking the stovetop on with his free hand. “Indeed, though I wouldn’t call it a risk. I wore a disguise.”

You pursed your lips as he seasoned the meat. “You mean my bright orange volleyball sweater? Yeah, you are the epitome of discretion.”

An undercurrent of irritation spoiled your teasing statement. Shadow growled her displeasure and V clenched his jaw. Here he was trying to do something thoughtful and kind, and you only got upset with him. Vergil would surely tease him about it later. Wonderful.

“Sorry. I just... “ you murmured. “I just didn’t know if you were coming back, and-”

“And you think so little of me that you imagined I’d abandoned you?” he snapped, setting aside the spatula and turning to face you. Breakfast could wait. 

You refused to meet his eyes, a stony expression locked in place like a barrier against his annoyance. “Why not? Everyone else has.”

There, she gave you the perfect opening. Leave now and don’t look back.

Yeah, even I say it’s bail time. Gotta draw the line somewhere, pal.

His patience shattered. The artist slammed his palms on the counter with an animalistic snarl, barely noticing how you jumped. “ENOUGH! My decision is made and I will not hear any further protests! Aid me or be silent, all of you!” he roared.

For several seconds, the only sound in your spacious apartment was his panting breath. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart pounding in preparation to do battle, yet it seemed his friends would abide. For now.

He released a long sigh and tore the accursed beanie from his scalp, ruffling his hair to relieve the itchiness. Your sweater wasn’t far behind. A twitch of his slim wrist and the stove was off, waiting until the mood befitted a meal. 

“I must apologize. My friends are quite insistent at times, but in this they cannot sway me,” he began, circling the counter to sit beside you. He peeked through his dark hair to meet your eyes, still wary but warming with each word he spoke. “Forgive my boldness, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You sniffled and offered a subdued smile. “Leave a damned note next time, okay?”

He hummed his agreement and offered his palm. “Deal. Now, come help me with breakfast.”

~~~~Reader~~~~

You spent the next half hour watching V orchestrate a feast. He moved like a dancer through the kitchen, practiced hands flying as he flipped a massive omelet and expertly seared meat. A content smile graced his full lips as he cooked; the man was truly at his happiest when being creative. 

The best help you could offer was staying out of his way.

Not to say he let you sit back and idly watch; not at all. He had you chop vegetables and set the table, taking the chance to touch your shoulder or waist when you were close enough. It was peaceful, like an island in the tempest raging around you. If only things could be like this every day.

But you were a realist, and eventually you couldn’t keep from shattering the illusion.

“So I take it you saw the cops outside? That’s why you took the fire escape, right?”

V frowned as he dished up your half of the omelet. “I wasn’t sure they were cops, but caution seemed prudent.”

You sighed and carried the very full plates to the table, silverware and napkins already prepared. The savory scent of steak brought a flood to your mouth as you took your seat. “Yeah, I think I’m under surveillance.”

The sting of it still hurt. Tony and Nico seemed like nice people, but one of them must have suspicions. It was only a matter of time before the house of cards came tumbling down. All it would take was a moment of inattention, V walking by a window at the wrong moment or getting spotted on his way back inside; it was foolish to imagine he wouldn’t go out again.

So. Options.

“I think our best play is for me to leave. Since they’re watching me, they should follow. Then, you can leave and find somewhere else to lay low.”

The artist smirked, taking a bite of fluffy eggs. “I could just dispose of the issue.”

You shook your head and cut off a chunk of meat, moaning quietly at the exquisite flavor. “No, this looks above board. They’d just send more cops and get more suspicious.”

Not to mention all the other reasons murder isn’t the right way to solve your problems...

Before he could reply, a sharp knock on the door stole your attention. Your eyes and V’s went wide in unison, though his hand hovered by his pocket far too quickly for your liking. He still hadn’t returned your knife…

“Squirt, it’s me! I know you’re home, saw your car.”

Ice filled your veins. He wouldn’t leave without getting whatever he came for, he never did. Damnit, of all the times he could've picked to randomly show up! Was he drunk? What the fuck did he want? You sighed.

“It’s my father. Take your plate and go upstairs. I’ll get him to leave as soon as I can.”

The artist’s eyes flashed. “The drinker?”

“Yes, just go! He can’t find out you’re here.”

His nostrils flared, jaw tight. His posture reminded you forcefully that he wasn’t just some guy you had over for breakfast; this was a serial killer with untold amounts of blood on his hands. A man mentally unstable enough to be sent to a psychiatric hospital, with frequent auditory and occasional visual hallucinations. “Unpredictable and dangerous” was putting it mildly.

Though, some problems can be solved with murder.

“Just say the word, you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

Instead of answering him, you stood and headed for the door. Following your instructions at last, V ascended the stairs with a frown. He’d just have to deal with it, it’s not like these were normal circumstances.

With your best false smile in place, you opened the door. “Hi dad. What are you doing here?”

Greasy brown hair covered a growing bald patch on his scalp. A beer gut bulged out from his flannel tee, a stench of Miller radiating from him like cheap drugstore cologne. A few days worth of stubble cast a shadow on his jaw.

At least he’s not covered in vomit.

“Heya, squirt! You gonna invite me in?”

Do I have a choice?

“Yeah, of course. Come in.”

You made it a point to not socialize with him unless he initiated. There was too much bad blood, too many tainted memories and half-hearted apologies. He was beyond forgiveness and you were done trying to build a bridge when he insisted on burning it down. The most you’d grant him was civility, if only to avoid outright conflict. 

“Nice place. Kinda too perfect, though.”

Ten seconds in, and already he’d insulted you. Not a new record, but close. “I like it this way. Uh, what… what are you doing here?”

He shot you a lopsided grin, displaying his yellowed teeth. “Can’t a father visit his genius daughter? C’mon, let’s catch up. You got anything to drink?”

Not after last night, no.

But you let him see for himself. He wouldn’t take your word for it if you tried, anyway. Like many alcoholics, he always believed himself to be the victim of persecution. As if it excused his rotten behavior. 

“Nothing?” he said at last, closing the final cupboard. “Damn, you’re lame…”

“S- sorry. Maybe we can go out instead?”

It set your teeth on edge to hear yourself stutter. In high school, it’d been the main reason you got picked on, along with your father’s history. It wasn’t easy to escape the blight of sharing blood with the man. Just one night, a mere handful of hours to keep your secrets hidden. You could tolerate him that long, surely.

“Nah, how about you just run to the store and get me something like a good girl?” 

Don’t you call me that. Don’t you dare call me that.

You bit your tongue. Emotions were just a chemical reaction; you were in control. He just stimulated the neurons that brought this feeling on, it wasn’t like he had any actual power over you. Not anymore. 

“Look, this, uh, this isn’t really a good time for me. Can we catch up later this week?” you replied. A mask of neutrality paralyzed your face, but inside you were screaming.

Get out! Get out of my home, this place is mine and I won’t let you ruin it! Haven’t you done enough damage?

You knew better than to let the words take shape as your father settled into your couch, propping his legs up and sighing happily. “Truth is, I got evicted. Got nowhere else to go, so figured I’d stay with you until I get back on my feet. Hell, you could even help me get going like you used to.”

Never had V’s method of solving problems appealed to you more. It didn’t matter how much you wanted him to leave - you would never agree to be his accomplice again. “What about a hotel? My couch isn’t that comfortable.”

He chuckled, gesturing dismissively as if your words held no weight. “S’fine, I’ll take the bed. Oh, is that steak? Awesome!”

1000… 993… 986…

The sound of his chewing and happy moans barely preceded V’s footsteps. 

No, no, nonono! What are you doing?! You idiot!

“Good evening,” the artist began, approaching your father’s meat-stuffed face with his own plate in hand. Though his expression was still, sparks of rage flickered in his green depths and his hand twitched toward his pocket. As if the situation wasn’t bad enough already…

“Uh, hi? Who are you?”

One metaphorically bloodstained hand extended over the table to shake the equally morally questionable hand of your kin. “You can call me V.”

“Heh. V. Weird name. You sleeping with my daughter?”

Someone please just kill me. I’m so fucking done.

It wasn’t embarrassment that made you purse your lips as V sat down. It was the knowledge of what would inevitably come out of your father’s lips and the potentially atomic reaction it would elicit from V. 

“More or less,” replied the artist, taking a bite of his own steak.

Your father glanced at you and smirked, as if to say ‘watch this’. A sinkhole opened in your stomach as he licked his lips. This was it, train wreck in five, four, three...

“You sure you want her? She’s kinda… well... “ his voice dropped. “She’s kinda nuts.”

A flash of silver, copper staining the air as fresh blood soaked your table. Maniacal laughter and a twisted sense of relief, that at least you’d never have to hear his voice again, endure his insults or manipulations…

That was what you expected.

You did not expect V to laugh and wave you over, wrapping an arm around your waist possessively the moment you were close enough. You did not expect him to smile at you fondly and never would you have imagined his response. 

“I know. That’s why I love her.”

Intricately tattooed fingers brought your hand to the artist’s lips for a kiss. You barely made it to the chair beside him before your legs refused to support you. Love… Is that what he called it? It had to be an act, some scheme to throw off your father. 

He can’t be serious.

“You got some fucking shitty taste in women, then, my friend. The last guy she was with wound up dead, the one before that still can’t walk properly.”

Beneath the table, V’s hand clenched yours in a vice-like grip. His wrist kept twitching, closer to his pocket where your knife still resided. It took all your strength to pull him back.

“Dad, knock it off. Let’s get you a hotel room, we can talk tomorrow.”

He took another bite and grinned. “Whasamatter? Don’t want me talking to your newest boy-toy?”

V’s grip tightened. You winced but refused to pull away, lest he lose control. How long had it been since he killed? Most killers had a pattern, a time frame. If he were overdue, restraining it would be even more difficult. 

Defuse, deflect, de-escalate.

An obviously fake laugh found its way past your lips. “Aw, don’t worry. I’ll always be a daddy’s girl.”

The source for half of your genetic material burped and polished off the last bite of steak, chewing open-jawed as if trying to catch flies. “Good girl,” he said.

That time, it was your hand that twitched closer to the blade.

By all rights, you knew he was toying with you. Playing with your fucked-up head and sending it spinning, like a child’s top or a carousel. It was his standard opening move; destroy any existing emotional framework and get you to revert to being his “good girl”. Burn you to ash so he could rebuild you however he pleased. Remind you of how powerless you were and how easily he could ruin everything you built.

Angry tears prickled at your eyes, a baseball blooming into existence where your vocal cords were supposed to be. If you clenched your teeth any harder, you’d crack a molar. Every ounce of self-control and restraint went into withholding a scream.

~~~~V~~~~

Your father was perhaps the most magnificent canvas he’d ever seen. The sheer volume of ways he wanted to carve the man into pieces outnumbered the entirety of his portfolio. A slice here, a stab there, how delicious would it be to make the man eat his own eyeballs? His steaming entrails spilling onto the floor, his still-beating heart visible through the hole artistically positioned across his ribcage; the ideas refused to slow.

But you’d told him long ago not to harm the bastard. 

Not yet...

“Let’s get the dishes started and give your father a moment to settle in, hmm?” V commented. 

“Works for me. Where’s the remote, squirt?”

“Coffee table,” you ground out. 

The instant the abominable man turned away, he pulled you to your feet and grabbed a dish. How would your father’s spleen look on a plate? Or perhaps his cock? The artist hummed; that was an idea worth revisiting.

The kitchen was barely far enough to be considered out of earshot, but it would have to suffice. He licked his lips and asked the first question that came to mind. “Why do you let him speak to you like that?”

A muscle in your cheek clenched as you released his palm, eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Lithe fingers handed you a plate. “I strongly disagree.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Water spewed from the faucet and you commenced scrubbing, using more force than he imagined was required. He handed you the next plate. A knife was next, but he hesitated. It fit so well in his fingers, like it was calling his name…

Do it. Stab her, kill them both and leave. Enough foolishness.

He dropped the knife.

His words still echoed in his mind. “That’s why I love her.”

It wasn’t strictly a lie, but was it the truth? Why else did the monstrosity in the living room still breathe? Why else would he hesitate to slice the fool’s throat open and dance in the gushing fluid? 

Yeesh, look what she’s turned you into, Van Gogh. This is just pathetic.

“Stop it,” he muttered, handing you the dropped knife as quickly as possible. The warmth and comfort it brought moments ago was but a memory. Only cold steel remained, foreign and obscene to his grip.

“Stop what?”

Kill her. She is nothing, a plaything you’ve outgrown. You’re free now, she is unnecessary. 

He shook his head. Wide jade eyes searched for something safe to view. A cutting board? Perfect for slicing your thighs open. Kitchen shears? Excellent choice for severing tendons. A wine glass - the perfect container to hold your detached fingers.

Just do it, you’ll feel better. Trust us, have we ever led you wrong?

“V? What’s wrong?” 

His skull was splitting, too many voices all at once and why wouldn’t they just shut up? Yours was the one life he wished to preserve, why did his friends want to end it? Far away, he heard your voice calling his name, but it was like you were a ghost calling from beyond the veil. 

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her…

No!

Dainty hands wrapped around his torso, a warm voice telling him to breathe. He latched on with all he had, desperate to let those arms comfort him and bring him back to himself. 

Kill her.

Agony. 

Wave after wave of unbearable pain, rolling over him with no end in sight. Like a boulder on a beach, eventually he would wear away into nothingness. He was powerless against the inferno boiling his blood and the spikes digging into his gut. 

Kill her.

He lacked the strength to stand and fell to his knees, groaning as he struggled to resist the shining blade glittering in the dishwasher. It would be so easy to end his suffering, all he had to do was take the handle and plunge it into your body. He could do it over and over until nothing remained but holes for him to fuck. To feel you wrapped around him was a persistent fantasy, how divine would it be to create caverns only he would ever enjoy?

“NO!”

The artist lurched to his feet and ran, sprinting to the exit as fast as his long stride would carry him. It didn’t matter that he had no sweater and no beanie, it didn’t matter that the police were right outside, he didn’t care that he would never again taste freedom. 

All that mattered was putting distance between himself and you.

~~~~Reader~~~~

You stood in stunned silence as the door swung shut behind V’s departing figure. The sink still sprayed water, ricocheting off a forgotten plate to douse the counter and your stomach but it didn’t matter. 

The wanted murderer you’d been giving shelter was gone. Running outside in full view of the police watching you.

Your life was over.

“Fuck…”

Somehow, throughout this whole mess you’d believed you could put your life back together. There was always a path back, always a way to move forward. It wouldn’t be easy, nor quick, but it was still possible.

V had just drenched that chance with gasoline and tossed a lit match on it.

It happened so fast; your hands still hovered where you’d been trying to hold him. Leftover heat from his body warmed the air and his scent lingered in your nostrils like a memory. 

“Where’d that loser go? You scare him off?”

Your shell-shocked gaze turned to your father. Everything was fine before he showed up. Did he even know what he’d done? Did he care? “He’s… he’s gone.”

“Good riddance, I say. Now it’s just me and you, like old times.”

Old times…

There was still hope. Maybe the cops were gone, maybe V managed to slip past them. You could still salvage this. You had to at least try.

But… how?

You closed your eyes, mind racing. There were two obstacles you had to deal with; the cops, and your father. Operating on the assumption that all was not lost meant that the cops could be ignored for now. If they were still a factor, it was a moot point.

That left your father.

The man who took less than ten seconds to insult you when he arrived.

The man who coerced you into counting cards as a child.

The man who’d run over a kid in your third grade class.

The man who demanded everything and gave nothing back.

The man who would sell you out as soon as he’d blink.

The old you would have backed down and meekly done as he told you. Gone back to pretending you were okay and that you felt things the same way as everyone else. Accepted his praise and craved more, never imagining there was a different life out there for you. 

I can’t- what do I do? What would V do?

You already knew the answer. He’d do what was necessary. The artist would never pretend, he’d tear the mask from his face and scream his defiance to the world. No matter the cost, he would not shy away from it.

No more hiding.

A trembling hand reached into the soapy water and grasped the same blade V stole just hours ago. How fitting, to use it for this. 

It’s time to take action.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

[kootenaygoon]

So,

When I first sent off my application for the Nelson Star in April 2014, I was living in a Victoria basement suite with my partner Paisley and our latest pet, a nine-pound Maltese named Muppet that we’d acquired from a small farm on one of the Gulf Islands. My year-long book publishing internship had taught me a lot about the industry, but mostly it had convinced me I wanted to pivot back into journalism as quickly as possible. I felt this insistent desperation to be a reporter again, to be out in the world taking pictures and asking questions, handing out my business card to strangers.

After scrolling through the listings on Jeff Gaulin I sent out a flurry of resumes to papers all over the province and ultimately received multiple offers. When I asked Paisley where she would prefer to live, she instantly chose the Kootenays over our other options — she’d always dreamed of living there, having grown up in Calgary. I knew a little bit about Nelson from working nearby at the Trail Rossland News during the summer of 2010, and I’d even helped the current reporter Cass Barkley land her gig by putting in a good word with the editor, who had since moved on. Cass and I had previously worked together at The Martlet, UVic’s student newspaper, and now that she was leaving her position she worked to return the favour by putting in a good word for me with the new editor, Calvin Miller.

During the weeks I was deliberating, I reflected on where I was at in life. Nearly 30 years old, I’d spent the previous decade perma-bouncing from one location to the next, never staying anywhere for longer than eight months at a time. Though I’d been offered a generous scholarship to complete my Master’s in Journalism at Ryerson, I worried that I was needlessly pushing back adulthood by cowering safe within the confines of academia. Initially our plan was to take the Star position for the summer before heading off to Toronto in September, but immediately upon receiving the job offer I asked myself the following question: why am I going to school for journalism if I can just get a journalism job and do it? 

I believed the old maxim that journalism is like a hangover — you can learn about it and talk about it all you want, but you can’t really understand what it’s like until you experience it for yourself.

Around this time things were a little drastic at home. I’d recently started taking antidepressants under the supervision of a mental health counsellor, Paisley was going through some debilitating health struggles, repeatedly ending up in the hospital, and both of us were vibrating on uncomfortably high frequencies. I felt like we were victims of our stagnant lifestyle and the Star opportunity seemed like the exact thing I needed to jump-start my career and vault into a better, more fulfilling future. I told my Dad before leaving that I knew I’d be working for some rinky dink paper way out in the bottom right-hand corner of B.C., but I was going to pretend like it was The New York Times — and conduct myself accordingly. Paisley and I decided to make it our goal to live there for three years straight, giving us a chance to actually belong somewhere and become part of the community. 

We’d been rootless too long.

It was early May when I loaded my newly acquired RAV with all my possessions. I was expected to start within a few days of receiving the offer, so I left Paisley behind on the island while I drove across the province with Muppet in my passenger seat. I was under-slept and stressed after days of arguing, but I was also convinced this move would be a turning point — it wouldn’t be the first time I’d tried to solve a spiritual problem with a geographic solution. Muppet was antsy, exploring through our piled belongings in the back and yelping when she got stuck, so I stopped along the side of the highway multiple times to let her get her bearings. I’ve always enjoyed taking care of things that are smaller than me, and I tried my best to bring her stress level down, but she was trembling and nervous — kind of like me. 

Cold wind pulled at my clothes. Together we stood at the crest of the hill overlooking Christina Lake, wondering what kind of story was waiting for us at the end of this trip.

That evening we arrived at Cass’ house around dinnertime. She lived on a gentle slope facing Elephant Mountain with her husband Elliot. When I knocked at the front door we heard frantic barking, and when it swung open we were faced with Cass’ yapping puppy Winston. He whined and leaped, basically losing his shit, jumping for attention. Halfway through the entrance he flew up into my face, clawing happily, while Muppet panicked and shrieked. She shredded at my shins until I pulled her up to my chest, squirming, and accepted directions into the closest bedroom. Feeling awkward that I hadn’t properly said hello, I stroked Muppet and held her to my chest until she calmed down a bit — but as soon as I left she threw up and peed on the bed. My poor girl.

As it turned out, Cass had a friend who worked for the local SPCA and lived only a few blocks away. She made a phone call and within half an hour a friendly dude named Rob Andrew sauntered up to the house with a calming lavender spray and a tight “thunder coat” that was supposed to help with anxiety. He spoke to Muppet in a kind, reassuring voice and gave me instructions on how to help her cope. I was stupid grateful, and he didn’t even ask for money. When he left again I told Cass I couldn’t believe that he’d been able to just magically appear like that, and she told me there’s a spirit of helping in the Kootenays that’s unlike anything she’d ever experienced in the big city.

“My car has broken down twice,” she told me. “Both times all I had to do was get out and stand there for a minute or two, and eventually someone stopped to help.”

When Cass left her position at the Nelson Star she was one of the paper’s longest-serving employees, having spent half a decade there. She was a natural journalist, one of the best I’ve ever known, and her mind had become a swirling whirlpool of information. She was a tiny woman with a loud voice, and couldn’t stand bullshitters. She had worked successfully under the former editor Rob Wall but found the latest one, Calvin, to be insufferable — he was a right-wing hockey fan who liked to micro-manage his reporters’ time while she was a strident left-wing feminist who didn’t like being bossed around. Before I even met Calvin I’d already heard lengthy tirades about what a nightmare he was, incompetent and annoying, but she was convinced he would be gone in a matter of months. She said if I could last long enough Calvin would have some sort of breakdown and leave town. According to her, he wasn’t handling the stress well.

“You know how lazy he is?” she asked me. “We had a bank robbery two weeks ago and he couldn’t even be bothered to leave the office to go take a picture or ask a few questions, even though the bank is two blocks away from the office.”

“Like a real, legit bank robbery? In this town?”

“Yeah. It was this couple from Salmo who apparently have a bunch of children. They’ve been leaving the kids with baby-sitters and going out to rob pharmacies, banks, places all over the Kootenays. They hit the currency exchange in town here a while back and the dude actually fired his shotgun, like into the door of the vault.”

“Who caught them?”

“Well, the husband? He was the one doing all the heavy lifting. He took off on a bicycle at first, but then he got into a getaway car and led the police on this high speed pursuit out towards the highway to Castlegar. They had him cornered on this bridge and he jumped off, trying to get away from them.”

“What, into the river?”

“No, there was nothing but rocks beneath him. Apparently he broke both his legs.”

“Crazy.”

“Yeah, they say he threw the bag of money into a tree and it burst open raining bills down everywhere.”

“Holy shit. Were they unemployed or what?”

“Drugs,” she said. “Addiction’s a big thing around here. I think it was meth, or maybe oxy, something like that. They needed to score.”

As Cass drove me all around Nelson, pointing out landmarks and monologuing about stories she’d written over the years, I noticed she had a slightly frenzied vibe, like she was struggling to keep everything ordered in her head. She rattled off names of people I would need to know — John Dooley, the mayor, Tom Thomson, the chamber boss, Michelle Mungall, the MLA — and went on at great length about the many small-town feuds I would need to keep track of. She drove me through the different neighbourhoods (Rosemont, Fairview, Uphill), and filled me in on construction projects and community controversies. We looked at the mural of Roxanne, a Steve Martin movie from the 80s, then swung by the historic fire hall where a bunch of it was filmed. Down by the mall there was a miniature pirate schooner called Obsidian anchored off-shore, and Cass told me when it sunk to the bottom of Kootenay Lake the community raised funds to resurrect it with a crane. There was one large-scale development project called Stores to Shores that ran right through the middle of downtown, there was a municipal election coming up, and she figured I’d end up writing about an ongoing court case around a recently shuttered and then reopened bar called The Royal.

Another thing: I had to keep in mind that there were two polices forces in town, the Nelson Police and the Nelson RCMP, and that they were actually quite different.

“Nobody will tell you this, but there isn’t any budget for traffic enforcement within the city limits,” Cass told me. “The RCMP deal with the highways and the Nelson Police are too busy with everything else to deal with giving out tickets and that sort of thing.”

“What’s the police chief like?” I asked.

“Oh, his name’s Wayne Holland. He came up from Vancouver and he’s real chummy with Dooley. You’ll hear him talk a bunch about mental health, because the cops are spending all their time dealing with street vagrants. That’s what the whole dog bylaw was about.”

I’d heard about the dog bylaw — at one point it made national news. Decades previous the council had banned dogs from downtown in a move designed to rid the sidewalks of buskers and panhandlers. Nelson had caught a lot of flak for it, but it was still on the books, which meant I wasn’t allowed to walk Muppet downtown. Cass had written several stories about it.

“That’s pretty much the biggest controversy in town,”she said. “The conflict between the businesses who want to clean up downtown and all the social justice types who want to help the marginalized and bring in more services, all that.”

Eventually Cass started talking about Paul Hinrichs, a local music promoter who had worked at the Royal before it became entangled in legal disputes. She spoke about him with a saint-like reverence. Now operating out of the Hume Hotel, he was responsible for booking the vast majority of the musical acts coming to town, including big names like Sloan. She had relied on him for arts stories throughout her time at the Star, and considered him to be the most important contact in the arts community. Now that she’d left the paper, she’d picked up some work promoting shows for him.

“You know, I’m not actually that into live music,” I admitted.

“You will be. It’s just contagious. There are so many artists in town, so many musicians, that you can’t help but pick up on the vibe and get into it. And the arts scene is so busy in Nelson you can pretty much be busy every night of the week going to the museum, concerts, literary events — did you hear we just got our own movie theatre?"

“No, that’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it was a community project. It’s independent. That’s unheard of in a town this size. The guy that runs it, Jason Asbell, he gets a pretty good mix of indie films and the big blockbusters. It’s got this old-old-time feel and it’s all paid for by the community.”

“Right on.”

“And then there’s all the music festivals,” she said. “There’s like six or seven of them, but Shambhala is by far the biggest. You can get media passes, if you ask. I find they’re always good for photo spreads.”

I asked her about pot, because I’d heard Nelson was the weed capital of B.C. She wasn’t a smoker, had never been, but she knew plenty about the local industry. Paisley and I had started smoking regularly in Victoria but it was still pre-legalization, which meant we bought from a friendly dude named Papa Andrew rather than from a storefront dispensary. I was excited to experience Nelson’s signature export firsthand.

“It’s funny, it’s always the last person you would guess who run the grow-ops. It’s not the hippie stoners you see in the street, it’s the well-dressed rich people who seem like they would never touch it. And that’s their whole disguise, since they don’t seem like weed people,” she said.

“You’ll find people talk about it differently here. You’re supposed to call it cannabis. Most people talk about it as a medicine, and it doesn’t have the same stigma as on the coast. But then it’s also created this intense class division between the growers and everyone else, this hatred. The big thing is they don’t pay taxes.”

“Right.”

She told me I should be prepared to feel pseudo-famous, working for the Star, because the town was so small and there were only three reporters. She also told me to expect certain people to engage with the newspaper to a scary amount. It was a magnet for kooks.

“This is a town with lots of big personalities, which is another way of saying there’s shitloads of mental illness. You’ll find that the way people dress, the way people talk, the things people do — it’s all stuff you could never get away with anywhere else. But in Nelson there’s the underlying counter-culture, I mean it’s got a lot to do with the black-market weed industry, where people are more open and forgiving of things,” she said.

I knew Cass had struggled with her own mental health in the past, and she also knew about some of my depression and substance abuse issues. We’d pushed each other to extremes while working together at the Martlet, constantly competing with one another for jobs and assignments and attention. We were known for bickering viciously in the newsroom and had even dated for a brief time. But now she was married, and so was I basically, and our lives had quieted as we transitioned from our chaotic twenties into respectable grown-up reporters. I knew Paisley would be suspicious and intolerant of me spending too much time with Cass, but I felt a deep gratitude for how she’d finagled this job for me. She would be my first phone call when I needed to figure something out, my main back-up. As we drove the sunny tree-lined streets I felt a fearful optimism that this would be a turning point, the first page of an epic new chapter in my life.

The Kootenay Goon

[equallyreal]

A Review: Blade Runner 2049

I haven’t seen the first Blade Runner movie since 2013, when I had to watch it for a philosophy class. I had to write a paper on it. I don’t remember what grade I got, but I do remember enjoying the movie. I’m not a hardcore Blade Runner fan, but I liked it enough to be worried about the upcoming sequel. Hollywood’s track record for sequels to classic movies from the 80s isn’t great. You get your periodic Fury Road’s, sure, but you’re more likely to encounter a Phantom Menace, at least from my experience.

I’m glad to report that Blade Runner 2049 is more on the Fury Road end of the spectrum--not quite Fury Road levels of Godlike Quality, but definitely a very, very good movie. If you liked the original, you’ll definitely like this. For a more in-depth and slightly spoiler-y take (including what will be, fair warning, a lengthy rant about one element of the movie I really didn’t like), check under the cut!

Let me start by saying this movie is gorgeous. It’s directed by Denis Villenuve, whom you might remember as the director of my second best movie of 2016, Arrival, with cinematography by Roger Deakins of The Village and The Shawshank Redemption, and there is just as much care put into the visuals in this film as there was in those films. There’s also just as much care put into the silent moments. There are huge stretches with little soundtrack or dialogue, which works well with the sparse, harsh atmosphere of the settings. The special effects are also superb. There’s one standout scene that, despite skirting a bit close to being a full-on sex scene and being a little bit weird in its context, shows a really impressive use of visual effects. Despite this movie being almost three hours long, it never felt long. I only noticed that it had been a while because my back started aching. The pacing is good, and the plot is engaging enough that you won’t lose interest--or at least, I didn’t.

The acting is all consistently good (save for one actor whom I’ll be discussing later). Harrison Ford turns in a very, very good appearance in his return to playing Deckard. I’d say it’s even better than his appearance in The Force Awakens. He pulls off some really good quiet emotional moments in this movie.  I also really enjoyed Ana de Armas as Joi. Her performance had just the right amount of nuance to make what could’ve been a very flat or obvious character more complex and ambiguous. 

The real star of the show is Ryan Gosling as Officer K. Talking about him will involve some heavier spoilers, so if you want to go into this completely blind, I’d skip past this next bit. The tl;dr version is that I love his character and think he did a great job.

[START SPOILERS]

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Officer K is a Replicant better known as Officer K-D6 3.7, a revelation that is made fairly early on in the movie. The plot of the movie is, on the base, a mystery about these escaped older-model Replicants. However, K is at the emotional core of the movie. Amidst the mystery is a sometimes subtle but very solid plot about K wanting to be real. I liked the way his desire for realness manifested in his relationship with Joi, whom he only ever treats as an equal and genuinely cares for. I liked that even when he was given the chance to be real, he responded with both fear and longing--a perfectly rational response for someone in his position.

What I really loved, above everything else, is that when he ultimately finds meaning and feels human, it’s not because of a big act of revolution or destiny or anything like that. It’s because of an act of unselfish kindness. He finds peace and his own meaning, even after having everything snatched away from him. It’s a bittersweet ending in a lot of ways, but a very good one. I love K and I want him to be safe and happy. I’m not sure the writers want that, but I do, damn it.

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[END SPOILERS]

So, overall, there are a lot of good elements to this movie, including a likable protagonist, a solidly constructed plot, and some gorgeous visuals. I do think this is a movie people should check out, especially if you’re a fan of the original or enjoy cinema.

That said, there are two flies in the ointment that keep this movie from achieving, as I put it earlier, Fury Road levels of Godlike Quality.

The first and smaller of the flies is the treatment of women. There are some elements that are thematic in a way that works, but is still uncomfortable, but overall a lot of the women in this are objects in some way. Again, sometimes this works, but it does contribute to an overall uncomfy feel hovering just under the veneer of stylized beauty. This is most obvious in the sheer amount of sexual content in this film. I’ll admit, part of this is my own discomfort with sexual stuff in movies, but quite a few of the women or female forms in this movie are depicted sexually, or have moments of nudity that while not sexual do contribute to them being depicted as victims. There are three exceptions. Of those three, one isn’t onscreen long and is basically a Lost Leanore, one is a bad guy, and one inexplicably tries to make a move on K at one point but is otherwise pretty great. Again, thematically this sometimes makes sense, but other times it feels gratuitous. Not to mention that thematically relevant doesn’t always equal this is something we should have put in the movie.

The second and much bigger fly is Jared Leto.

If you don’t want to read negativity or you’re a Jared Leto fan, you should skip this bit. I was super not fond of him.

To be fair, part of my grudge against him has nothing to do with this movie. For the sake of disclosure, I will admit that part of the reason I don’t like him is his behind the scenes behavior in Suicide Squad. If you haven’t heard about that, be basically sent used condoms and harassed his colleagues in the name of (and picture the biggest air quotes possible here) “being in character” as the Joker. I find that kind of behavior unprofessional and attention-seeking, and it really turned me off to him as an actor.

Basically, I was already biased against him, and he had an uphill battle to fight when it came to me tolerating him. I might have been able to look past being a gross person, had there not been another piece of behind-the-scenes news that drove another five or six nails into the coffin. Back in September, it came out that Jared Leto’s character in this film is blind, and that he wore contacts to change the appearance of his eyes, contacts that made him basically blind in real life. This would be completely unremarkable if it weren’t for this quote from the film’s director:

We all heard stories about Jared, how he transforms into the characters, but even this didn’t prepare me for what was to come. He entered the room, and he could not see at all. He was walking with an assistant, very slowly. It was like seeing Jesus walking into a temple. Everybody became super silent, and there was a kind of sacred moment. Everyone was in awe. It was so beautiful and powerful — I was moved to tears. And that was just a camera test! (x)

(Emphasis added is mine.)

So basically, Jared Leto does something that’s pretty much the bare minimum of what you’d expect a sighted actor playing a blind character to do, something actors from Maisie Williams to Donnie Yen have done while playing blind characters, something that other actors have done while playing sighted characters to change the appearance of their eyes (Rebecca Romijn as Mystique, for instance), and...suddenly he’s the second coming of Jesus. Yeah. Okay. Sure.

On top of this, there’s a fair amount of stickiness and complexity surrounding a sighted actor playing a blind character. It’s a tough subject, and one I’m not 100% equipped to talk about as a sighted person. tl;dr, Hollywood is really bad in general about casting actors appropriate to the role, and also has a diversity problem with regards to...well, everything, but especially disabled actors. In an ideal world, Jared Leto wouldn’t have gotten this role. But he did, and now we’re stuck with him in the movie.

This was already fairly annoying before having seen the movie. Now that I have seen the movie, the whole debacle is even more annoying. Why? Two reasons.

1) Jared Leto is barely in the movie. On the one hand, this is a blessing, as I only had to see his face for two scenes. On the other hand, this makes that high praise the director gave him all the more baffling, because his character didn’t do much. In his first scene, he walks around, says some pretentious stuff, kills someone, and gives orders. In his second scene, he walks around an even smaller space, says some pretentious stuff, has someone killed, and gives orders. That’s his entire role. Now, on the one hand, Jared Leto as a pretentious rich white bro with a god complex makes perfect sense. On the other hand, it’s nothing spectacular. He didn’t act it especially well--he wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t memorable for anything other than the inherent douchiness of his character. So all that praise the director heaped on him, especially in a cast of much more talented people, feels unwarranted.

2) The fact that his character is blind is ultimately irrelevant to the plot or the character. I know, a blind character doesn’t need an excuse to be in a narrative, and also there might be some eye-related symbolism that I’m missing because I’m dense (this franchise has a thing for eyes). But this felt really glaring to me in light of their casting a sighted actor and then heaping praise on the actor for doing something that’s not that special.

There are two ways to approach these two points. The first way is the why didn’t you just make this character sighted way. Sure, if the character could see some obtuse metaphor that I and the average movie goer missed would be lost, but I don’t think the movie would suffer for it, especially with a character who’s barely there. We wouldn’t have had to deal with the aforementioned Jesus comment, which would’ve gone a long way towards making me less exhausted by Jared Leto being in this movie, and you would’ve avoided the stickiness of the casting choice with regards to disability. 

The second way to approach this is why didn’t you just hire a blind guy? Sure, there aren’t a lot of blind actors active in Hollywood right now--in fact, Wikipedia only lists four with actual entries on the site. But there is probably out there some undiscovered blind person who’d love to get into acting, or they could pick from any of the blind musicians and actors out there. It’s a minor role, good for someone without a lot of acting experience, and there’s little to no physical action required. Literally all Jared Leto did in this movie was walk around. There is nothing that would prevent an actual blind person from taking this role. They could’ve made a big step forward for representation, or at least thrown a few dollars towards a blind unknown (hell, it probably would’ve saved them money to do that instead of casting a big name like Leto).

I did really enjoy this movie, and despite my ranting, even Jared Leto wasn’t enough to make me hate it. But in my opinion, it was a huge misstep on the part of the studio. I don’t know if they’ll learn from this mistake--probably not--but I hope that it’s an issue we as a culture can start making steps to avoid in the future. We can do better about this, guys. I know we can.

[Content Warnings for this movie: Nudity, sexual content, violence, more nudity, there are a lot of boobs in this movie so be warned, flashing lights during the casino chase scene, drowning.]