#homicidal ideation tw

[auschizm]

Do you have any advice or resources for coping with homicidal ideation and urges safely? Specifically in reaction to trauma if that helps

Just like how I'm not comfortable taking on the task and responsibility of guiding people through episodes of self harm and suicidal ideation, I'm also not comfortable guiding people through homicidal ideation. This has now been added to my pinned post. I do not think you are "bad" or inherently dangerous for struggling with any of the above, but to protect my own peace of mind, I cannot be the one who helps guide you through these symptoms

[system-of-a-feather]

(CW: Talk of suicide, suicidal ideation, self harm, homicidal ideation; expressing complex feelings about recovery from some parts that were deeply traumatized and deeply volatile)

(Reblogs and comments are turned off)

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White = Feathers speaking as Feathers

Green = Feathers speaking for Part A

Pink = Feathers speaking for Part B

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Honestly, speaking for one of the very traumatized and lonely parts of myself, but a juxtaposing thought I have every now and again with the place I am in recovery, is that I feel sad and loss over being stable, over having mostly recovered, over the reality that I don't think I'll really be needing inpatient extensive mental health care unless something really bad happens. We're happy, we are satisfied, we are stable and we are pretty sturdy. Life is good and that's awesome, but I know a large part of myself as a kid just really wanted someone, anyone in the world to really acknowledge that I was EXTREMELY suffering, EXTREMELY struggling, and EXTREMELY unwell and to give me a space that I could be completely unwell, a complete mess, and still be completely taken care of

And to a large degree, we recognize part of the reason that has never happened to us, is partially because we don't / can't express that even if we wanted to due to a combination of trauma and autism, so it isn't as though people DON'T want to help or support or play that role, but we don't exactly make it possible either and for the most part, we've made peace with that being our current state and that it might be our forever state should therapy avenues not pan out

But to some of our parts, particularly the more previously volatile and traumatized parts that were by far detatched from reality and stuck in trauma space, the idea of having a complete, extreme, and overt mental breakdown - either attempting to kill ourselves or someone else - was the only way we could possibly make it so anyone would ever really acknowledge or understand the pain and struggle they were going through and lately, with the stability largely even reaching them, there's been a lot of grief over the reality that those parts are acknowledging that they are loosing the ability to have that much of an extreme mental breakdown anymore.

And of course, logically and cognitively and as a whole, I know that should be something that is celebrated; but explicitly in the mental space of those parts, it feels like such a deep and extreme loss. It feels as though they have to forfeit their life long need and desire to have their pain and hurt not only acknowledged, but also met with gentle kindness, warmth, and space to be unapologetically and overtly mentally ill without loosing support - whether that support be clinical or personal relationships. It's accepting that the sort of support and acknowledgement of pain that they saw other mentally ill peers growing up getting is something we will probably never be able to experience.

We've never been able to look mentally ill to the public. We've never been able to have a mental breakdown and have people really truly realize and acknowledge how much we were going through. We've never really felt like people really ever worried about us and for those parts, I think that's all they really ever actually wanted; was for people to actually pay attention and worry about us for once.

And another part in that cluster is getting heated at the POTENTIAL comments (often from white people, in their own specification they insist on having) that this sounds like "Oh I wish I was more mentally ill" or "I wish I could be so unwell I was put into inpatient care" or "This is implying you can control when you are mentally ill and its insensitive because people who end up there cant!!!" and its really NOT like that and those statements and ways of thinking hurt, are insensitive in their own sense, and culturally deaf because our inability to unmask any of our mental illness was ALSO not a choice and heavily influenced by Asian American cultural pressures, Allistic social / societal pressures, and intergenerational trauma.

It's not that we were never "that dysregulated that we couldn't control it being expressed and thus ended up in any of those situations", its that culturally, societally, and trauma-wise, showing any of that was felt as worse than death, because it would be a slow, painful and miserable death either over the course of weeks to years, but it would lock in a long and doomed life; and so expressing any level of suicidality or mental illness was akin to already failing a suicide attempt to someone who ACTIVELY wanted to die and to someone who ACTIVELY had very very detailed plans to make sure that if / when we tried to kill ourselves, that NO ONE would be able to stop us or save us.

And if I'm honest, I still remember the specifics and the details on how it would be done, because we went over it so fucking much in our early youth and teen years.

I guess in that sense, that corner of our parts had very conflicting desires. One part deeply, deeply, deeply wanted everyone to see what they were experiencing and to acknowledge, support, and help them. Another part deeply, deeply, deeply did not believe anything good would come from that and the only way to get relief from what they were experiencing would be to end ourselves in a way that no one would be able to stop once the ball was moving.

And I guess at the core of it, I think that might be a large reason we can't express things. To some degree, I think expressing or letting anyone know we have issues and struggle, would be slightly thwarting and lowering the chances that a "perfect suicide" could be pulled off. The more people who acknowledge that get the opportunity to notice we are suffering, the more people that will be vigilant to keep us from doing it.

And thinking about how those two parts are / were very much distinct parts in a subsystem we were much more unfamiliar with, I kind of do see how and where those two juxtaposing parts diverged. How one part became very sad, lonely, self loathing, and in pain; while the other grew hostile, "kindly" aggressive, homicidal, misanthropic, and hauntingly gleeful.

The former wanted little more than to have someone give them intensive care and help them live when they couldn't do it anymore.

The latter wanted little more than to express their suffering and hurt and pain in the only way that was safe and minimized their further suffering; ie one singular quick expression of it all that no one could intervene on and that we wouldn't be around to deal with the repercussion / reactions of.

In the end, we wanted to be acknowledged and recognized so much that we COULD not die before experiencing it at least once and so we could not do the "perfect suicide"; but we also wanted to die in a way no one could stop and so we could never let anyone notice what we were going through.

And so, in the end result, no one got what they wanted. No one got to be acknowledged and recognized and supported by expressing the struggle in a non-certain-lethal manner that would get the attention of others, but also, we never got to actually kill ourselves in our young "perfect suicide"

And so now, that both don't really have it in them anymore to be run by that pain and hurt, they both just sit here, grieving that they never will get to be acknowledged (at least to the level and extreme and intensive care) for the extent of their old childhood suffering AND will never be able to pull off their "perfect suicide". Unintentionally, the two were in stand off for so long that we actually recovered SO much without doing either, and now we aren't really in a position to do either, and it makes both of them... honestly sad as it was something both had become so deeply consumed and driven by that it's just... sad.

And I don't want this to be mistaken. We aren't suicidal or in crisis or anything right now. As much as I can feel both end's grief and hear their contemplation on "reversing our healing" and intentionally self sabotaging to get a chance to meet what either end always wanted, I am (and honestly? even those parts on their own) very capable to hearing, feeling, and acknowledging those feelings / desires / thoughts / hurt / grief and hold space to think and feel and express it while ALSO acknowledging that any of the actual suggestions listed thus far are not in line or conducive to the relief of suffering that underlies BOTH of their wishes.

I was just hearing that internal talk in the corner of my head and wanted to offer to sit with it for a bit and give it some space to express since I've heard it appearing every now and again and assume it to be the best way that they could alert me to them needing support from the more unified whole.

And honestly, I'm glad to be able to hear and give space for that, especially for these parts that are typically very.... self kept with their feelings and trauma responses.

[jays-sfw-art]

Ben Solo Angst Headcanon/Comic!

Headcanon: Ben (in my AU where he doesn't fucking die) struggles with various intrusive thoughts leaning into his dark side during his redemption arc. The intrusions most often manifest as a nagging little voice that sounds just like Snoke. Ben despises it.

(Trigger warning for unwanted homicidal ideation, death/murder mention, and general angst. Ask if anything else needs tagging and I'll oblige.)

(Also lmao, I drew this on a whim at 5 am on very little sleep, so please excuse any errors.)

[jiraisupportgroup]

[delusi0nalraik0]

my therapists looking at me after i tell them im in a parasocial relationship so bad it makes me want to kill myself along with 34.6 million people

[shattered-system]

Things our system has that people would treat us like a monster/horror trope over:

- Not only alters with low empathy, alters with no empathy at all

- Alters with extreme anger issues that break our things and litter our body with cuts and bruises

- Alters with extreme suicidal and/or homicidal urges

- Alters who try to reenact our past traumas

- Alters who cannot recognize our own apartment or partner and try to run away (without keys or our phone or even shoes, not recognizing those objects as ours)

- Periods of dissociation so intense we cannot move no matter how serious the consequences

- Periods of dissociation so intense we become dizzy and uncoordinated

- Periods of dissociation so intense our depth perception fails

- Periods of dissociation so intense we have trouble feeling physical sensations

- Dissociation so heavy we become pale and in danger of passing out

- Amnesia to the point it hampers any social life we try to have

This disorder is a traumatic one. Feel free to add on with your experiences.

[vxmpyree]

evil angst to balance out the fluff drabble. nikto homophobia fic

tw // homophobia, unhappy ending

despite no longer living in russia, nikto’s heart remains there. when it snows, serene and dreary, he thinks of how it poured in his small hometown. he used to cling to the hem of his father’s coat, tiny feet sliding across the wood floor as he begged him not to make him go to school because of all the snow. his father wrangled the habit of whining out of him quickly, having no tolerance for the whiny and soft-hearted.

his television streams primarily russian channels. while he dresses in the morning, the small screen shows the local news channel for his hometown. there is no need to keep updated-- it is irrelevant-- but he can’t seem to let go. and over breakfast, he will watch russian cooking shows, mumbling about how they cut tomatoes or that they need to boil the broth longer. 

but, television and sentimentalism are not the only things he clings to. 

no, he remembers the cold cackle of his father when the criminal status of homosexuality fell away along with the soviet union. and then he scowled, his words sharp and unyielding as he sipped his kvass. many, many times, he watched his father froth at the mouth at the thought of two men together. nikto grew up clenching his fists and gnashing his teeth the same way the man before him did.

so, when he meets you, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. this oppressive squeeze of his heart, the winding of his stomach, is all too much. you are not ashamed. you stand against everything he has ever known and it disgusts him. 

at first, he loathes you. he is tormenting you any chance he gets and spitting venom in the ears of others, uttering words that burn like acid. but you don’t do anything about it, don’t tell him that he is horrible and the scum of the earth. 

the blackened cavity in his heart only grows in size with every passing day. he cannot control the warmth in his cheeks when he sees how your eyes crinkle, making space for your big grin. he is powerless.

you want nothing to do with him and he wants everything to do with you, but he is too cowardly to do anything about it. he has tried to tuck it away and indulge in the comfort of women, but it is not the same. 

nikto opts for sneering in front of his television, beer in hand as he watches protests for gay marriage in russia. he is afraid-- because if his hometown progressed enough to deem it tolerable, he would have to actually think about how your presence makes him weak in the knees. how could he unlearn the mindset that has comforted him all these years? so he mutters into his drink, saying that it is a sin against nature, that is all.

[s1lly-gh02tz]

GUN AND SUI. IMPLIED TW⚠️😰😰😰😰😰

Sighs TikTok wouldn’t let me post this (I wonder why)

[system-of-a-feather]

Vent

(TW: homicidal ideation, general vulgarity, and just general violence cause I need to vent this shit out. I'm not gonna do shit, but god fucking damn is this a day that makes me just scream.)

God I fucking hate this whole holiday so fucking much for so many rational reasons but really just solely because I fucking HATE having America shoved in my face cause I literally have this chronic fucking deep seeded hatred and pent up violence towards this shit that I very much try to release passively over time with sardonic snark, half joking shock humor that is 'joking' on the account that I know better than that so I won't do it and not joking in genuine fantasy and desire, and I literally ignore the deep deep deep seeded level in which I fucking hate that I live in this country - not that I think any other country is inherently better - but just that this fucking piece of shit hellhole is the place I was born in and that it's a bitch and a half to get out of here + I'd have to actually research other countries to move to to make sure I don't find a WORSE place so I probably am fucking STUCK here for a fucking hot minute and I fucking HATE it.

This holiday is literally the fucking god damn worst holiday AND it is just senseless noise and mass pollution and often a number of "oops we accidentally caught a habitat on fire" where all the fucking STUPIDEST ass mother fuckers get to sit there and jerk themselves off over the word "fReEdoM" without even spending 2 seconds to compare the state of our country and the values they hold and if that even fucking aligns like AT ALL with the very very basic OR complex definition of Freedom

And I just fucking want to bash the motherfucking faces of everyone who so much as has 2 ounces of American pride into the mother fucking ground I fucking HATE this country and more than anything else HATE the people who are unapologetically, unironically proud of it and the GOD damn restraint I have to exert to maintain a sense of PEACE and STABILITY for the system by NOT doing a violent crime on these asshats is SO fucking much I literally wish and fucking dream but I know it is not good for me in the long run and I have other parts in this brain I have to accommodate and be considerate of but god FUCKING damn it I really wish the Purge was fucking real right now cause I could REALLY use some catharsis god fucking damn it I look out the window and see at least 10 people that could permanently SHUT THE FUCK UP

I also fucking hate that they briefly make literal fucking explosives legal for a few days just like.... come the fuck on.

I literally hate people. Like on any other day, "no i don't literally hate EVERYONE" would be what I would say, but right now 95% of the people in the world around me look like iron clad American PaTRiOTs and while I know there is some wise mind rational mind shit that is like "oh its not black and white" my current mental place is "yeah literally everyone that is not my fiance and not my online friends are factually iron clad patriots" and I feel like a fucking caged feral dog cause I NEED to go outside and physically vent, but if I go outside Ill see STUPID fucking PatRIoTS and I'd have to keep myself from starting Fights that would get us a record

And I HATE this fucking holiday

^Literally for me while I write this

Look I know I just need to play my guitar to calm and stabilize a bit and then I need to go to the gym to get our body tired enough to not be as ready to keep me activated and ALSO take our meds which we havent

But god damn

I'm a fucking EP Trauma Holding Angry Alter TM and this fucking holiday tries me so fucking hard on trying to maintain an ANP focus every single fucking year.

[subsiist]

Peeta remembers the broadcast.

That's becoming a feat these days - remembering. Not that he doesn't hold onto memories anymore, but they're a jumbled mess. Half the time he spends holding his head, eyes screwed shut to block out the hallucinations on the other side - the other half in a perturbed sleep that doesn't feel restful at all. It's when he doesn't live in those moments where he can have conversations such as this, where people pull him into one just to get him talking, to see where his head is at in the current state.

Of course, that's all when he's in his cell. When he's out of it, he's hooked to machines, the hallucinogenic liquid being poured into him through a tube, videos of the Games and anything that surrounds it being played over and over again. He knows now that it's Tracker Jacker venom. It had felt the same last year during his Games when he was desperately trying to keep Katniss alive and took a sword to the thigh because of it.

Now, though... sometimes, he doesn't know whether he should have kept her alive. There are memories he can't make sense of. Stuff on the train that don't match up with the videos he's being shown. He hates himself after he thinks it - that it'd all be better if Katniss Everdeen didn't exist - but those moments are growing longer and longer. Sometimes, he forgets where he is and he smashes his fists against the wall or floor while he pictures her trying to kill him and, when he wakes up, he has to be told that the red around his cell is his own blood.

"I don't - " Peeta starts at Cecilia's question and his voice is so scratchy that it dies out on his lips. He coughs, trying to catch his breath, and he wishes he wouldn't have drank the water from his earlier meal so fast. He looks at the blood on the ground where he's sitting - his prosthetic jutting out in front of him, a dent on the side - and runs a finger through it. "I only have red now," he finally says.

He draws a quick flower in his blood and then wipes it away immediately. He hadn't meant to draw a katniss. "Tell me somethin' 'bout Woof," he asks and it's a bit more blunt than it would've been weeks (months?) ago. Everyone here knew all those people who died except him.

Setting: Capitol Cell Block, day 19 @subsiist

Whenever Cecelia closed her eyes she heard the gunshot that killed Woof. He kept visiting her in her dreams, or nightmares, just like Sterling and her kids. She had stopped trying to figure out how long they had been there, there was no sense in trying to make sense of any of this. Had it been a month? Less? More? Not knowing what day it was or even how many they had been there made her feel so out of control. Cecelia had never realized the importance of knowing what day it was until she lost all concept of time in her cell. How were they supposed to survive this?

Annie had been taken a little while ago, and she thought that a second door on the other side had opened, but she didn't know who they had taken this time. She hoped that Annie was okay, but she knew that that was wishful thinking. Who among them was okay? They were all tortured and beaten and hungry. They were all losing it, herself included. With each passing hour, she worried that they were all a few steps closer to insanity.

Cecelia was brought out of her thoughts by a familiar sound. Peeta. It was especially heartbreaking watching Peeta lose control. She wished that there was more that she could do to help him. She had no idea what it was that they were doing to him, but he didn't deserve it. Among them all, he was the most innocent. Pushing herself up to her feet, she went to her window and saw Peeta pacing in his cell.

"Peeta," she said, her voice carrying to his cell. "Peeta tell me about your favorite color to paint with. I remember seeing your paintings and they were so beautiful. Tell me about them."

[orchardthieve]

There’s a simplicity to the act of stabbing, a primal intimacy that no other method can replicate. The thought lingers like a low hum in the back of my mind, growing louder when I picture their body, a canvas, soft and unguarded, begging for the sharp kiss of a blade.

I think of the moment the knife breaks the surface, that split second where resistance gives way to compliance. The skin would yield like silk, parting with a sound too soft for the violence it heralds. Warmth would spill forth, sticky and red, pooling between my fingers like some grotesque communion. Their blood, rich, metallic, and unending, would soak into everything, as if desperate to leave their dying body and cling to me instead.

I imagine their eyes, wide and uncomprehending, as they feel the blade twist. That’s the key, isn’t it? The twist. It isn’t enough to pierce, you have to let them feel the tearing inside, the chaos of organs rupturing in slow motion. Their breath would hitch, a wet gasp escaping their lips as they realise they can’t scream, can’t beg, can’t do anything but stare into the abyss I’ve opened inside them.

And it wouldn’t be one stab, no. Once is a statement, but repetition, that’s devotion. Each thrust would be deliberate, purposeful. The rhythm of it would be intoxicating, my heartbeat aligning with the rise and fall of the knife as it plunges deeper, again and again, until their body is no longer theirs, no longer a person but an object, hollowed out and empty.

I think of the mess it would leave. Blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, splattering the walls like macabre art. The sound of their body hitting the ground, lifeless and heavy, would be deafening in the silence that follows. It’s in that silence I’d feel most alive, my breathing steady while theirs ceases entirely.

It’s not hatred that drives these thoughts. It’s not even anger. It’s the allure of control, of holding someone’s life in my hands and carving it away piece by piece. A knife is an extension of the hand, and with it, I could write a story on their flesh that no one else could ever erase.

And in that final moment, as the blade rests still, buried to its hilt, I wonder who I would be, me, or the echo of what I’ve done?

[iwillbreakyourfuckingskull]

Kinda uhhh realising maybe it's not normal to masturbate while having daydreams about being violently abused to death when you're like 4 years old every night before bed. Maybe it is not normal that some of your earliest memories are of you lying still with your eyes open and holding your breath seeing how dead you can be in your bed after imaging yourself being murdered. Maybe it's not normal when strange men walk up to your mom after you did belly dancing for a school play when you were 7 to tell her how great you were at it and how you were so captivating. And for my mom to brag about me appealing to a strange father like that. And for her mom to brag about it too. How I was so charming and beautiful and smart and a natural performer. How I was groomed by my own grandma for her own sadistic pleasures of manipulating children into doing what she wanted. A little song bird in its cage. A puppy doing tricks for its family. A child wanting to be loved by being useful to their family. A sister wanting to take on the burden of being the perfect doll to protect her younger siblings without even understanding that that was what she was doing. A little girl acting without even thinking. Just going along as if she didn't have free will. Just like a robot doing what it was built to do when you press the button. Don't think. Just do. Don't think. Just. Do.

I am so overwhelmed. I am fatigued. I feel so isolated and lonely. I cant tell anyone I know. I dont have many clear memories. My body remembers, but what precisely it's reliving, I don't know. Im scared to know. I want her dead

[screahms]

*puts axe in your hand*

why are you hitting yourself? why are you hitting yourself? why are you

[victoria-vd]

Preliminary Warning

// tw mentions of violence, mentions of death, homicidal ideation

OFFSCREEN POST

Victoria did not care for the winter solstice.

Not only was the stress that it brought insurmountable, but it was also the day of which she had the misfortune of being born. And while the Velascos were not a family of superstition, they were no strangers to weaponizing it when it was most convenient.

Such is the spirit of the holidays. The young heiress let out a small sigh as she cast her eyes across her elegantly-decorated bed. There, on the other side, her best friend sat engrossed in her laptop, tapping away at the keyboard. The setting sun cast orange rays through the windows, cloaking the entire room in a golden glow. Esper’s white hair captured the light of the sun in such a picturesque manner that one might mistake strands of her hair for the finest strings of exquisite, iridescent pearls. Her head was angled in such a manner that it perfectly blocked the sun from Victoria’s view, casting a halo of sunlight around her entire face.

At least Esper’s presence would make it all more tolerable.

“Oh,” Esper suddenly raised her head from her laptop and turned her gaze to the girl beside her, blinding her with light now that her head no longer blocked the setting sun. Victoria squinted but refused to shut her eyes, giving her friend her undivided attention as she continued, “I just remembered, when is your family meant to be arriving?” The girl tilted her head, “I keep hearing mention of them coming, but I haven’t really been told a day?”

Victoria’s eyebrow twitched in irritation. Ah. Right. The greatest source of her ire around this time of the year: her extended family. The solstice celebration had always been a warzone filled with backhanded remarks and underhanded tactics bordering on psychological torture— she had no doubt that her cousins had plenty of new “tricks” prepared for her this year. 

She raised her chin to the ceiling in thought. “Come to think of it, I believe the first batch will arrive tomorrow.” The anticipation of her cousins' arrival added to her dread. It was anyone’s guess as to which of her relatives in Unova would arrive first: her Tia Marina or her Tio Adan. But between the two, Tia Marina cared more about punctuality, so it was more likely that she would arrive before Adan and his son. An unfortunate double-edged sword— while Victoria found her Tia Marina and her daughter respectable, her eldest son Sebástian was… a different story. Frankly, he was the one she was the most apprehensive towards out of all of her cousins— unlike the rest, his disdain for Victoria in particular was much more… personal.

It was then that a dark thought occurred to Victoria. A horrid idea lurked in the back of her mind, planting seeds of unease that began to take root to the already present dread in her brain: she would not put it past her cousins to use Esper as a means to get at Victoria. Especially since there was no doubt that Esper would be present at the party. The girl furrowed her brows and drew her lips into a line. The mere thought of this possibility made her feel apprehensive. She didn’t need visions of the future to predict the many ways they could take advantage of the situation. 

…A very obvious one instantly came to mind.

The sudden sound of a laptop shutting echoed throughout the room, snapping Victoria back to the present moment as Esper shifted closer to her on the bed. “You alright there, Tori?” she asked, brows furrowed slightly with worry. She looked at her with such fondness that it made the girl feel sick to her stomach. There was so much that she didn’t know— didn’t remember— that Victoria was certain her cousins would be more than happy to inform her of. 

Or show her outright.

The last thought made her abruptly sit up and turn to Esper with a sharp breath. “I believe there is something important I should inform you of.”  The words tumbled from her mouth with a forced haste that betrayed her growing anxiety.

Esper gave a small reassuring smile, “Then I will listen.”

Victoria shut her eyes and drew in a long, hesitant breath. Of course she would agree to listen so easily. She didn’t know. She didn’t remember. The young heiress doubted she would give her the same doe-eyed stare once she reminded her. Casting a downward glance to her hands, she silently contemplated where to start. Perhaps it was best to provide context before thrusting her into the horrors of the past.

“As you know, over the coming weeks leading up to the solstice, more of my extended family will be staying here at the estate,” Victoria started. “My brother and I have warned you it will not be the most pleasant of reunions for…” she paused for a moment, casting a sideways glance, “various reasons.” 

The other girl quietly nodded.

“But…” the young heiress met the eyes of her best friend, “I believe you deserve to know something that occurred on the solstice. Something that I’ve refrained from reminding you of thus far.”

 Her friend spoke with an innocent tilt of her head, “If you're comfortable with sharing, then go ahead.” 

Unfortunately, Victoria could think of little that would be more uncomfortable to share! But it was better that Esper heard it from her than from one of her cousins.

“Do you recall the date which Diaz mentioned a few months back— December 21st, 2015?” She didn’t wait for a response. “It was my sixth birthday. You were there that day. As was Diaz. And our brothers. And the rest of my family.”

She stared off into the distance as she spoke, recalling the hazy memory of the event in her mind.

Victoria did not care for the winter solstice. Not only was the stress that it brought insurmountable, but it was also the day of which she had the misfortune of being born. It was tradition to celebrate the anniversary of one’s birth, and it seemed there was nothing more that the Velascos loved more than to celebrate with loud, crowded parties with people who hated one another. Such is the spirit of the holidays. But at least Estelle was there every year to make it all more tolerable.  But frankly, as Victoria sat on the couch with her head tucked behind her knees, she found that today her patience with Estelle— as well as everyone else— was wearing thin. It was as if everyone simultaneously forgot how to keep their thoughts to themselves and unanimously decided to verbalize every single thing that ran through their mind. She didn’t need to hear the dilemma between whether someone wanted cheese or chocolate. She didn’t need to hear everyone interjecting into one another’s conversations before it was their turn to speak. She didn’t need to hear the contents of all of the gifts everyone brought for her before she even had a chance to open them. The fact that no one seemed to mind the cacophony of overlapping voices made the girl want to tear out her own hair. She could barely hear herself think, let alone process anything that was being said around her.  She wanted nothing more than some peace and quiet. But alas, she was trapped in this deafening prison by social obligation. She’s a big girl now, she can suffer in silence for a few more hours.  From behind the couch, she briefly heard the concerned voice of her Tio Paz. Was he talking to her? She thought she heard him mention her name. His footsteps approached her.  Victoria bit back a grumble. She liked her Tio Paz— he was a nice man— but if she had to talk to anyone she might just explode.  She heard him ask her… something. There were definitely words coming out of his mouth. She buried her head further into her knees, feeling a simmering rage bubbling in her veins. He was only adding to the noise. Did he call her name again? It sounded like her name. He sounded closer than before. Oh, he might have said Estelle’s name as well. Victoria forgot that she was sitting next to her. Did she say something back? Her Father’s brother said something to her again. Victoria really wished he would leave her alone and stop talking to her. Her hands clutched at her hair. She wished everyone would just leave her alone and stopped talking. Please stop talking.  A hand suddenly landed on her shoulder.  With a sudden fury, she whirled around and—

“—And I killed him,” Victoria finished, crossing her arms and raising her chin. “In front of everyone.”

“Oh…” Esper blinked, “I—”

“The unfortunate result of a young psychic discovering herself at a party full of people and having an outburst.” 

“Mhm…” The other girl nodded slowly. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she continued, “I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to tell me this.”

Victoria tapped her finger against her arm and waited for her to say something— anything else. For Esper to back away, to grimace, to show some sort of caution around her. But there was nothing— not a word nor a thought in her mind that acknowledged the gravity of what she had just told her. “Is… that all you have to say?” 

“I’m… not really sure how else to respond?” Esper sheepishly smiled, the strand of hair unfurling as she moved to rub the back of her neck, “I don’t think there’s much for me to say, honestly.”

The heiress looked her up and down. “I believe most people would typically have a bigger reaction to being told that they witnessed their friend kill a man with their mind in front of them.”

Her friend shrugged, “I mean— What response could I give that you haven’t heard a million times before? ‘Oh, that must’ve been hard on you’ or ‘I’m sorry that happened to you’. Like… How am I ‘meant’ to respond?”

Victoria raised an eyebrow at her, baffled. “With… apprehension? Discomfort? Hesitation? Fear?” How was this a question that needed to be asked? The typical response to being informed that someone close to you had taken an innocent man’s life was an immediate— usually negative— reaction. At this point, she’d be less bewildered if Esper jumped for joy rather than have no reaction whatsoever. 

“If you want fear, I could grab my cane and run for the hills if it’d make ya’ feel better,” Esper playfully bumped shoulders with her. “I wouldn’t get very far but I can try.”

Oh. So she wasn’t taking this seriously. Was that it? “I do not believe you are in a position to joke about the matter, Esp,” the young heiress narrowed her eyes. “I could have easily killed you and everyone else in the room that day.”

The other girl’s brows furrowed in confusion, “But that didn’t happen. I can understand what you may be feeling but don’t you always say ‘What’s done is done’?”

She just wasn’t getting it, was she? 

“I want to kill someone again, Esper,” Victoria stated coldly. “Purposefully.”

That night— the very instant before her Tio Paz died— was the only time she’d ever been able to truly let herself loose. Every moment from then on she had restrained herself to prevent a potential catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions. No matter how much she trained, no matter how many boulders she threw at herself for the purpose of pulverizing them into dust with her mind, nothing quite satiated that curiosity— the temptation…

Esper sat there in silence for a moment. She seemed as though she was thinking over her friend’s words, mulling them over in her mind before nodding. “That makes sense, I think a lot of people would feel the same if they were in your position.” The girl tilted her head as she continued, “You want to know how you’d feel if you did it on purpose, is that it?”

“It would be so easy,” Victoria looked down at her hands. She wouldn’t even have to snap her fingers to do it. No one would really be able to stop her from subjecting someone to the most violent and horrific death imaginable. And in the unlikely event that she were ever caught, unless the investigation knew she was psychic, odds are that there would not be enough evidence to convict her of homicide.

“It would be, ya.” Esper spoke, her voice soft as she reached over and rested her hand atop Victoria’s, “Thank you for telling me, and if you ever want to talk about it I’m always available.”

Oh.

She slowly glanced down at the hand atop of hers, then back to her friend.

“Okay.”

Scene End.

[Esper belongs to @espers-n-espurrs]

[announzingforya]

“Yeah, I only take help and never help others-“ WHAT ABOUT I JUST FUCKING KILL YOU????

[iveeaten3humanorganz]

Current mood!!