#how to write about abuse

[bixels]

I'm not explaining why re-imagining characters as POC is not the same as white-washing, here of all places should fucking understand.

[super-nova5045]

sylvia plath, todd anderson and virginia woolf (aka ACTUAL tortured poets) watching taylor “im breaking up with my boyfriend for his intense depression and blaming it on him, im dating a racist who enjoys watching woc being brutalized and harasses young woc artists, i sent my fans out on a hate train to attack a young woc actress for a line she had to say as part of her job to show how mentally ill her character was, im dating a maga supporter, i refuse to say anything about a current genocide despite being the most influential person in the world right now, i am a billionaire, i fly 13 minute flights and have the highest carbon emission of any celebrity, i am a known white feminist who only speaks about issues when it affects me and has constantly let my fans get away with extreme racism and even encouraged it by associating myself with known racists” swift call herself a tortured poet (her writing sounds like a bunch of thesaurus words slapped over gabba hanna and rupi kaur-esque poetry that was created purely as a trinket for an edgy pinterest board)

[shalom-iamcominghome]

I've been doing a lot of reflection as of late, especially after this past class.

This past class was about the Torah and Tanakh in general, and the way the rabbi talked about the commandments (specifically the ten commandments) has made me really reflect on how I interpret them, specifically the fifth commandment, or honoring your mother and father.

This is a commandment I have wrestled with for a long time - in fact, it brought me away from g-d at multiple times. I was severely abused when I was incredibly young by my mother, and I used to feel insulted at the implication that I were to honor her while she got to live a better life. It was hypocritical, in my eyes.

But this rabbi surmised that this particular commandment was because parenthood is an act of creation, something that is like the g-d from which we come from. My realization is this: I don't think we're necessarily meant to take even these commandments literally.

I this particular commandment is more of a call to honor creation - creation is a gift, and like any gift, many people simply will not like it and will discard it. The person who abused me created me, but she did not honor creation. She didn't honor me, but I can still honor it.

I have started to honor creation much more. I'm too young, too unstable, not mature enough to be a father (though I fantasize about it), but I create all the time. I create relationships, I create with my hands through crochet. I create memories, I create my world. And I can honor who I am and where I came from that made me who I am. I've been learning one of the mother tongues of my family (Italian, since part of my family originates there) and it was judaism that inspired me to do this.

I don't think g-d wants me to honor my abuser. I think He wants me to remember the Holy action of creation. When I am a father, that act of creation will be Holy, and indeed, I am already joyful about the thought.

I have seen many people struggle with this particular commandment, but I think this perspective helps me personally. I don't think I ever have to forgive my abusers (plural), and I don't think I am commanded to simply because they happened to be family. I am commanded to recognize the holy, to elevate the mundane. In doing so, I will remember g-d. Through creation, I honor g-d and everything he has done for us, for me, and for our collective people.

[mxfrodo]

y'all for fucking real. don't fucking write slave fics or x reader fics of aventurine's slavery??? are you guys out of your goddamn minds???

[bonefall]

Would it be good or bad if the writers changed who Moonpaw's parents were before the book gets released? (Y'know that's assuming they'd ever do that)

It would be nothing but a good thing!

The authors are careless and don't think through the implications of the random ships they seem to pick (besides an uncomfortable pattern where they seem to be VERY good at torpedoing popular queer ships with laser precision). But they should.

Warrior Cats is a series about family, and ASC was apparently supposed to be a series about Nightheart having issues with inheriting the legacy of Firestar... but half of the Clan is descended from Firestar. Nothing about Nightheart is special, even by the established logic of the series. This is a plot hole.

It's inconsistent and makes the drama in the series worse. The readers are just supposed to accept whatever the writers want to be relevant, and forget it in the next book. WE remember that Thriftear and Bayshine are first cousins. The authors don't. That's bad storytelling.

If they just changed the parents to Fernstripe and Shellfur, it would immediately be better with no downsides. We'd get some payoff for a developing background relationship, which would be nice! Simple as that.

[foundfamilywhump]

see like the thing with 'carewhumpers' as a concept to me is it just like... i know this is prrrrobably not really how it's meant but something skeeves me out about the idea that kindness or caretaking mixed in with hurting someone can somehow meaningfully complicate or dilute the harm done to the point of making that character no longer a 'whumper' whereas someone doing the same 'bad' things but not ever being gentle or caring for them would just be a straight-out whumper. when like... that's how 90% of irl abuse dynamics work? so i just... don't really get the point, i guess. like to me it implies something about the 'care' provided somehow mitigating or combating the harm done that. i just do not personally appreciate or enjoy.

[transmascutena]

the poor little meow meow-ifictation of saionji in this fandom has got to stop i can't take it any more

[akirathedramaqueen]

Stolas: A Gradual Descent to the Bottom of the Bottle

This post analyzes Stolas's situation with alcohol and discusses whether the show effectively represents this systemic issue, and what it implies about real life.

The take is certainly not unique, but I decided to post it anyway to spread awareness about how subtle, seemingly harmless, occasional drinking can seamlessly turn into a full-blown addiction over time.

TW: substance abuse, addiction, alcoholism

Is Stolas an alcoholic?

The answer seems obvious at first. You look at him—all posh, intelligent, and articulate—and you might think, "He doesn’t look like one." You won’t find him, Satan forbid, somewhere under a porch, or truly dependent on the bottle, like drinking during the day—or not absinthe, anyway.

Sure, he drinks sometimes, but it’s fine . . . right? Everyone drinks sometimes. Everyone deserves to feel a bit happier after something bad happens once.

Or twice.

Or thrice . . .

. . . Oh.

Not so obvious anymore, eh?

The real issue here is that the answer is kind of between 'yes' and 'no.' My TL;DR is that the show makes it pretty clear his drinking is becoming problematic, but it’s not quite there yet. And it will become alcoholism soon enough if nothing changes.

I think what we see happening to Stolas right now is an excellent, textbook example of how people end up there. So let’s get into his head, explore where he stands, and what it means for us and for him.

It starts easy

It doesn’t happen in one day. It's not like you get up early one especially glum morning and decide, "Hey, that's a good day to ruin my life!"

It's a vulnerability that makes you susceptible to drinking. Constant pressure. Anxiety. Depression. Trauma.

And you might find yourself wanting to do everything, anything, to get it out of your brain. Not think about it for one evening. Forget.

What a pathetic fucking man!

Her attacking you, whether physically, verbally, in public or private. You, having no one to turn to, having no way to mend it, having to keep up appearances for your kid.

We all have bad days. Bad situations. It’s not to say that one wild night is inevitably going to turn you into an alcoholic. But when you allow the bottle to be your crutch for life, when it becomes a habit to avoid uncomfortable, traumatic events, then . . .

Then it turns into a coping mechanism

You know, it’s . . . it’s simpler. It’s comfortable. Soothing.

You can’t kick her out of the house. You can’t make the man you love love you back. You can’t get a support network because she ostracized you from royal social circles and made a laughing stock out of you.

But you can forget. Forget that one excruciatingly humiliating night. Where not only was all your dirty laundry thrown out on the dance floor for everyone to see, but also, that said romantic interest made it clear it’s only about sex.

You used to have a smoking wife, a kid, you had it all! I hope you didn't give it up so you and him could get it up

Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay? You make that really clear all the time.

Forget well enough to fall asleep drunk on the floor among the only living beings who didn't run from you yet. Maybe only just because they are in pots and don't have legs.

And it spirals out of control

Things get gradually worse. Your only lifeline—your . . . uh, romantic interest and daughter—fall out of reach. He finds every reason to avoid you. She hasn't visited you since that LA incident.

Your only power move with a divorce request turns into a lengthy, exhausting proceeding and leads to an assassination attempt. Your—what are you even anymore?—romantic interest pretty much ignores your distress call, or so you think.

You go with a showdown. You can't stand the ambiguity anymore. You want to know whether there's something behind your transactional thing. It's either 'yes' or 'no,' and . . .

It doesn't end too well.

Lastly, you go to a party to try to unwind (or at least be polite, because it's rude to ignore invitations). But your ex's (???) ex acts cruelly, and you don't feel comfortable there. And the wound is still fresh, bleeding . . .

Fuck it, the absinthe won't cut it. Beelzejuice it is then.

And here we are, back to our starting question

Stolas wears a functional alcoholism guise. Or dangerously close to it. Because that's what I believe is going on.

He is still a functional member of society, but he is shown not being capable of processing his trauma without the bottle in hand. And, as things get worse for him, we see the bottle or the glass or any other alcohol container more often on the screen.

For now, he's hanging on, but it's just a matter of a flip switch—the moment when every second of his life will start to feel unbearable without alcohol, simply because there are no other ways to cope.

It's worth noting, though, that Stolas isn't the only character depicted struggling with the urge to drink away his problems.

The most obvious example is Verosika, who is a severe case of alcoholism. We won't delve deep into her character since I want to focus on gradual decline rather than the end result, but we rarely see her without a bottle. There are a couple of scenes where she doesn't hold one, but these moments are situational. She's also been to rehab at least once and only got out because of her reputation.

But there is another character I'd like to dissect, because this will answer the lingering question, "Is there a way out?"

Blitzø, and why he didn't fall victim to this

We saw Blitzø drinking too, at the Bee’s party. To a rather disturbing degree, actually.

But why does no one say he has an alcohol problem, even though he did use alcohol as a coping mechanism? 

Because Blitzø is an example of how the addiction might be prevented and what ultimately makes a difference, a turning point.

To start off, we first see him not in the bar. We see him at home with a pint of melting ice-cream. Dude sugar-bombed himself to sleep . . . after the already mentioned disastrous date with Stolas at Ozzie's, that is.

And then he gets a call from Loona, who asks to pick her up from the party. He has no plans to stay there whatsoever.

But what changed his mind? Pressure did. 

He was pressured by both Loona and an old acquaintance to stop by. (I stress that no one is wrong for this, by the way—he still had the agency to turn the invitation down.) He reluctantly agreed to one drink . . . which we know how ended.

It's much harder to keep it to just one drink when you're sad and alcohol makes you feel better. Nobody wants to be sad.

But with all that said, Blitzø is extremely resilient. In contrast to Stolas—who is strong in his own way but slipping despite all the privilege, magic, and immortality that Blitzø thinks make him invincible—Blitzø never let that one drinking occasion become a habit.

Because he has a support network. However closed off he is, he has his business to take care of, Loona, and M&M. He has things he likes to do and he has people he cares about.

Stolas has all the money in the world, but no friends or activities he could look forward to. He doesn't seem happy with his royal life at all, referring to himself as an owl in a gilded cage.

So the difference is, essentially, this: Blitzø has alternatives and doesn't see alcohol as an outlet. There is a wonderful post from @warblogs17282 which has similar points I make, but also, it shows another angle of Blitzø's relationship with alcohol—his, unfortunately, long history with addiction in family. So that contributes, too.

Is Stolas a lost cause?

Gods, no. But it’s definitely a problem by this point. 

Is he an active alcoholic? Maybe not yet. He isn't Verosika yet. But he is getting there, which I think is the point the show makes.

Alcohol might be a one-time patch on especially rough days, and you might wake up the next day strong and aware enough not to make a habit of it. But the problem is, Stolas already has a habit, and he doesn't have anything to replace it. 

To solve it, he needs just that—a replacement for the bottle. Someone who cares. My hope is that one particular red lizard will share his pint of ice cream and his love. And maybe then, grim days won't be as grim anymore, even when the absinthe stays in the store, or wherever these royals get their alcohol.

Closing note. Why it’s important to talk about this in real life context

Warning: Extreme TMI

I had an alcoholic in the family, and this topic triggers me because, for him, it also started as "no biggie."

He was still functional for years, coming to work regularly. But he was slipping. He drank more, skipped work, and eventually became unbearable for his family—my family, even if not immediate. His wife requested a divorce. He got isolated. He drank even more. Eventually, he got fired because it's not appropriate for a director to skip work and reek of ethanol. The smell was so strong that people couldn't be in the same room with him. He tried other jobs. He aced interviews thanks to 30 years of experience and a solid background. But he got fired again because he couldn't live up to his legacy anymore. At the end, he descended into what you would call full-blown alcoholism.

So, you followed his story, and my question is: Did it start here, when he couldn't help it anymore? Or did it start a couple of years before that, when alcohol became too comfortable as an outlet for struggles?

I've had rough months too—with the war in Ukraine and everything happening with my family—when I realized it became comfortable for me to drink my problems away. Because it works. Because it’s pleasant not to deal with anything, to force your brain to shut up and be happy for one evening.

And it's terrifying to realize I had (thankfully, I don't have anymore for a long time by now) those patterns of thinking: "Jeez, I just want to drink and forget this happened."

Because I saw where it leads. And the farther you go, the harder it becomes to say 'no.'

So please, pay attention to the ones you care about. Pay attention to yourself.

[saffitaffi]

“What if the evil tyrant who likes to kill puppies for fun actually just needed to fall in love with a sweet naive child who redeems them through the power of love and they were actually good the whole ti-“

What if they weren’t, though? What if their life twisted them to the point that they can only love through violence?

What if the narrative doomed them to ever play their role, a role that has already been chosen by forces higher than them?

What if the sweet, gentle character didn’t love them ‘despite their flaws’, or even at all?

Why should they? Especially if it’s a case of kidnapping. ESPECIALLY if they hurt them. Or their friends. Or take away their agency.

What if that strange contradiction of love and hatred in their heart tore them apart and gave them their justified end?

What if they CAN’T be fixed?

What if they don’t WANT to be fixed?

What if we stopped glamorizing abusive relationships and started actually exploring them?

[heartshapedgreen]

really hate how 'avoid therapy speak' writing advice is to write your characters not able to convey their emotions period, instead of y'know... making them convey them less clinically (which is what i think 'therapy speak' is supposed to mean?) and more in line with your character's view of life.

like if your character is someone who is very self-aware, or someone who ruminates a lot (hello ocd), they're gonna have A Lot to say when asked about their feelings. maybe it's unreliable. maybe it's diverting from the real issue. maybe they're lying. even untruthful/'wrong' answers can reveal so much about a cynical mindset or that they hate their self or that they've been gaslit so much their entire conclusion is wrong, and it's a "oh..." moment for everybody.

i even have a character who actually would say 'umm... not good, i guess? i have no idea' to being asked 'so how does this make you feel?' but that's cause. they literally have alexithymia. or, i guess if that could be an appropriate reaction for a character who is overly guarded & has trust issues. i also wonder if displeasure at 'therapy speak' has to do with the fact most of us probably don't have many people who ask us about our feelings, and conversations like these feel sappy and uncomfortable and like fanciful imaginings of unrestrained trust that won't be betrayed, because often IRL trust like this goes betrayed. most 'therapy speak' advice comes across as really jaded, and i'm saying this as someone who has trust issues lol. also, considering that alexithymia is actually very common, i wonder if that plays a role in how weird these conversation seem to readers who have it. (i'm actually curious about this.)

[theminecraftbee]

hermit horror week day 4: season 7 or taken over

Xisuma slowly blinks at the console logs for the server again. He's very tired; he's been collecting blackstone again, and it's very tiring, collecting blackstone. He's been building a lot of pretty houses, and stocking a lot of shops, and he hasn't had time to look at the console much recently. He probably shouldn't be now, because he's tired, and tired people make mistakes.

He makes a lot of mistakes; he's silly like that. A big derp. It's why he has to be careful, since he's been tired so much lately. He definitely shouldn't have the console open.

It's just, earlier Impulse had a question, since his moss farm kept lagging, and Xisuma thought it would be easy enough to try to find the root cause of. And he did find the root cause of it--Impulse's farm is too fast and his storage simply doesn't keep up with the amount of moss--but there's... some other things...

He blinks again at the dates on the server files. The last edited dates. Slowly, he clicks again on his own player data, and tries to make sense of what he's reading. Files like this, they aren't really meant to be that human-readable. It's--well, it is mostly json, so it's mostly human-readable, actually, but a lot of it is still encrypted, for player safety, which would. Maybe explain what he's looking at? He thinks? He's--well, he does have root access, is the thing, because he's the admin, but he still shouldn't be able to look at any player willy-nilly.

He's a little too much of a derp to be trusted with that. He probably shouldn't even be looking at his data! It's just. That last edited date. Xisuma doesn't edit his own player data. That way lies madness. He's, uh, pretty sure he knows some people who went a little mad doing that. So the fact of the matter is--well, it's not the only file that's been edited recently, he tells himself. Just because it's a lot of memory files that seem to have been edited, as well as access permissions--that's... normal enough for a new season, right?

He's...

He doesn't notice his other self walk up behind him.

"Oh, hey Xisuma. You finished gathering materials for our next build, then?" Evil Xisuma says. All of Xisuma's hairs stand on end.

"I mean, I've gathered enough to get started," Xisuma says.

"Pity. I was really hoping you'd manage to get everything. I thought maybe we'd finish today, but I guess we can't now."

"I--you're right. I'm really sorry."

"No, no, don't worry, don't worry, my friend," Evil Xisuma says. "We probably couldn't have finished today anyway, even if you said you'd try for it."

Xisuma's heart is in his throat. "Sorry, my head's just been. You know how I am. Silly me, forgetting things."

Evil Xisuma shakes his head. "It's awfully lucky I came back this season. Think of all the important things you'd be forgetting without reminders!"

Xisuma looks down and away.

"Gosh, and now you're... playing around in the admin console?"

"Oh!" Xisuma says. "It's, er, nothing really big..."

"Can I see it?"

He barely resists the urge to close out of his player data and hide that's what he'd been looking at. He doesn't know why he wants to hide it. It's not like--well, if Evil Xisuma got mad about it, it would be... right, wouldn't it? Because, well, Xisuma knows full well he shouldn't be looking at or editing his own player data. Editing your own data is the way to madness, and Xisuma, well, he's been so tired lately. He could easily accidentally hit a button. He could easily accidentally hit delete. He has root access, after all.

His heart is in his throat again. He shuffles his feet. "Sure," he says, finally. "I, er, I promise, I wasn't doing anything. I just noticed the last edited date on, uh, files that aren't automatically created by the system? And I thought, gosh, that's weird. I'd only been in there to check on Impulse, really, after he'd had some lag issues. I was just finishing up. It's nothing--the date's weird, though, right? That's all I was noticing."

He watches Evil Xisuma's fingers scroll through all of Xisuma's data. It's not quite fast enough that Xisuma isn't sure he's reading it, and suddenly, Xisuma feels very small.

Finally, Evil Xisuma hands Xisuma's tablet with the admin console open back to him. Xisuma looks down, and Evil Xisuma has closed out of the player data again.

"You just forgot the last maintenance date," Evil Xisuma says.

"Really?" Xisuma says.

"Oh, yeah, for sure. You're so tired lately. You silly derp. You've just been forgetting things easily. You should really get more rest!"

"Oh, but then we won't finish our projects," Xisuma says.

"I guess we wouldn't," Evil Xisuma says back.

"It's just--it's. Most of the time, access permission for player memories isn't edited during maintenance, and I just--I don't remember putting your name down?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

Xisuma tries to think.

"I don't know," he says finally, small, unable to meaningfully articulate anything about what's wrong with it. "I guess it only makes sense, if I'm forgetting things so easily."

"Exactly! Gosh, we make a good team," Evil Xisuma says, and he smiles at Xisuma. Xisuma crookedly smiles back.

"Yeah, we do," Xisuma agrees.

"Don't pull that out again unless I say so, okay?"

"Okay," Xisuma agrees automatically, and then he knows he will not. It makes sense. If he was upsetting himself over nothing like this, why, imagine what he'd do if he could open it whenever? He'd just constantly be upsetting himself!

"Now, my friend, let's return to building the Evil Empire."

"Let's!" agrees Xisuma, and just like that, the entire encounter slips from his mind.

[t00thpasteface]

i'm so relieved that people like my retrobat stuff bc i can tell tumblr definitely prefers two very specific batmans: Tortured Diesel DILF and Edward Cullen But Cooler. meanwhile i'm out here like

[autisticrosewilson]

Talia even being called an assassin gives me the ick because when she was first introduced she hated killing, felt immense guilt the few times she had to, and most of the time if it looked like she killed someone it turned out to be anaesthesia or a tranquilizer or something. Like she was literally studying to be a doctor when her and Bruce met and she was based off of the stereotypical Bond Girl because it was the 70's. Like I know it's basically her entire character now that she's an "assassin mom" or whatever but that was not who she was intended to be and I hate how it's done most of the time because it's ALWAYS a way to point and say "look at the evil brown woman! She's a cold blooded killer who forced/passively allowed her son to kill as well! It's a good thing that the feral brown boy is now with his good white family so he can learn the value of life and art and how to exist in civil society!" And it's actually really pissing me off. You guys don't even read a characters introduction comic before you start writing the same regurgitated nonsense steeped in racism and misogyny. Damian's whole character as it stands is basically character assassination for Talia and in order for me to be able to engage with him he'd have to be entirely rewritten.

[silusvesuius]

steer clear of ....the illigitimate child of... nvm

[read-write-thrive]

Hospitals had never been the favorite location of either of the Dead Boy Detectives, and they usually refrained from even approaching the premises when at all possible. In the early days of the agency, it was too risky— too many dying or newly dead individuals meant Death was nearly impossible to escape, after all. Even now, with an expanded agency under the influence of the Night Nurse, and as such without immediate risk of hell if they strayed too close to Death, they still tried to avoid hospitals out of habit and for the comfort of all involved—the boys never knew when someone might see them (and it never stopped stinging when someone suddenly did) and it wasn’t exactly easy for the girls to just walk into a hospital without rousing suspicion. It was easier in some ways, these years later, now that the girls were adults and less likely to be seen as truants, but that newfound freedom did not bring with it any sudden desire to see what they were missing behind hospital doors.

All this caution and hesitation was ignored when Charles tapped on the mirror to check on his parents and was met with an unexpected chaos. A heart attack, from what the paramedics were saying as they wheeled the old man out on a stretcher, Charles’s mother and their neighbor following behind in her car. Charles didn’t witness the incident itself, pure luck on the timing, but the aftermath was a flurry of commotion that left him reeling.

He wandered back to the main space of their headquarters (a bigger place than what it once was, courtesy of the girls’ tiring of the boys being unreachable during a crisis or two and deciding to go all in on a shared flat) in a daze. Charles didn’t hide his checking in on his parents anymore, but still preferred to do it alone. Thankfully, his friends were kind, wonderful people who were happy to leave him to it. Said wonderful friends, however, were also quick to notice something wrong.

“Charles?” Edwin, naturally, was the first to notice Charles’s return and immediately put his book aside.

The girls, engrossed in a new show on the other side of their living room, snapped up in their own ways.

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

Charles swallowed down the mixture of emotions threatening to drown him, “It’s my dad, he’s had a heart attack.” He screwed his face up in an attempt to stop the tears that threatened to spill out. Why was he crying? The bastard made his life miserable—

“Good.” Crystal was the first to comment. Niko slapped at her arm. Crystal put her hands up, “What? He was awful!”

“It’s still his dad!” Niko protested, “You can’t just say that!”

Charles tuned out their bickering. Everything felt a little tuned out, actually. And then Edwin was in front of him, hands on his shoulders.

“-love? Charles?”

“Hmm?” Charles tried to silence his whirring emotions.

“Are you alright?”

The Charles of even several years ago would have been quick to brush it all off with a smile. But he’d grown since then.

“Honestly? Not sure. Is that bad? Crystal’s right, he was a dick.”

“And Niko makes a very good point as well. He’s still your father.”

The tears were back again. Edwin pulled him in for a hug before Charles could say another word.

The girls had also quieted, alternating between watching the exchange and speaking through meaningful glances.

Niko was the one to break it, “Did you want to see him?”

The very idea shocked Charles, going rigid in Edwin’s arms.

“He might not even be dying, and going to a hospital is recipe for trouble—“ Charles responded slowly, as if waiting for someone to agree with him and take the weight of the decision off of him.

“I mean, a heart attack is probably close enough to death even if it doesn’t get him.” Crystal contributed.

“And our avoidance of hospitals doesn’t matter if you’d like to go see him. The Night Nurse’s lone positive trait is her protection from Death’s clutches, after all.” Edwin said into Charles’s curls.

“I-“ Charles gave himself a breath, “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“We don’t have to.” Crystal said softly.

“Yeah, we can just have our movie night and distract you, or if you want to talk to us but not go see him…” Niko backed her girlfriend up, trailing off into the silence.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Edwin echoed, sighing, “But I don’t want you to regret anything, either.”

“That’s true, it might be good for closure…” Niko chimes in once again, positive in the face of it all and determined to see Charles cheered up as well.

“Fuck that. You don’t owe him closure. If you don’t want to go, then don’t go.” Crystal’s anger was not what it once was, but she had her moments, particularly when abusers were the topic of discussion. Thankfully she seemed determined to keep her composure.

“Your call, Charles.” Edwin said, pulling away from the embrace but not letting Charles go just yet. He obviously had more to say, if the turn of his mouth was any indication, but he was all softness regardless.

“Could be my last chance, innit?” Charles said lowly, obviously not thrilled at the prospect, “If the bastard goes…”

Edwin’s face shifted, and Charles knew he’d guessed Edwin’s unspoken comment correctly. Still, Edwin’s tone and posture were the same, “No one expects it of you. And we’ll support you regardless of what you decide.”

Charles had a distant feeling of pride that Edwin had gotten better at this sort of thing. He’d tell him that another time. Once this was all over and the world made sense again.

After a moment of reflection, Charles sighed, “I think I’d like to go. Might help me heal or closure or whatever, yeah?”

The girls were up, pulling on their coats and shoes without a second thought. Charles felt monumentally lucky to have them.

Including the boy who held him still, voice low and meeting his eyes, “Do you want all of us with you? We can stay behind if you’d rather do this alone.”

Charles shook his head with his same sad smile, “I don’t want to think what might happen if I do all this alone, mate. Though you’ll have to forgive me if I lose my cool.”

Edwin clearly saw through the attempt at a joking diversion but smiled regardless, “Very well. Do you know which hospital we’re visiting?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s probably closest to their place, yeah?” Charles guessed, scrambling his thoughts trying to remember which hospital he’d been taken to when he’d broken his arm as a kid. It was so long ago, and so much had happened since…

Edwin once again shook him out of his thoughts, “Some investigation is in order, then. Niko? Crystal?”

“On it!” Niko chirped, already deep into her phone, Crystal close behind.

After some internet sleuthing, the girls had acquired the address of the nearest hospital to the Rowland family home and were taking the long way there while the boys readied themselves in front of the mirror.

“Are you ready?” Edwin double checked, hand outstretched.

Charles shook himself, “Not sure I’d ever be, love, but let’s get on with it.”

Edwin pulled him in for a quick kiss on the cheek, a sincere smile, and then through the mirror they went.

—-

They stepped out of a mirror in one of the many bathrooms in the hospital complex, disoriented by the amount of beings (alive and dead alike) as they tried to navigate the halls. The A&E department was the worst, with traumatic deaths creating a perpetual plethora of ghosts. Of course, this was also the first place they needed to check.

The boys held hands tightly as they went, both wound tight by the noise and the blood and the general atmosphere of the place. It was far from the most dangerous place they’d been in their decades together, but that brought little comfort in the face of it all.

Phasing through the various doors and curtains, it was ultimately clear that if Charles’s father was in this hospital, he’d been moved elsewhere. They split momentarily, with Edwin going to find a map of the hospital while Charles waited at the nurse’s station to see if he could get any leads on his family.

It soon became clear that there was simply too much going on for Charles to glean any real information, and he was ready to give up and find Edwin when the next phone call to the desk came from a familiar phone number and gave way to a familiar voice. Niko’s voice was clear on the other end, and just loud enough for Charles to overhear. The nurse gave the information with little questioning, informing all involved that Mr. Rowland had just been moved to a private room on a different floor. Charles didn’t stick around to listen to what exact department the man was in, or what the prognosis was—as soon as he knew the number he was off to find Edwin.

It was quieter in this department. Less urgent. Which meant something significant that Charles was pointedly not thinking about, less that send him into another tailspin. Thankfully Edwin’s presence was grounding beside him.

A nurse left the room as they found it, giving a glimpse through the doorway. Charles’s mother sat at his father’s bedside, accompanying neighbor at her side. They couldn’t see his father (or his father’s ghost for that matter) from their vantage point.

Edwin gave one last squeeze of Charles’s hand to get his attention, “I can give you a moment alone if you’d like.”

“Don’t you dare.” Charles tried to joke, but his voice didn’t seem to cooperate. Edwin’s eyes saddened, but he gave a firm nod and gestured for Charles to take the lead.

The man of the hour looked frail against the white sheets. He was awake, but by the look of his eyes he was definitely on his way out. There was a bulky mask over his nose and mouth, IV in his arm, heart monitor dragging along beside him. Charles's mother sat quietly, holding his hand between two frail ones of her own.

Charles didn't think his emotions could get any more complicated, and then his father's eyes found him. Then Edwin. Then back to him. He rasped behind the mask, Charles's mother shushing him gently.

"Hi dad." Charles sighed more than said, standing awkwardly at the foot of his bed and gripping Edwin's hand so hard he wouldn't be surprised if he managed to hurt him despite all the ghost technicalities.

Another rasp, this time accompanied by a frail hand gesturing towards the boys. Charles nearly slumped in relief when his mother glanced their way but returned to murmuring to her husband rather than reel back in shock. She had some time left, at least. His father, however, continued to try to speak.

Seeing his mother's distress, Charles felt himself snap into his protective mindset without thought, snarking, "Just give it up, mate. They can't see us—you're the only one dying here, so only you get the honour. Trust me, I'd rather talk to mum than you any day, but I cant say I'm too torn up about you going first. Maybe she'll get to have some happy years without you."

The man thankfully stopped his rasping, but his eyes emoted enough that Charles knew he heard him. It gave him the confidence to keep going, never quite sure what his next word was going to be but glad to say it anyway.

"Not that you asked, but I've been having a great time these last thirty, forty years. Yeah my death was awful, don't get me wrong. Kinda wish you got even a taste of that, for all the shit you put me through… Actually, do heart attacks hurt?" He turned his question towards Edwin, who had such a complicated expression that Charles immediately decided that the question wasn't that important, "Doesn't matter now, I guess. But yeah, my afterlife has honestly been better than my life ever was. Not only do I not have to deal with your bullshit, but I've also found people who actually care about me.

"Like this, right here, is Edwin," Charles swung their held hands upwards in an attempt at a wave, earning a slightly hysterical chuckle from Edwin, "He found me dying in that attic, showed me kindness as I died, and I've been by his side ever since. He's the best thing that ever happened to me—"

Charles took a breath as his voice cracked, Edwin's hand squeezing his in silent support. Charles didn't look over to try and keep it together a bit longer.

"He's the love of my—well, love of my afterlife. And I know you’d hate that, or at least hated all that when I was alive. I remember your rants about how all those people dying deserved it. Shouting at the telly like they personally offended you just by existing. Do you still think like that, all these years later? Hell, now here you are, dying on a hospital bed while your queer son laughs at you. What a twist!" Charles laughs, but it doesn't sound right even to himself. He, once again, pointedly doesn't look at Edwin. Looking at Edwin means dropping the brave face, and he's got a few more things to say first.

“You know, you’ll think this is weak or whatever, but I checked in on you and mum over the years. Neither of you could see me, and I never stuck around long, but I wanted—no, I needed to see. If I was the only one you beat, if you’d turn to mum now that I was gone. If you felt any remorse when I died. I’m not sure what I would’ve done if I’d seen you raise your hand to her. Probably taken up Edwin here’s offer to haunt the shit out of you.”

“I never—“

“Not in those words, love, I know, I know. But you meant it like that and you know it. Anyway, thankfully I never saw it. And she didn’t cower like I did, or hide any bruises, so I figured you were safe there. As for remorse, well, never really saw that either. I was bitter and angry those first few years over that. Thankfully Edwin here kept me busy. And now I can’t really be arsed, especially now that you’re dying and I can’t find much remorse either. Angry it took you so long, maybe.”

Charles once again looked at his mother, at the tears on her cheeks and her face turned in silent prayer.

“Even if you never beat her, I still wish you’d given her more time without you. Did you ever visit her family? You shot it down every time she even hinted at it when I was alive. And she’d smile and move on like it didn’t hurt her to hear that the man she married hated her family that much. You know, I used to promise her that I would take her to see them again. I’d tell her that once I was grown up we’d run away and live in India where you wouldn’t care enough to chase after us. She’d swat me for that. Disrespecting you. It always came back to you. Which is just how you wanted it, right? The whole world revolving around you? So fucking glad I got out of there. I shouldn’t have had to die for that, but whatever. It let me live free of you. And soon enough I won’t have to worry about you at all.”

Shoes squeaked obnoxiously right outside the door. Charles glanced up just in time to see Niko giving him a thumbs up as Crystal pulled her away from the glass. Turning back, he was glad to see his mother hadn’t turned away from her husband. No need to confuse her or get the girls in trouble.

Charles sighed and turned back to his father, “Not really sure what else to say here. Edwin? Any ideas?”

Edwin thankfully took the playful question as seriously as Charles meant it, “Hmm. You could tell him about hell if you’d like to be especially vindictive. Or take the moral high ground and forgive him for all he did to you. Crystal and I would also be happy to curse him for all he did if you’d like. Literally or figuratively.”

Charles genuinely laughed at how his father’s eyes widened, “While that sounds tempting, he’s already on his way out. All we’d do is freak out my mum.”

Edwin gave him a soft smile, “Of course. Just a suggestion.”

He returned the smile and squeezed his hand in thanks before turning back to his father, “Right. Well dad, I’m glad I caught you before Death did. I won’t speak to hell or anything, don’t want to jinx it, but I hope you get what you deserve. I’m not going to stick around to find out. And I won’t forgive you, either. You were a right bastard and I still struggle with getting you out of my head even after literally dying. So you don’t deserve my forgiveness, honestly. I’ll keep an eye on mum, but that’s for her and my sake, not for yours. Probably won’t go to your funeral or any of that, either. I’ll be a little mad if they bury you next to me, but those are just bones by now so I guess it doesn’t really matter. Yeah. I think that’s it. No forgiveness, no love, just hope you get what you deserve and that I never have to see you again. That about sums it up.”

Edwin squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention, and speaking softly, “Does that mean you’d like to go? We can wait if you want to be sure.”

Charles once again felt overwhelmed with it all, particularly with how lucky he was to have Edwin. He didn’t want to start crying here, so he just nodded and pulled Edwin with him out of the room.

“How’d it go?” Crystal asked from her seat in the hall chair, Niko nodding next to her.

“He’s dying alright. Gave him a piece of my mind. But I’m ready to never think about him again, honestly.” Charles tried to make light of it, but it was clear none of them bought it. He blinked up towards the ceiling to keep the tears away just a bit longer.

“Once we get back to the apartment, expect plenty of hugs from us.” Niko informed him, eyes glancing down the hall at the others down the way.

Charles smiled, “Noted. Sorry to make you come all the way out here, guys.”

“Nope, none of that—“ Crystal started, but was cut off by nurses suddenly rushing towards the room, obvious some alarm or something had been pulled. The girls stood in a rush to get out of the way.

“We’ll see you back at the apartment!” Niko called back to the boys as they took their leave.

Edwin held his arm out, the way he did when he wanted Charles to feel especially cherished, “Shall we?”

Charles turned very purposefully away from the door and took the offered arm with a thankful smile. He would need to have a proper cry and rant and rave about all of this later, he was sure. He’d come to learn that all those complicated emotions don’t just go away when you ignore them. But, for now, he was happy to hold onto his partner and get the bloody hell out of this hospital.

~

EDIT: now with part 2 !!

[dxxtruction]

Louis is all that self-righteous violence. Violence to distance from and squander the violence done onto him. Lestat is all that temperamental, in your face violence. Violence as emotional, the uncontrollable rage to possess violence as a tool. Armand is all that discrete and uncertain violence. Violence which hides inside violence to survive it, and also to manipulate it to his advantage.