#he's got the fucking. schrodinger's face scars

[half-a-life-left]

yeah he's still my favorite lmao

[heartfelttry]

i am replying to JacFrostIsReal's video here (about the Joker, how fictional mysteries being unsolved are just as valuably and narratively important as fictionally solved ones, "Mediocre White Man Syndrome"™, how she loved Red Hood Joker, and a bit about Two-Face. intrigued? yes, good, go watch her tiktok, go give her engagement please) bc this got way too long for a comment, or even a comment thread wHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING FROM ME (I LEAVE COMMENT THREAD MONOLOGS LIKE NOBODY'S BUISNESS) but ill put it under a read more out of politeness

my reply's bullshit of a summary: but yeah, the below is a Joker headcanon about "the true Joker's identity" and how i personally reconcile with the three main Jokers types (not identities. but types. we got what i call "Adam West Joker", "Agent of Chaos Joker", and "Grim-Dark Joker". this trio. here. that's what i mean) with all this hullabaloo of canon trying so bad to go "but what's his name, what's his story??" and me smacking DC's hand away from this Schrodinger's Cat of a cookie jar labeled "Joker" with this hc, happily, every time. enjoy?

reminder that i am dyslexic and i havent REALLY edited this stream of consciousness, so, like, be nice when i inevitably mispell/make typos lol also this was originally going to be a tiktok comment-thread so some odd things like "dead" are censored here and there before i realized mid-way "this is too long. i cant do a thread this long" lmao rip im just too exhausted today to edit atm. disability, chronic illness symptoms, c'est la vie lol

omg i have had the most wild TOTALLY HEADCANON answer to this, all bc im like "i wanna make a Gotham OC fanfic (.......yes the one with Kaycie that's kinda the only other post in this blog, stfu, lemme finish), but im too sickly to do it rn. ill just plot it for now on and off" and part of my plotting was "how do i want to approach Joker and his 'true identity' bs??" bc taking what canon from where for this fic was important to me as it was part of the plot i want to do. but like?? there's some comics i love where i just.. ignore their idea for Joker's backstory. cognitive dissonance that. but i implement other canon from those comics. v much cherry-picking; idgaf, thats THE way to go about comics. so i was like "what canons am i cherry-picking for this fanfic version of Joker?" and my eventual idea became my hc foR ALMOST ALL CONTEMPORARY JOKERS EVER and ill share it, sure, i love to info-dump

bc i came up with an answer that (admittingly idk ALL OF THE INTERNET EVER so maybe i independently came up with the same idea as someone else, but, this is my pitch, totally original to me specifically as far as i am aware:) makes both all the "real" Jokers "canon" and also NONE of them canon, and instead re-inforces the mystery of nobody knowing who the fuck this guy is

and that's that he "heals quickly" by seeing Professor Pyg (at 🔫point probably) and just.. getting a new fucking whatever's-broken

leg-broke? amputate and replace. wrist arthritis? amputate and replace. so on and so forth

but we dont see scars or anything bc, in my hc, he brings some of that acid with him when he sees Pyg (from when he first fell. we know he likely knows its ingredients since, tons of comics, he re-creates it for Harley) (also i like how this idea brings Pyg more to the forefront by proxy. bc Joker's laughing gas and Pyg's "perfect" people are such traumatizingly similar victims who are done in by two totally different people. my squeamish heart is so glad Pyg isnt Well Known outside of comic fans, but the nerd inside me doesnt get WHY he hasnt been part of pop culture osmosis alongside Joker yet wtf). so the acid is like an Even More Fucked Up Version Of The Lazarus Pit but that doesnt grant you immortality and has more cons than it could ever be worth, but Joker loves his "daddy/mommy vat" (you cannot tell me he doesnt call that vat some cringe parental nickname lol, i just wont buy it). the acid does bizarro healing-fast, no-scars nonsense. and the Joker's upped usage of it explains why his skin tends to chemically paper-white and Harley Quinn's (who also fell in the vat in some stories) tends to be her in white make-up. so: his skin-tone then isn't make-up, it's his skin, all bc he keeps re-applying that acid shit, whereas Harley only did it ONCE. and it didnt fuck her up as bad since she doesnt come back for more when she could just let her bones heal. (plus, him doing this stuff?? to me, it connects him a bit further to "The Joker's Daughter", like him replacing bit of himself foreshadows how she wears his face as a mask...)

...anyway, BUT AS A RESULT, he is leaving DNA of all these other people that are "the true identity of Joker". but like. they both are not Joker (theyre victims of Joker and Pyg) and ARE the Joker (theyre part of him). so all those idenities?? none of them are probably the true og Joker who first went to Pyg with a body that was 100% his own (and was using white make-up at the time) with a small vat of the acid going 🔫 "i have a commissioned offer for you that i wont let you refuse, Pyggy". theyre probably just a List Of Victims. you could even then argue all these versions of "the Joker's backstory reveal" are then just forensics and profilers trying to piece together "how did [Name] become the Joker?" and sensationalizing their interpretation, and the comics are "people trying to canonize those theories as fact via their fictional adaptation of this theory" (im aware this is loopy in a multi-verse way buT SHHH SHHH SHH); all having no idea yet that every [Name] there was actually a victim of Pyg and Joker's. how could they know? how could they guess the "reality" within this hc is that the Joker is a personified Ship Of Theseus?? he's like a mosaic from the Byzantine era, of how many pieces of other people he has; or like a stain-glass sculpture; or like the Creature from "Frankenstein" if Viktor Frankenstein became the Creature himself bit by bit. maybe the Joker has even had parts of his brain replaced with other people's (to the point that it becomes "who knows whose brain this originally was" to which all "hey science doesnt work like—"/"iTS COMICS THO. WE HAVE THE LAZARUS PITS ALREADY, THE ACID CAN BE A FUCKED UP PROVERBIAL MEWTWO MAN-MADE VERSION OF RA'S AL GUHL'S MEW. LET THE PSEUDO-SCIENCE HAPPEN. IT'S COMICS. HE CAN SURVIVE THAT MUCH BRAIN TRANSPLANT ON REPEAT NOW" arguments are kinda nullified with) with this glaze of The Acid ontop to allow the blend to Work— bc he keeps using this acid, causing himself to potentially develop ťúmóŕś and needing them removed (and maybe Pyg does secret lobotomies or some shit and sees "what if i replace this part while im at it..??" to see if this makes the Joker "more bareable" to be around, idk). as a result of this absurd desire to never have an injury delay him: even upon his hypothetical autopsy, they'll never know his true identity. forensics and profilers who had been having debates analyzing evidence to "uncover" who the Joker is will be revealed to have had a vast misunderstanding of the dark truth

BUT SAYING THAT?? i still miss past Jokers. before people tried attaching a name to him (that's part of the motivation for me with this hc, just going "actually?? yOURE ALL WRONG, TO ME, SPECIFICALLY" lmao rip). like. for one, i miss shitty-at-villainy chaos "im literally the luckiest fucker alive" gremlin Joker (legit? Jason Todd's situation?? proverbially Joker being a "i am eating the chess pieces whenever Batsy isnt looking, and he is confused how i could be winning"). like he isnt a master-mind. he's lucky as hell, he is legitimately Murphy's Law as a bratty villain, the most legitimate "agent of chaos" a person could be, he has no plans, he's flying by the seat of his pants and keeps going "oh sick, im in THE most optimal place somehow so Batman cant kill me for what i just did". liKE WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE STUMBLED INTO BECOMING A DIPLOMAT AFTER JASON TODD'S ḌẸÄṬĤ?? HE GOT SO LUCKY, GOT IN THE PERFECT SITUATION SO SUPERMAN HAD TO RELUCTANTLY GO "dont do it, Batman, itll cause an international incident, ẃáŕ, Jason wouldnt want that, he wouldnt want civillians to ḍịẹ in his name" TO THIS GRIEVING FATHER—??? absurd. dont even talk to me about the Adam West TV show version of Joker (i miSS HIM AND EARTHA KITT CATWOMAN THE MOST), i miss when he was just a silly goofy guy even more than his agent of chaos phase, ugghhhh.. "Adam West Joker", this man was my Megamind before "Megamind" (minus the whole "happy hero ending with the girl" part). just a dude who never won, always was foiled, up to dasterdly Doofenshmirtz hijinks, no grim-dark wild shit yet. i loved him, i miss him

so my hc doesnt work as well on those variations of the Joker, predominantly "Adam West's Joker" as i sloppily label him (i know its oversimplification shhhhh). buT IT DOES WORK ON GRIM-GRITTY EVIL-MASTERMIND-4D-CHESSMASTER JOKER and thats probably all that matters to these Mediocre White Man Syndrome™ variants. idk

[[ quick, here's an edited bit from a DM where i realize i forgot a point i LOVE about the mystery of who the fuck "Adam West Joker" was: ]]

(which. i forgot to go into that i think there's at least one comic who mentions this brand of Joker in an existential "maybe he isnt a person, maybe he just appeared from the universe. maybe Gotham made bad luck personified" or some shit, im not a big fan of "he is not human"-Joker but i am a fan of "yes, people even thought of the Doofenshmirtz variety of the Joker as more myth than Once Possibly Mundane (even tho he's just a guy that no one knows and that that forensics tech just is incapable of recognizing. meaning this man was so normal before he became This that he was THAT off-grid and unrecognizable, like THAT harmless of a person, like what?? and now people in-comic-world are having such a hard time grappling with these unknowns that they're going "what if he is just not a fucking person. he's murphy from murphy's law. alive. how does anyone beat that" whEN HE IS JUST A GUY?? A GUY THEY JUST KNOW ***NOTHING*** ABOUT?)". i love that version of him. he was my Megamind before "Megamind" lmao (...anyway i might copy & paste this "he's just a guy. it drives them insane that they cant prove that he JUST A GUY that theyre mythologizing him— even before Red Hood lore and grim-dark shit got added" belatedly into that post now. but yeah i just forget from what comic exactly bc ✨️chronic memory loss✨️ + 🌈library🌟 lol rip)

but yeah. i do want to mention the Red Hood thing is kinda new, relatively, to Joker's lore; he was originally a true fucking mystery where we didnt get even THAT vague bit of Red Hood. he just.. showed up. what was his trauma? who knows. why is he like this, why does he look like this?? who knows. like, okay, that's badass and funny as fuck, good for "Adam West Joker", love that. i miss "nobody can find out SHIT about this man" version of Joker so badly; all we know is his "ɗīę laughing" thesis

but yeah. Red Hood (Jason) and Red Hood (Joker) is stiLL SO SO SOOOO important to me that, though im still like "Joker is a total mystery. forensics finds NOTHING on this lil Adam West co-star/pre-Megamind-before-Megamind-but-no-hero-ending of a guy" is a canon multi-verse version of Joker to me, i happily accept that Red Hood is a part of "agent of chaos" Joker's lore and "grim-dark mastermind" Joker's lore. 2 out of 3 aint bad. but my hc about Joker going all 🔫 "fix. me." to Prof Pyg works A+ in grim-dark Joker lore. and my hesitation about "agent of chaos Joker lore" is that, to MEEEE, my Pyg hc only works if its "agent of chaos Joker lore after Jason Todd đīēđ (or at least, like, if he started just before Jason ḍịẹḍ and was building up to Jason's said ɗęąţĥ); bc before JT ðıəð/before Joker started building up to brutalize Jason like that, Joker wasnt AS vîôłêňť as he became to be known as... (still massively violent. but not AS much, like he was a bit of clutching-his-punched-gut "they'll all see" type for a bit beforehand if i recall accurately.) but post-JT? yeah, my Pyg hc could quickly apply". so again: 2 out of 3 multi-verse variants? aint bad, ill take that happily

but yeah, feel free to adopt my hc for any time someone goes "he's Jack Oswald White/Jack Napier/Arthur Fleck/whoever-the-fuck", thats what i do. bc then, yeah, "they're all Joker" but also none of them are with this Ship Of Theseus hc. whos the victim, whos real? nobody knows. my preference is obviously "all the people science has found have only been victims; nobody has found the og Joker's true identity" bc i liKED THAT MYSTERY AND THIS IS ME RET-CONNING IT. but i gUESS if you had a favorite version of "who is the real Joker" then the og COULD be that one. but like. why would you?? the mystery is so much better (...tO ME, but whatever), like imagine a Spencer Reid type of guy coming out and "actually, considering the commonalities in how all these people disappeared? implies they were ALL likely victims of Pyg and Joker. for years, we were arguing and accusing the victims of being the murder; it's probably the Joker's biggest, cruellest joke. because, really, we're back where we started. nobody truly knows the real name of the man who 'collaborated' with Pyg for the first time. and we may very well never know". like? how does that not excite the fuck out of you so much more?? headcanons are headcanon, but yours baffles me if you prefer Knowing The Joker's True Name to any of the variant versions or my hc version of Nobody Knows Who The Joker Is Or Where He Came From. jac is so super right, i love her

anyway. uh. pray the universe gives me a medical treatment That Fucking Works at nullifying my chronic illness symptoms if you want this fanfic to ever be a thing so i can write this plot-twist of a hc about "who is the Joker" into a story. feel free to adopt the hc tho. i ask vaguely for credit if you want to copy my hc one-for-one, but MOSTLY what i want is to be @'ed so i can squeal and giggle and see what you made lmao

but i dont anticipate this hc will go viral or something. very unlikely, in my mind. im just saying that as a safety-net in this proverbial trapeze act of a post lol

buT ALSO THANK YOU JAC FOR EVERYTHING YOU SAID ON TWO-FACE, I COULD NOT AGREE MORE. i went from a Joker fan to ".....ew too many people like the Joker in ways i dont, i feel gross now, i need a shower" and came out the other side of that as a Bruce Wayne/Batman × Harvey Dent/Two-Face truther bc they are doomed yaoi in the silliest and most tragic of senses, theyre foils, your honor, i love them (also if we are gonna keep Catwoman × Batman going, imma need sO MANY MORE PEOPLE from both DC and fans being inspired by Eartha Kitt's Catwoman design bc Eartha Kitt is a badass, go look her up, find out why she got replaced as Catwoman on the Adam West "Batman" show, ive been obsessed with this woman since i was like 8 years old and the world neeDS TO JUMP ON MY BANDWAGON ALREADY. i need more Black, Eartha-Kitt-looking Catwoman in my life stat aND, BATCAT, MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS) ....anyway, go watch Jac's video, go give her views, comments, engagement, she's so great and i want to (a) see her do more Gotham FYP skits (tho the Mob Waitress one is so close to a Gotham absurdism that i am happy with that, Jac, dont think i dont get excited when that series appears on my fyp) and (b) do more Batman breakdowns, bc i love hearing women of all backgrounds talk comics, comic-movies, comic-shows— but esp girly-girls. it itches my brain. i need more of it. go give her love, immediately, please

[radiosummons]

I present to you the details of the dumb af two hour argument my sister and I got into over these two pictures/characters:

Arguments my sister made that I am willing to concede on:

-Their visual design is so similar that she constantly mixes the two up.

I don't exactly blame my sister for this 'cause, yes, I can see how from a mere glance you could mix these two up. But when I pointed out that Shiro has a scar on his face and Jason doesn't, I then had to google five different images of Jason for her to finally accept that Jason doesn't have a facial scar as well.

She insists that it makes no sense that Jason doesn't have even a small one on his chin or his ear and I sorta have to hand it to her. I am also surprised none of the Batkids have facial scars.

-Piggybacking off the first point, both acquired a white streak of hair due to STRESS/extreme life and death experiences that fucked them both up mentally for the rest of their lives.

I mean ... yes? Yeah, yeah Jason doesn't always have a white streak depending on which character design you're looking at, but it's also a pretty iconic look for him.

-They have both Trauma™, PTSD, nearly every other form of mental illness you can think.

Yes, both of them are S T R U G G L I N G to cope, albeit one of definitely does it in a semi-healthier way than the other. But, yeah, I don't have a counter-argument here, chief. They're both fucked up and they needed therapy YESTERDAY.

-They're both older brothers/brother figures.

I mean, what argument is there to be had here? I do remember the fandom referring to Shiro as "Space Dad" for a while, but Idk I always thought he had more older sibling energy???? This might just be an opinion my sister and I share, but yeah no I'm not going to argue over it.

-They both died, but also didn't actually die. And then they "came back" different/wrong/insert whatever explanation works best for you.

Aight. So, Shiro's return was nowhere near as extreme as Jason's (to put it lightly). But, yes, the point does stand that they are really feeling out that Schrodinger's Cat lifestyle.

-Shared personal head canon time/not really an argument but also a point that we both conceded on: We both see Jason as a queer character even if DC would never have the balls to make him anything other than cis and very painfully straight. So hooray for bare bones canon queerness for Shiro and hooray for fanon queerness for Jason.

Arguments my sister made that almost made me body her:

-They have a similar moral code/they are both morally grey/they are both killers.

Fuck, NO, they absolutely fucking DON'T. Fuck, this was the part of the argument that lasted the longest to be honest. I get where my sister was coming from in that she brought up the fact that both Shiro and Jason have killed people and debatably might have similar body counts.

That being said, there's a big difference between Shiro being forced into a galactic war he never intended to take part in vs Jason coming back from the dead and going on a murder spree, which notably featured a bag of severed heads to bring extra flavor to his crime lord debut.

There are, however, some major glaring differences between being a space soldier and a reformed crime lord. Depending on which comic you're reading, Jason's moral code/overall edginess can range greatly. And while I do love him as a character, I refuse to accept the idea that Jason's personal view on murder/killing is anywhere remotely near what Shiro's might be.

-They react violently when under great distress.

This is an extension of the earlier argument which was that they both have Trauma™/PTSD/etc. My sister's initial argument was that Shiro's violent and erratic behavior during his PTSD episodes was similar to Jason's Pit Madness. And while I get where she was coming from here--in that Shiro could be hella violent when lost in a memory and his reactions to perceived threats could be overblown and completely out of left field--I don't entirely agree that these episodes are similar to when Jason is overtaken by Pit Madness.

I have seen people point the various similarities between the more grounded symptoms of Pit Madness to PTSD/depression/*insert other mental illness* and I'm not going to argue against that. My main issue with this argument is that I don't feel comfortable equating Pit Madness to any form of mental illness period.

Jason does react violent, paranoid and angry, yes, when under the influence of the Pit. But he can also become quite bloodthirsty and cruel as well. There's also the fact that Shiro's episodes are brief in comparison to Jason's. Shiro does suffer from bouts of paranoia and there are certain incidents where he "hears voices" similar to Jason. But the effects of Pit Madness hold for much longer on Jason's psyche than they do in comparison to Shiro's episodes.

Hence why I am not entirely comfortable equating or comparing Pit Madness to PTSD. Again, I get why people make the comparisons in the first place. But also, Pit Madness is fictional and PTSD is very much not.

Conclusion:

Shiro and Jason are not the same character and I am going to fight my sister to the death over this all over again.

But also I like getting into dumb arguments with my siblings and while this went on way longer than either of us wanted it to, I perfectly understand where she was coming from.

Even though she is wrong >>:3

I got into a two hour argument with my sister because she kept trying to insist these two were the same person.

I get where she's coming from, but holy shit I was so close to throwing hands.

[ticktockthem]

Well, I’ll Be

(1,067 words, 2 pictures, Callinan is @undeadcourier‘s oc. TW for canon-typical violence, etc.)

It had been another long day under the blistering Mojave sun, but there was always more work to do. Charlie was looking for that work in a bar in Freeside -The Atomic Wrangler-, but had found a bottle of bourbon instead. She slid another cap across the bar, received another cigarette before the bartender left to tend the shop.

There weren’t many customers yet- she’d missed the day rush and the night-time customers wouldn’t come pouring in for another hour or so. She’d thought that lucky, she’d be able to carry on a conversation uninterrupted. Turned out the bartender didn’t really want to have a conversation with her that didn’t involve her giving him caps, or whether she was ‘for hire,’ to which her natural response was that he couldn’t afford her.

She couldn’t remember why she had started drinking. Maybe it was something that had happened earlier that day, maybe it was something that had happened a decade ago. It always came down to something that had happened a decade ago. She poured herself more bourbon, swallowed a shot’s worth with a sour face and chased it with a puff of smoke.

She’d been too focused on the overwhelming taste of bourbon, the small amount of activity in the casino, the loud music- she hadn’t noticed the man looming behind her.

She hadn’t registered the threat until his knife was at her throat, tracing her old scars with a new blade. His other hand- cold, metal, steady- covered her mouth with a vicious ease. Her mind was filled with a panicked static, but she managed not to flinch.

Options, options, where were her options? This was Freeside, not the Strip, no one would come to her rescue, not here. Going for a weapon while his knife was already at her throat would be tantamount to suicide- no. So she sat, hands flat on the counter, anger coloring her features with an almost animal snarl.

Some part of her remembered what she’d heard on the radio about a man with a metal arm. He’d died, but then he hadn’t, but then he had, but then he hadn’t. Schrodinger's Man, the Red-and-Silver Hand. She’d thought Mr. New Vegas had lost his mind.

“With how long it took to find you, I thought you knew I was chasing you,” came a low voice beside her left ear. He leaned closer, she felt the knife press against old scar tissue, a flash of rage striking her gut. “So you can imagine I’m a bit disappointed, finding you here with your guard down.”

Charlie clenched her fists, trying to swallow down panic. She sent up a quick prayer, then pushed herself back, hands pressing against the bar, trying to throw him off-balance enough to wriggle free. No luck. He gripped her jaw tighter in his metal hand, a bruising force.

“You’re not gonna try that again, understand?” he warned. She nodded, a short, small motion. She felt the knife scrape her skin. “Keep your hands right where they are.”

He moved to block her in, pressed against her back with the knife heavier against her throat. He moved his metal hand away from her mouth, used it to disarm her. There went her pistol, the knife she kept visible, the knives she’d tucked away in her boots, the knife she’d tucked into her back pocket, the knife she’d clipped to the inside of her shirt. She almost appreciated how professional he was, sliding each of her weapons down the bar so they were just out of her reach.

“Now, 1-DCF, we’re gonna take you back where you belong,” he said, with no clue what it meant to her.

“Please,” she choked out, all of her anger leaving her in one sudden rush so terror could sink in to fill its place. “Whatever they’re paying you- whatever they’ve promised you- they’re lying,” she lied.

“Guess we’ll just have to see when we get there,” he shrugged, impassive. He gave her a pat-down, checking for more weapons. He’d found them all on his first pass, but it wasn’t like he’d believe her if she pointed that out.

There was a clink of metal-on-metal when he reached into her pocket. She stiffened as he pulled her lighter out.

“Let me keep that, at least,” she said.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at the old flip-lighter that she’d used as a worry-stone so often that the oil from her fingers had left it worn. A design had been tooled into it: a grinning skull with a rose blossoming in one eye.

“Look, you can empty out the oil if it’ll make you feel better, but that’s mine,” she insisted. “Ain’t got any value but the sentimental kind. Just… Just give it back, and I’ll go. I won’t even kick up a fuss, scout’s honor.”

“Rimon?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the other name they gave me,” she snarled. Why would her parents have even told him that name? Why would he be bringing it up now? Why was he pulling the knife away? Why was he stepping back, staring at the lighter? Why was he looking at her like that, confused instead of gloating?

“Rimon,” he said again. “You remember that kid you called Callele?”

Charlie snorted, relief washing over her all at once as she realized what he was saying. She shook with laughter, her brain scrambling itself under the weight of all of the adrenaline, dopamine, and alcohol that was coursing through her system.

“I go by Charlie now,” she said, holding her hand out, unable to keep it steady as she plucked the lighter out of Callinan’s hand. “Supposed to keep the mercs my parents hire from finding me, but you can see how effective that was.”

“Ain’t your fault,” he smirked. “They hired the best.” He sat on the bar stool beside her, pushed her weapons towards her, and took a drink from her bottle of bourbon with a satisfied smack of his lips. “Ain’t the first contract I’ll have to renege on, but it is the funniest reason I’ve had to do it.”

“I thought I was about to fucking die, asshole!” Charlie laughed, pushing Callinan’s shoulder with a hard shove. 

“Oh, pobrecita,” he teased, “you didn’t, so what’re you complaining about?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you in seventeen years,” she complained. “Where the fuck have you been, man?”

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

    I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at  the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

    I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

    The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

    Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

    Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

    Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

    It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

    People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

    There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

    Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

    The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

    Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

    My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

    Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

    My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

    I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

    See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

    As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

    I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

    Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

    I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to  die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

    Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

    My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

    And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

    Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

    Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

    Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

    I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

    There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

    I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

    You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

    The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

    My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

    Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

    I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

    Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

    I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

    I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

    I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

    I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

    It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

    But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

    Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

    God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

    When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

    There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

    It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

    Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

    Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

[ritebeforeyoureyes]

Haunt

Can I just say that I love you all and I promise, I am not ignoring any requests or kind messages. If an inboxed message is left unanswered, it’s because I’m slowly making my way through them. I have had an increasing number of prompts and your lovely words of motivation and I will try working through them whenever I can x  

Masterlist – Plot: Confrontation is never easy.

Haunt (Chapter Twelve)          

Once Tom was done with the technicalities of covering up yet another one of his murder victims, he made his way back to the penthouse, unfazed by the whole experience. This had happened one too many times for him to have an emotional attachment to it. His first kill was the only one he truly remembered, the experience tattooed into his brain. He had only been eighteen when it had happened, and he was still shaken by the gaping absence of Zendaya in his life. They’d only been apart a few months and Tom was still as heartbroken as he had been the day he had left. Dom, skilfully, had used Tom’s vulnerability and let him channel it into his field of work. As a result of his conflicting emotions, Tom hadn’t hesitated to put a bullet through a man’s chest; a day he thought about often. However, everything that followed that day was a blur. It was the only way to survive in his world of criminality. If he thought of his kills as people – brothers, sons, husbands, boyfriends – he would be just like them - dead. So, like he always did, Tom had changed his clothes, wiped off all the blood scarring his skin and was freshly showered by the time he made it back home.

“How’s Z?” Tom rolled his sleeves up his arms and grilled Jon without so much as a hello. Jon was sat at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of whiskey, even though it was early evening. “Her ear?”

“I stitched her up good.” Jon tried to reassure Tom, but he knew him too well. Tom could see right through the hesitancy plastered across his face.

“But?” Tom pushed, his hands reaching for the bottle of whiskey instantaneously. He took a large, strong chug from the bottle, the familiar amber liquid burning the back of his throat.

“She hasn’t said a word.” Jon admitted worriedly. “Nothing. I … It’s not like anything I’ve seen before. You guys all reacted to the violence differently but with her, I don’t have the slightest idea about what she’s thinking-“

“I’ll go check on her.” Tom took another healthy mouthful of whiskey before diverting his pure attention towards Zendaya. He hated himself for ever getting her in such a situation and he vowed, to himself, that he’d never be as distracted as he was today. It was his job to protect her and from here on out, he was going to do exactly that. With a light tap on his own bedroom door, Tom entered as if he were a trespassing stranger.  “Z, baby?” He found her curled up in a ball in the centre of his bed. She looked so small in that one moment, her body shaking slowly. She was crying. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”  

Tom crawled into his bed, his hands trying to reach for her, but his proximity was like holding a lighter to a firework. As soon as Zendaya felt his body heat radiate onto her own, she snapped away, her long legs forcing her out of bed and towards the opposite end of the room. Within the matter of moments, her back was tightly pressed against the far wall, her eyes bright red and tear filled.

“I’m going home.” Zendaya wiped at her face with the back of her hand sloppily; she was forcing herself to seem composed. She had regained her ability to speak coherently once speaking to Darnell and so there was a confidence to her voice that wasn’t present when she was with Jon.  

“What?” Just like she had done a few seconds ago, Tom scrambled off the bed and made his way back towards Zendaya. She was cornered against the wall and as he moved closer, she had nowhere to edge to. And even though he was a few inches shorter than her, his built frame was intimidating and big and she momentarily cowered into herself.

“I’m going home.” Zendaya repeated, straightening out her posture and crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. “Darnell’s coming to get me.”

“You called Darnell?! Are you fucking with me, right now?” Tom scoffed, his eyes falling to her bandaged ear. “That phone is for emergencies only. It’ll only take a matter of minutes for Harrison to trace Darnell’s phone and go after him. You can’t trust anybody, Darnell included-“

“See! You may be used to this world but none of its normal. Darnell is the one person I can blindly trust, and I shouldn’t have to worry about some gang member threatening to kill him! I’m leaving so I can get away from all of this-”

“You’re not safe by yourself, do you not understand that?” Tom gripped at her shoulders and gave her a thorough shake, as if his forcefulness would snap her out of her delusions. He wasn’t going to leave her with Osterfield’s men lurking about. They were dangerous and equipped with the highest artillery that only the Holland’s could combat. “Your defenceless without me.”

“Having you with me didn’t stop me from getting shot at, did it?” Zendaya retaliated, Tom’s eyes snapping back to her injury with serious regret. He hated himself for letting her get hurt. He knew he shouldn’t have let his guard down as much as he had in that moment. He should have had Jon scope out the restaurant before-hand. He should have been vigilant. There was so much he could have done to prevent the shooting from happening.

“This isn’t a joke, Zendaya!” Tom rubbed at his forehead in distress. Why did he have to have the one girl in Manhattan who was unbelievably stubborn?  

“A joke? I’m the one who got grazed by the damn bullet, of course I know this isn’t a damn joke!” Zendaya spat. “That’s exactly why I’m going home. I was perfectly fine before you came back! I was a grandma and it was fine. I did me and I went to work and then I went home-“

“That was then, this is now.” Tom stepped forward, his eyes narrowing but his voice quietening. His whole exterior changed, and he was suddenly incredibly gentle. His eyes softened and Zendaya was momentarily reminded of the Tom she once knew and loved. “You going home isn’t going to miraculously make this all go away, Z. It’s happening, and we’ve had this conversation before, you staying here is the safest option.”

“I can’t stay here, Tom! I want everything to go back to normal! I want to go to work and-“

“We can compromise, Jon can take you to work and bring you back here-“

“No, I want my life back.” Zendaya’s inner turmoil resembled that of Schrodinger’s cat. With Tom’s mysterious disappearance all those years ago, Zendaya’s wild imagination had fooled her into moving on. She had envisioned him falling off the face of the earth and that had worked for her. She’d erased every memory of a Thomas Stanley Holland and slowly but surely it had allowed her to process their break-up. But now that she knew the truth, it was hard to face. Tom couldn’t comprehend that all Zendaya wanted was for him to leave her and her simple life alone. She didn’t want any part of this dirty money and gang rivalry bullshit.

“Can you stop being stubborn for a second and just understand where I’m coming from?” Tom sighed with the heavy feeling that their argument was destined to go around in circles. “I’m trying to be here for you and you’re making it god-damn impossible-”

“Oh, so you want to be here for me now?” Zendaya mumbled the rhetorical remark under her breathe but in their close proximity, Tom heard her loud and clear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You fucked off when I needed you, Thomas!” For the first during their tiff, Zendaya’s voice was raised to the point that she was hurting her own vocal chords, her words echoing throughout the open space. “You just decided it was best to leave me by myself in our crappy little town with no explanation, no goodbye-“

“I was trying to protect you! Do you not get that?” Tom’s volume was now meeting Zendaya’s, his face turning an unsightly shade of pink as he yelled. He was desperate for her to grasp why he made the decision to leave her. It hadn’t because he’d fallen out of love or because he was obsessed with making money. His reasons had only ever stemmed from having Zendaya’s best interests at heart. “Do you think I wanted this life for you? I never wanted you to have to constantly look over your shoulder or worry about whether I was going to wake up dead or alive-“

“Did you forget where we come from?” The town Zendaya had grown up in was notorious for its gun crime and gang prevalence. “I was always worrying if you were alive! I was always looking over my shoulder. And unlike when we were together, there was no you to protect me as I walked down the streets. There was no you to protect me from the demons inside my house-”

Zendaya’s voice cracked at the end of her sentence. Her mind drifted to all the times she had walked home from her night shifts at the diner, all the creepy men cat-calling her as she made the ten-minute walk home. She remembered feeling on edge and unsafe, her mind wistfully thinking about how Tom would have never let her walk home alone like this. But Zendaya had had no other option, her measly student job was the only thing that had been keeping her afloat. Her father’s drinking had gotten progressively worse and her mother’s absences even longer.  

And yet, she’d face the scary walks home to be united with even more hellish moments at home. Her father would curse at her, his words slurring. He’d throw things, nag at her, blame her for Claire’s disappearance … he’d even raised his hand at her the odd few times. And yeah, her home environment had always been rough, but Tom had always been there when she was younger. She would stay at his place and he’d whisper sweet nothings into her ear as she fell asleep in his arms. Nikki and Dom wouldn’t mention anything in the morning either, they’d just offer her some breakfast and make her feel as involved as they could. But, after Tom abandoned Zendaya, the safe haven him and his family had provided had disappeared too.  

“I didn’t think of it like that.” Tom admitted reluctantly.

He had always wanted to check up on her over the years, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of just watching her from afar, going about her life without him. He had purposefully not gone back for her because he didn’t want her to have any associations with the contradictory life that he lived. Going back to check up on her was risky for both parties and so the easiest way to cope with her absence was to forget. He went out with a countless number of women, all of whom he tried to use to wipe his memory of Zendaya. Every time he did it, slept with them, he reassured himself that he was doing the right thing. But, now that he thought about it properly, it was selfish. He had never evaluated just how much Zendaya had relied on him. “I’m so unbelievably sorr-“

“Don’t say your sorry.” Zendaya swiped at the air dismissively. “Because I know you’re not-“

“Can you just let me apologise? I’m trying to be sincere here-“

“Oh, please!” The images of Tom with multiple women draped over him didn’t seem like regretted walking out on her. “I didn’t matter when you were out parading around with all these women. I shouldn’t matter to you now-“

“You’ve always mattered, don’t say that-“

“You know what I’ve always wondered?” Zendaya completely ignored Tom, going off on her own inner monologue of turmoil and anger. “Was our whole relationship a scam? Did you really think so little of me that you didn’t even have the decency to break things off?” With a little clearing off her throat, Zendaya channelled her inner diva and put on her best British accent as she spoke again. “Daya isn’t worth an explanation, lets just let her grovel for the fun of it-“  

Those words of Zendaya’s really seemed to hit Tom in the gut, it was like something within him snapped. It wasn’t often that someone called him out on his bullshit. Because, everything that Zendaya said was true. He wasn’t as heroic as he painted himself out to be. He had hurt her, and he’d comforted himself by just assuming she’d been happy all these years. And now that she finally was – happy - he’d come back to fuck it all up again. “You can’t fight me, can you, Tom? It’s cus’ know I’m right-“

“Stop! Just stop!” Tom screamed, taking another step forward. His voice was shockingly loud and Zendaya pressed herself up against the wall tightly. She was practically on her toes in an attempt to create as much distance between them as she could. She had only ever been in such a situation once before and it hadn’t been pleasant. She had come back from her shift from work, barely stepped through the threshold, when her dad had forced her up against the door. His breathes were ragged and the snarl was ever-present. On instinct – like she had back then – she flinched, her eyes closing.

Zendaya thought Tom was going to hit her.

And he did, his lips smacking against hers forcefully.  

If you enjoyed this piece and would like to help further me and my work, please support me whilst I get through university. The money you donate will go towards assisting me in my student fees. It is one hundred per cent a voluntary pursuit and greatly appreciated, however, your lovely comments and votes are always welcomed too. Thank you for being the greatest: https://ko-fi.com/D1D072V0

[kill-it-with-an-x-burner]

Have you ever tried writing original fiction? I think your works are good!

I was usually coerced into joining poem writing contests when I was still a student, but I’m not really much into writing original fiction.

However, I did write one back in high school. It’s about a cat whose owner died and was left to his nephew. Said cat is not very fond of his new human, but he eventually ends up looking after him anyway.

Since it’s for a “Best Original Fiction First Chapter” contest (or something along those lines), I only wrote the opening chapter. There is no official ending to the story.

There’s probably a lot of mistakes and the flow of the story might be shit, but I literally copy-pasted it from the document (no revision whatsoever), so pardon the bad writing of ol’ high schooler me. :’D

Without further ado, here is “How to Raise a Human for Dummies”.

Summary: Basically, even after taking care of him, my debt-wringing drunk bastard of an owner still died and left me to (watch over) his nephew. I can't decide who's worse.

(More under the cut.)

Ah, sweet, sweet couch. How I never want to part with you ever again. This silky fabric, this soft cushion, and mhmm, this velvety texture.... I'm in heaven. I can see the brat glaring at me on the side, but who cares about him?

Oh, you must be wondering who I am.

The name is Schrodinger. My owner calls me by that name — sometimes Schro, if he's too lazy to say my entire name (and why he gave me such a long-ass name remains a mystery to me) — but when he's drunk, which is practically most of the time, he just says a weird mix of my name and some other guy's during his slurs.

I'm your regular, run-on-the-mill tom cat. A few superstitious people thought of me as bad luck, because of my pitch-black fur and heterochromatic eyes. Honestly, humans… if I was one, I'd probably flip them a finger.

Anyways, I've been living in the streets as a kit until I was taken in by a pure, kind-hearted man.

...Oh, who am I kidding?

My owner's the biggest bastard of them all. Why he even bothered to pick little ol' me all those years ago, I'll never understand. I've been staying with Carter, my owner, for five human years (that's around thirty-six years in cat lifespan, mind you!) and I still don't understand how he thinks.

Maybe some things will just remain a mystery.

It's kind of sad to think that I'm still single and haven't got laid with a dazzling female kit out there, but I'm thinking that I've been scarred into celibacy, seeing as I was exposed to my owner's... nightly endeavors for every single day of my life; unless he was on duty, I suppose. If there was a world record for the highest number a person beds everyday, Carter would've won, hands down.

As a cat in general, I'd never thought of anyone as my owner. We felines are highly proud creatures; the most majestic and most graceful of them all. We don’t need humans to survive. However, as much as I hate to admit it, Carter took me in during my most miserable moment, and I owed a lot to him.

Besides, the man makes the best cat food I've ever eaten.

Our relationship isn't entirely owner and pet, though. Even if I regard him as my owner, it ends up with me looking out for him. God knows how many people tried to kill him, both on and off-duty, and I can't deny I haven't tried it myself. Not only that, Carter was neglectful of his health at times, and I often find myself threatening to scratch him if he doesn't get his lazy ass off his bed.

You could say that I'm living the easy life — barring the fact that I take care of a grown man in my own way — since I'm in a cozy home, well-fed, and well-groomed everyday.

Recently though, that has not been the case.

Basically, even after taking care of him, my debt-wringing drunk bastard of an owner still died and left me to (watch over) his nephew. I can't decide who's worse.

Honestly, that man had the gall to just die off without telling me. Do you have any idea how many life-and-death situations he had survived?

You see, Carter is a military officer, and he's been sent off to various wars and human skirmishes. He comes back home — sometimes gravely injured, most of the time, not — but still alive. The man has the tenacity and survivability of a damn cockroach!

That civil war in Afghanistan? That mini skirmish in Vietnam? That dispute with North  Korea? That one time he almost bled to death but still lived anyway? Hell, I even spit out hairballs into his whiskey back when he forgot to feed me for a day and he hadn't choked to his death!

He's gone through it all, and not once was his life taken away.

He's not supposed to die. I was counting on that, you know? I mean, he was too much of a bastard to die. He was a liar, a horrible drunk, a womanizer, a manipulative little snitch, and I figured he wouldn't die simply because God would do anything to keep him away as much as possible.

That's not the only issue here. The most infuriating part was that he left a will, in which he gives all his assets (and me) to his sister (regardless of the irony, if you get what I mean), who had a son (that was bad); Carter's fourteen-year-old, snot-nosed nephew.

Why did he do that?

...Damn you, Carter.

I had plans on my own — only that people don't know I can think — and you've ruined them.

When news of his uncle's death reached him, I saw him writhe in despair. Me too, I thought at the time. Why am I stuck with a brat like you?

On the other hand, Collins (I couldn’t be bothered to learn his given name) was sitting there on the side, wishing for his own death. The brat was suicidal, from what I heard, since he blamed himself for his father's death and his own evil uncle got to go before he did.

I have this impression that unhealthy mentalities run in the family.

At least Carter went out with style. I mean, he was chasing after some runaway terrorist in Africa and then he got mauled by a pack of lions and that managed to kill him, just because he wasn't paying attention, I think.

Death isn't something that anyone should ever take lightly, but I can't help but see the humor in it. “And then he got mauled by a pack of lions because of his stupidity”.

Hah.

Obviously, Collins can't appreciate it. He thinks it's an insult that Carter went first. They did say that there's only rest for the wicked.

As I said before, Carter left me to his nephew.

It was hate at first sight, I admit.

I like kids, I really do. Even when they're trying to pull my tail, I'd still find them adorable.

However, something about the brat just rubbed me the wrong way. I despised him and he loathed my very presence. It was a mutual hate relationship. Every time I strutted by, I'd hiss and try to scratch him. Every time he saw me, he'd give me a glare and would try to grab me.

I'm proud to say that he's never won any of our clashes. Those scratch marks on his arms were proof of that.

The brat and I… I don't think we'd ever get along. Besides, he's creepy. If I only knew that Carter's death would tantamount to raising some twisted little kid, I would've ran away the moment he died.

Obviously, I didn't know. That's why I ended up in a house (which has a killer couch, by the way) with Carter's awesome sister and her fucked up son.

Speaking of Carter's sister, Rachel was a single parent and thus, was out of the house most of the time — which meant, the brat and I were often alone, and trying to gut each other every time.

Collins was a lousy investment. He was mentally twisted, he was scrawny, he was clumsy, he wasn't smart, and he had zero self-esteem.

The sensible thing to do would be to stay away from the brat. The best decision, in fact, would be to leave the kid and sleep on the rooftop until Rachel comes back or something. Unfortunately, we seem to have this magnetic connection that compels us to be in each other's presence despite our mutual hate.

For reasons extremely unclear to me, I'm spending a lot of time hissing at the brat, when I shouldn't even bat an eyelash at him.

…

Hot damn, I'm actually looking out for the kid.

…No, no. I'm only doing this for Rachel.

Really.

Rachel, I really do love you and think of you as a goddess sent from paradise, but you make the worst cat food ever. What is this reddish-brown lump in my bowl? I poked it a few times and I think it moved. There goes my lunch. I'm going to have to settle with rummaging the neighbor's trash can. Never ours, because similar... things definitely ended up there.

I looked over at the brat, and his face seemed a bit green. I took a peek at his food and grimaced. It was a green thing and... was that supposed to be mashed potato? It looks like a mush of poop. I don't even want to know how mold got to his food when all of Rachel's ingredients were fresh.

Great. Carter's sister is an awful cook. How did Collins survive up to this day?

Then I remembered that a few of my owner's money went straight to him, instead of his mom. Maybe there was a valid reason why Carter sent me to their house.

I was bemoaning my fate when someone rang the doorbell. Getting curious, I walked to the doorway and saw a man around Rachel's age. He had brown hair, contrasting the family's trademark blonde hair, and blue eyes, which sort of clashed with the family's gray ones. The guy was carrying Chinese food and some cans with a picture of a cat on them.

Yuck.

If there was something I disliked more than the brat, it was commercialized cat food. However, Rachel's cooking represented death itself and I'm not taking any chances. I'd rather take the canned cat food over her grub any day.

The new arrival's not that bad, I guess. He had this fatherly aura around him. I eventually learned that his name was John, and he was Rachel's current boyfriend. Well, that, and the fact that Collins hated him with every fiber of his being.

...I knew there was a reason I liked this man.

Then once Rachel left the kitchen, the man instantly got rid of her cooking.

Go, lover boy, go! Rid us of these monstrosities!

When he had disposed of those... things, he brought out that Chinese food and those cans of cat food. I had the urge to hiss when the smell of the cat food wafted to my nose. Ugh. I still can't stand the stench, and the taste would be stale, too. But I guess I'll just have to make do with it if I don't want to starve.

After he gave me food, he gave a box to the kid, and I can see that he didn't want to eat it if it came from the man who wanted to get into his mother's pants. Oh, come on, you whiny brat. If I could put up with cheap cat food, then you can put up with perfectly decent Chinese food from your mother's lover boy.

When John took a dumpling, I thought, this is gonna be good.

If I was human, I would've laughed my ass off already. But I wasn't, so I settled with staring smugly at the brat who had the time to glare at me while John was distracted. The glare wasn't intimidating, no. It more or less resembled a pout.

That didn't deter John from his mission.

Oh, sweet lord, he thought that Collins wanted to be spoon-fed (or chopstick-fed, whatever, you get the idea). It was, simply put, hilarious.

"Stop treating me like a little kid."

"You're only fourteen, Peter."

"That's already grown up in my books!"

"Don't be like that. Here comes the train, choo-choo!"

Hahaha, I can't stop.

They went on, with Collins (or Peter, whichever) spouting hurtful personal comments. Not that hurtful, though, and that gave me the impression that the brat was only pretending to hate John. I think he genuinely likes him, seeing as the man paid him attention his mother could not, but couldn't accept him since he didn't want his father to be replaced. Brat probably believes in that 'I have only one father and mother in my lifetime' business.

I think John has the same idea, too, since he's smiling fondly at the brat.

Feh.

Humans.

This was why I hated commercialized cat food.

My stomach rumbled painfully as I howled, trying to catch Rachel's attention. The brat was sneering at me, but there seemed to be something else in his eyes.

Oh, great. The last thing I needed was pity from snot-nosed brats.

"Aww, don't you worry, little kitty," Rachel cooed at me. If I wasn't feeling miserable right now, I would have appreciated the attention. Alas, I am too far deep willowing in my own agony.

If you are curious, Rachel and the brat brought me over to a veterinarian to check what's wrong with me. They still don't understand that it was the fault of cheap cat food. I hissed at the idea of it, and they think it's because we passed by the neighbor's chihuahua.

Ah, that common misperception that cats and dogs are mortal enemies. A cat and a dog have a hissing-slash-barking fight and people think the rest of us are like that, too. To be honest, I love dogs just as much as I love kids, and that's probably why I'm sticking around the brat despite my huge dislike for him. He's all bark and no bite.

I was cut short of my musings when the veterinarian came and checked on me. When Rachel asked for the doctor's verdict, the man replied something about foreign substances in what I eat. "What did you feed him last night?"

Rachel showed him the can of cat food and I saw the doctor's eyes widened. "I think I know what caused your cat's stomach ache. This food here has a high content of science, science, science. Science, science..."

Or that's how it sounded to me, who didn't give a damn about human education. Why they're studying that much, I'd never see the reason. You see, we cats only learn three things: how to hunt, how to scavenge, and how to beg. All three are vital for survival if we want food or shelter, even if the last one is a bit degrading on our part.

To see humans taking up a lot of subjects and topics was something that any animal wouldn't understand.

I can see the brat was also confused. Meanwhile, Rachel, who somehow managed to understand all that technobabble, happily replied to the doctor's rambles. "Oh, I see. I'm so dumb that I've never thought of science, science, science!"

Geeks, I sniffed disdainfully.

"Ah, speaking of which," The doctor said. "What is your cat's name? I need to make an official clinical record for him for future references."

"Oh, um... actually, I have no idea," Rachel admitted, unabashedly. "My brother never stated his name in the papers, so..."

"Why not give him a name now? He is your cat, after all."

When I saw the brat smirked, I knew something bad was going to happen. Collins tugged at his mother's skirt and giving her his best puppy-dog eyes (I blanched at the sight. Brat has many ways to go before he can be as good as his uncle), he spoke in a clearly forced childish voice.

I winced, thinking that the two adults bought his little charade, but he can't fool me.

"Mom, why not name him Mr. Fluffles, just like that kitty cartoon on the t.v.?"

I hissed at him. Screw the brat. He knew I hated that sorry excuse of a show!

Rachel's eyes sparkled. Oh, hell no. "That's a great idea, sweetie! Okay. From now on, he will be Mr. Fluffles!"

Damn you all. The name is Schrodinger. S-C-H-R-O-D-I-N-G-E-R. The brat knows my name! If you can't pronounce my name right, just call me Schro. Over my dead body will I be called 'Mr. Fluffles' of all things!

While the doctor and Rachel were distracted, the brat smirked at me and mouthed, "You're going to lose."

I hissed at him more. I am not going to lose!

I lost. Badly.

It was bad enough that they named me Mr. Fluffles, but to put it on the official papers and get a degrading hot pink collar with that name on it? I'd be the laughing stock of my fellow felines!

I curse you, Collins. You are the child of the devil, I swear.

My only hope was John's opinion, but even he thought it was a cute name. John, you traitor. I'll get you, just you wait!

At least I had a consolation prize that made the brat sulk all day long. Apparently, John wanted to bring Collins to a kiddie fair and Rachel agreed. Hah. It made me feel a tiny bit better, since he was grumbling and being grumpy because of it. The brat yelled, complained, and kicked all he wanted, but nothing he did changed his mother’s nor John's mind.

We did go to that embarrassing kiddie fair. For serious, for real, we went to a kiddie fair. On one hand, it is the perfect thing to have a family bonding. On the other hand, John made Collins go to an embarrassing kiddie fair.

It's good that I couldn't talk, and it's good that I have a great poker face. Otherwise, there was no argument that this would end any way other than Collins trying to kill all of us (except Rachel) with a pout of doom and with him being eternally humiliated in the eyes of his peers. Heh. Kiddie fair. A fourteen-year-old boy in a kiddie fair filled with screaming hysterical toddlers.

This was even better than John, spoon-feeding extraordinaire.

This is good for me, too. It distracts me from my morbid little thoughts and gives me free entertainment to boot. If I wasn't bothering the brat or complaining about my life, I would find myself thinking of what-could-have-beens and looking around for Carter. I kind of miss that bastard.

Speaking of which, John was trying to coerce Collins to ride the carousel with him. People were staring at the lone teenager at the fair.

"I'm not going to ride that thing."

"It's not that bad, and Rachel often told me on how much you loved the carousel."

"That's the key word right there, 'loved'. I've grown out of that phase."

"I firmly believe your inner kid is still there."

"Stop embarrassing me."

"I'm not!"

"...I'll kill you."

"I'm just dragging you off to ride the carousel with me. God, you're bloodthirsty."

"I have a pocketknife and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Don't talk to me with that tone, young man, or I'll give you a time-out."

Hah, and they wonder why other people stayed away from us during the entire trip to the kiddie fair.

In the end, I thoroughly enjoyed my days with Carter's relatives. They weren't all that unbearable— even the brat, to some extent. In fact, they were downright funny and I guess... it's not hard to be fond of them. I can see why my owner cared in his own demented way.

Maybe living with them wouldn't be so bad.

That still doesn't change the fact that I hate the brat.

Yup, this is the fic. That’s it.

I didn’t win the contest btw.