#i felt high or drunk but the scary thing was i’d taken no drugs; not even pain relief. maybe i had a fever?

[fingertipsmp3]

I may not be showing it 💯 but this cold is rotting my brain

[insomniamamma]

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

   1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.    2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

          "’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

        The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered.          "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’"  Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

     He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with.  On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after--          "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing--          "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

       The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain--        Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says.        "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?"        "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils.        "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?"        "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand.        "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

       "Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him.        "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--"        "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy.        "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes.        "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands.        "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--"        Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds.                                                                                     Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

       "Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found."         "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend.        "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel."        "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man."        "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?"        "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up."        "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round.        "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow.        "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware."        "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!"        "Daniel!"

--Stars--

       Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it--        Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still--        "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!"        "Whazzit birdie?"        "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie.        "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud."        "You sure?"        "Go back to sleep, Cee."

       "Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling--        "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him.        "Yuh. M'awake birdie,"        "I gotta pee," she says.        "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail,"        "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent.        "Alright, just gimme a second," he says.        "I'll get the light,"        "We don't need it," he says.        "Ez-"        "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

       Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers.        "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him.        "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks.        "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it?        "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his.        "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

       Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach.        "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going."        "Not right now. I want some quiet."          “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

       Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not.        "I love you, Cee."        "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

[when-they-write-stuff]

those eyes

pairing: sterek

word count: 5706

rating: teen

warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence

notes: commission for @fanficmakesmehappy based on the prompt: crime au + soulmate au where you see color for the first time when you make eye contact w your soulmate. Stiles is kidnapped by the pack. He's drugged and the first person he sees when he wakes up is derek, and the first thing he notices is that his eyes are green. This complicates things.

The last time Stiles had been this drunk, he’d just graduated high school and Scott had insisted he come out to a ‘real party’. 

Of course, that ended up being Lydia Martin’s lake house filled with people he didn’t know and bad tasting alcohol, but Stiles would forever treasure it as a ‘what a bad idea’ memory felt like. 

He hadn’t had one of those in a while. Not since he’d gone off to college, leaving Scott and his dad behind, and Scott had all but cut ties with him. Stiles didn’t come back for a few years, his dad moved up in the police ranks, and Stiles eventually graduated with a degree in criminology. 

All things considered, he felt like his career path was off to a pretty good start. If he ever did anything with it, that was.

Stiles had a tendency to get sidetracked. But if he was going to do anything with his life, it was follow in his dad’s footsteps and do something involving crime. Because who didn’t love a bit of action in their lives?

That’s where he went wrong.

When he came home that summer, the plan was to surprise his dad and, if he could find him, Scott. Because Stiles hadn’t given up on his childhood best friend. Even if he’d suddenly vanished off the face of the earth and refused to answer Stiles’s calls or texts.

Except, Stiles didn’t get home. He got as far as the crossroad near their house when something hit his car. The thump was so loud, Stiles was sure Roscoe had taken a dent and it had to be a wild animal. Because what the hell else attacked an innocent car in the middle of the night?

Stiles remembered clambering out with a curse on his tongue. But he didn’t get three feet before an unrelenting arm wrapped around his neck, something soft was pressed against his nose, and all Stiles knew was black.

-

The point was, he thought he was drunk. There was the sound of music in the air, he could hear voices chattering above his head, and Stiles could’ve sworn the floor was moving. He was drunk. He just didn’t remember how it happened. 

“I’m telling you,” a female voice hissed. “It’s him. They share similar scents and that was his car. Do you really think anyone else drives around a piece of junk that color and model?”

Stiles blinked a few times. Were they talking about his car? Because Roscoe wasn’t a piece of junk and Stiles would fight anyone who said otherwise. And… color? Stiles didn’t even know what color his jeep was. He always thought it was a sort of murky-grey but then again, everything was. Oh god, what if it was bright pink? He’d always heard bad things about bright pink.

“We’ll let McCall confirm it,” another voice said. Male, this time. “But he’s not going to like this.”

“He can not like whatever he wants to. Derek wanted the spastic idiot and do you really want to be the one telling him we chickened out at the last minute?”

Stiles groaned. He didn’t actually mean to, but the sound burst from his lips as his head pounded like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. He heard the sound of a yelp and then a curse, and something soft was pressed against his face again. 

Stiles inhaled sharply before realizing that was a bad idea. His last thought was ‘not drunk’ before he passed out again.

- 

So, Stiles hadn’t had a ‘what a bad idea’ memory in a while, but this was certainly up for the grand prize. Stiles woke up feeling like he’d been ripped apart and put back together again, or maybe run over once or twice by a truck. He smacked his lips together, mouth tasting like cotton, and cracked one eye open.

And squawked, trying to yank backward.

Except he couldn’t, the sound of metal clanged as he realized he was handcuffed to a metal chair. Stiles looked sharply up and his breaths caught as he noticed a figure standing in the shadows across the room. The room— a room— one that was much too small for his liking and empty of anything but a bed and chair.

Stiles tried not to whimper, he really did. But the sound still broke free of his lips and he shied away as the figure stepped forward, fixing his gaze on the floor. Two pairs of boots came into his line of sight. Two pairs of black leather, mud-stained boots, that were almost comically big.

Stiles didn’t think it was a good time to be having such thoughts. But he couldn’t help it.

“Stiles Stilinski,” a male voice said. “I assume?”

Stiles clenched his jaw, glaring at the floor. The boots moved closer.

“Look at me.”

“Fuck off.”

His captor moved uncomfortably close. Stiles took a deep breath and mustered up his best glare, lifting his eyes to meet those of his captor. Except, the second he did, he saw a flash of green and felt like his head was exploding, a startled ‘oh’ leaving his lips.

Because suddenly, he could see everything. 

The grey walls of his room, the dark blue of his jeans, the horrible clash of blue and orange on his t-shirt. His captor stumbled back and Stiles could’ve sworn he heard a snarl, but that wouldn’t be right. Regular people didn’t snarl. Not even soulmates— soulmates.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles said. The guy across from him glared like Stiles had just run over his puppy or something.

And oh shit, his captor looked like a Greek God. Of course, he did, Stiles really shouldn’t have expected anything else. His jawline could probably cut diamonds, his shoulders were literally god-like, and his eyes— his eyes were the prettiest color of green Stiles had ever seen. 

Something strange left Stiles’s mouth and he was pretty sure it was along the lines of, “Sweet mother Jesus.” 

His captor looked murderous, turning on his heel and stamping out of the room. The door slammed behind him and Stiles jolted in his chair, staring at it for a second longer. Then the reality of the situation sunk in and he yanked against the cuffs, a shout rising in his throat.

“Hey, asshole, you can’t just leave me in here! I’m innocent! My t-shirt looks ugly! I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m a growing boy!”

The door suddenly opened again. But instead of his green-eyed captor, a blond-haired woman came in. Stiles stared for a moment, before his mouth fell open.

“Erica Reyes?”

“You remember me?” She said, smirking. Stiles blinked. 

“Oh my god, did you… did you help kidnap me? Dude, that’s so messed up!”

“Oh, relax,” Erica said, rolling her eyes. Which were a beautiful color of brown. Stiles wondered what the hell his eyes looked like. “Clearly, it was a bad idea. I don’t think Derek knows how to react to kidnapping his literal soulmate.”

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Wait, his name is Derek? Snarly-growly-green-eyes is named Derek?”

“Hale. Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles repeated. For a moment, he didn’t know why he recognized that name, but then it hit him like a punch to the gut. “Derek Hale mass-murderer Derek Hale? As in, the one that burned his entire family alive and killed a handful of Beacon Hill’s residents?”

Erica’s smirk faded. Stiles felt sick.

“He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

“If you keep talking like that, he will,” Erica said. “Cause he’s innocent.”

“Innocent. Innocent? He just kidnapped me!” Stiles said, yanking against the cuffs again. “Probably for murder!”

Erica’s expression turned pinched. Stiles could’ve sworn her eyes turned gold for a second, except he was definitely just getting used to seeing colors for the first time. Because, he reminded himself, he’d been kidnapped. By his soulmate. Resident murdering psychopath Derek Hale.

Erica studied him for a moment longer before sighing. Sticking out her lower lip, she turned toward the closed door. 

“I’m not getting anywhere with him. Would someone send in McCall?”

Stiles’s stomach dropped. McCall? But there was no way. There was no way Scott McCall, his Scott McCall, could be working with a murderer. Scott was a puppy. A literal ball of fluff. He couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to.

Except, when the door opened, it was the boy Stiles had grown up with stepping into the room. Or, it was sort of. Scott’s jaw was sharper, his hair was shorter, and he’d gotten strong. Like, scary-looking strong.

Stiles stared for a moment. Then, Scott moved forward and Stiles tried to pull back. The boy stopped abruptly.

“S-Scott?”

“Hey, man.”

“No way,” Stiles said. “There’s no way you’re here. There’s no way you’re with a murderer. Scott, what the hell happened when I left?”

Scott flinched at that. Erica rolled her eyes and started toward the door, waving a dismissive hand over her head.

“Let me know when you tell him about everything. You know, the Argents, the murders, and the werewolves.”

“The what?”

But she was already gone, the door slamming closed at her back. Stiles looked back at Scott with wide eyes and his previous-best friend was looking at him nervously. Stiles was pretty sure he really was drunk now, or maybe on drugs. Because this couldn’t be right. This wasn’t happening.

“I’d tell you to sit down,” Scott said weakly. “But, uh…”

“Dude. Not fucking funny.”

- 

Between going from graduating college to learning about werewolves, hunters, and finding his soulmate, Stiles thought he would’ve been more prepared to learn that Lydia Martin’s hair was red. But no, that still shocked him. You know, the fact that everyone in Derek Hale’s pack was literally drop-dead gorgeous.

Stiles sat with his knees pulled into his chest on a ratty old sofa. He was surrounded by people he remembered from high school and couldn’t believe this was actually his life. Erica Reyes was a werewolf. Lydia Martin was a banshee. Jackson Whittemore was a snake.

Okay, that one really wasn’t so surprising.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles said, pointing at Lydia and Jackson. “You two are supernatural soulmates.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and Jackson sneered. So maybe Stiles had a crush on her once; a long time ago. He was totally over it now. 

“And you two,” Stiles said, pointing at Erica and Boyd. Then he leveled Scott with his best glare, who shifted nervously next to Allison. “And you, my best friend who betrayed my trust and never told me he was a freaking werewolf.”

Scott winced. Stiles fixed Isaac with a flat look.

“And you’re…?”

“Currently single and colorblind.”

“Great. Four werewolves, a hunter, a banshee, a snake, and this is why I never should’ve come back to town.”

“I’m not a snake,” Jackson said, growling. “Anymore.”

“Oh, you’ll always be a snake in my eyes, Jacky-boy.”

“Actually,” Scott said. “There are five werewolves counting Derek. Six if you count his sociopathic uncle but we don’t usually do that.”

Stiles shuddered, glancing around the room. He couldn’t help but notice it was barrenly empty of anyone other than them. “And said Alpha werewolf is…?”

“Oh, he left,” Erica said. “He doesn’t take surprises well.”

“Great, that’s just great. And he kidnapped me because what, my dad’s a little upset that Derek’s been pinned with a couple dozen murders? Because I really don't think I would’ve been very helpful against that.”

“We had orders,” Isaac said, shrugging. “And grabbing you wasn’t that hard.”

“Hey!”

“Derek kidnapped you because he needed leverage if things went wrong,” Allison said. “There’ve been… a few killings in Beacon Hills. Hunters, we think. Going after all those they suspect are supernatural. And every time Derek tries to get out there and stop them, the cops are called in and he gets chased back into hiding. He’s the Alpha of Beacon Hills, but he can’t protect the town if its own police are working against him.”

“They’re just doing their jobs,” Stiles grumbled. Jackson rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well, people are dying because of them ‘doing their job’, Stilinski. Because of your dad.”

“Keep my dad out of this, slithers.”

Jackson bared his teeth in a snarl. Stiles winced back.

“And stop doing that.”

“The point is,” Boyd said, speaking for the first time. He seemed to have some sort of authority with how everyone went quiet and looked at him. “Derek had his reasons. He wasn’t ever going to do any harm. And it’s true— your dad is getting in the way of all this.”

“He thinks you’re a bunch of criminals, it’s not his fault,” Stiles muttered. Then he looked sharply over at Scott. “Oh my god, does he think you’re a criminal too?”

“Uh, I hope not?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. If he let himself get distracted, Stiles still couldn’t believe that was her actual hair color. He blinked a few times, shaking his head.

How was this his life?

- 

Stiles found himself standing on the sidewalk outside of the loft. It was some ratty place nestled in the middle of nowhere and he thought he could hear the sound of distant sirens. If he ran, Stiles figured he could get away from all this before someone caught him. But he didn’t really see himself running.

All he wanted to do right now, was take in the sights of everything. The moon was yellow, the stars were bright silver, and the night sky was a mix of black and blue. Stiles didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautiful.

The loft door opened and closed behind him. Stiles glanced back and froze when he saw a familiar Greek God standing a few feet away. Derek didn’t do anything, though, except stand with his hands in his pockets. Relaxing slightly, Stiles turned back forward again.

“It’s uh… really pretty, isn’t it? All the colors.”

Derek moved to his side. Stiles really wanted to look into his eyes— see that stunning shade of green again— but he kept his gaze straight forward instead. 

There were so many colors. Stiles had never realized what he was missing out on until now.

“I don’t know what things I might’ve said that you heard,” Stiles said after a moment. “But I’m sorry. If you uh… you know. Heard me call you a mass murderer and all that.”

“Werewolf hearing is pretty good,” Derek said in soft amusement. It was the third time Stiles had heard his voice and for some reason, that made his stomach flip. Despite himself, he chuckled.

“Yeah, well. Werewolves. That’s a bit more of a shock.”

Derek tensed. Sensing a change of attitude, Stiles backtracked quickly.

“Not like it’s worse, or anything. Just a shock, dude, you know? I mean, imagine learning vampires are real or something.”

Derek didn’t answer that. Stiles spun to face him.

“Oh my god, are vampires real too?”

“No,” Derek said with a huff, meeting his gaze. It was stupid, but Stiles’s breaths left him when he did. And of course, he had no control over his mouth.

“Dude, your eyes are really pretty.”

Derek’s face turned red, the color going all the way to his ears. Stiles clapped his hands over his mouth and blushed too, feeling his face turn hot. 

“Sorry.”

“No, uh,” Derek said, eyes dropping to the ground. “It’s fine.”

“I mean, they are, but—”

Stiles could’ve sworn he heard Derek growl. Just like the first time, except it was a little louder. He thought he saw something red flash in the man’s eyes too. Slowly, Stiles stepped closer. Derek tensed.

“Hey, dude,” Stiles said. “You have other eyes too, right? I mean, Scott’s were gold and Jackson’s were blue…”

Derek looked up, face unreadable. “I don’t think you really want to see.”

“I mean, they’re not scary, right?”

The man didn’t answer. Stiles clenched his jaw, cursing himself, and nearly tried to say something else, when the loft door suddenly slammed open again. Boyd came out, eyes snapping between the two of them, and he fixed his gaze on Derek.

“We’ve got an issue across town. Call for help about hunters.”

Derek cursed and broke away from Stiles’s side. Stiles started after him but Derek turned around at the door, looking conflicted for a moment. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but then ducked out of sight. Stiles deflated and Boyd gave him a sympathetic look.

“Stay at the loft,” Boyd said. “Until we get back.”

“But I could—”

“You’d be better out of the way.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, sitting back on his heels as the door closed again. He glared at it for a second, feeling utterly useless, before turning around again. The nighttime air was quiet this time; no sound of distant sirens.

Then suddenly, Stiles heard a footstep. He spun around right as a fist entered his vision and pain exploded through his head. Stiles stumbled back and tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground hard. 

He didn’t even have a chance to curse before a fist was entering his vision again. Stiles’s head bounced off the cement and for the second time that day, all he saw was black.

It was becoming a habit, it seemed.

- 

Stiles was starting to think people liked restraining him to chairs. 

He woke up with his hands tied behind his back and a whole new wave of pain pounding through his head. He kept his eyes closed this time, trying to feel out his surroundings, but then a hand connected with his cheek, and Stiles’s eyes snapped open as he bit back a cry.

“There you go,” a sneering man said. “Easiest way to wake him up.”

“Easiest way to give him a concussion,” a woman said from the side. Stiles blinked a few times and shook his head, the sting gradually fading as he looked around. His breaths stalled in his throat when he did.

They were in a warehouse of some kind. The ceiling was high and wide, the air was cold and stale. Stiles tugged on the ropes around his wrists before fixing his gaze on the people standing around him. They were all armed, he realized, with guns or knives strapped to their sides and down their legs. It looked like they’d set up camp here, with more piles of weapons tossed to the side.

“You’re hunters,” Stiles said as the realization hit. The woman laughed.

“And you’re a quick one.”

“What the hell do you want with me? I’m not supernatural.”

“No,” the man who’d hit him said, stepping forward and catching his chin. Stiles growled and tried to yank away, and the man chuckled. “But apparently, you’re like catnip to them. Want to explain what the Alpha of Beacon Hills wanted with a twig like you, boy?”

“Go to hell,” Stiles said. “Like I’d know.”

“But he didn’t kill or turn you. That has to mean something. Do you know the Alpha, boy?”

“It’s Stiles,” Stiles spat. The woman raised an eyebrow.

“Odd name.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Now, this is the second time today I’ve been kidnapped, and I really just want a nap and a burger. Can we negotiate on that?”

“He’s annoying,” the man said. The woman grinned.

“I think he’s cute.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose at that. He did another sweep of the warehouse and took in their numbers; a handful of hunters, no more than ten. But that might not be all of them, he realized.

“The distraction,” he said. “You really out killing more people?”

“We’re out killing bounties,” the woman said, crossing the room and crouching down in front of him. She had dark brown eyes and Stiles thought they would’ve been more threatening without the color. He didn’t like her smile, though. It was sickly sweet. “You aren’t on that list, but we do have some questions, sweetie. Do you realize what kind of beast Hale is?”

Stiles clenched his jaw. The woman smirked.

“You do. What are you then, the boy who runs with wolves? Or are you newer to this than we’d expect?”

He didn’t answer. She pursed her lips and nodded, pushing herself up again.

“They’re monsters, Stiles, you’ve got to realize that. Genetic mutations. It’s a mercy we’re providing, taking them out.”

“They’re not monsters,” Stiles said coldly. He dropped his eyes. “My best friend’s not a monster.”

Interest sparked in her eyes. The woman tilted her head and then pulled back, whispering something in the other man’s ear. His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted up in disgust, but he nodded after a moment. Stiles shifted uncomfortably and the woman turned back to him with a smile on her lips again.

“You know one of them?”

Stiles knew all of them. His stomach flipped and the color green flashed before his eyes for a second. They weren’t monsters. Scott… Derek couldn’t be. Stiles could’ve laughed at that, how quickly his mindset had gone from murderer to something else. Something else, as if he even knew what something else was.

Except Derek hadn’t wanted Stiles to see his real face, had he? As if it was something to be ashamed of. Like it was something monstrous. 

I mean, they’re not scary, right?

Stiles swallowed hard. 

Another man suddenly came forward, saying something Stiles couldn’t catch to the woman. Her eyes sparked with interest again and she grinned, looking at Stiles with a new expression. His gut twisted uncomfortably.

“You’re the Sheriff’s kid?”

Shit. “What of it?”

“You know that’s why Hale wanted you,” she said. “Imagine if he had the Sheriff’s kid to use as leverage. Oh, imagine if he turned the Sheriff’s kid. What could the law do against him then?”

Stiles drew back. Derek wouldn’t have— that wasn’t the plan. It couldn’t have been. The woman sighed and leaned forward, patting his cheek. Stiles drew away with a snarl.

“It’s alright, kid,” she said. “We’ve got you now.”

Stiles really didn’t think that was a good thing. He watched her turn away and the other man gave him a feral sneer before following. Stiles twisted his wrists in the ropes again and cursed.

But things could be worse, right? Stiles felt like things could be worse.

Suddenly, there was a distant shout and a series of gunshots. The entire room went silent and the shots cut off. Every eye turned to look at him and Stiles swallowed hard, hating himself and everything this day had turned into.

Because yeah, that could be worse.

A howl pierced the air and the room erupted into chaos. 

Stiles cursed and yanked on the ropes binding his wrists together. The warehouse doors suddenly burst open and the air filled with the sound of cocking guns. Stiles yanked sideways with all his might and ended up tipping— he had a split second of realization before he was crashing onto his side with a grunt.

“Sweet freaking Jesus,” he said. The movies always made escape look easier.

Suddenly, there was a yank on his wrist. Stiles yelped and felt something sharp press against his skin. It took him a moment to realize they were claws.

“Hold still,” a voice growled. Derek. Stiles twisted and tried to get a good look, but the man ducked his face away before Stiles could. 

The claw sliced through the ropes and Stiles scrambled forward, pulling himself up. By the time he was on his feet again, Derek’s claws were gone and he was tensed, scanning the room. Stiles glanced over at the chaos to see the others in their beta forms; a flash of golden eyes here, a sharp howl there. Stiles startled as Derek caught his shoulder and tugged him back, away from the fighting.

“Dude,” Stiles said, trying to shake him off. Derek didn’t let go, pulling him toward the other side of the warehouse. Toward another exit, Stiles realized. He yanked harder and stumbled away, rubbing at his raw wrists. “Dude, shouldn’t you be back there helping your pack?”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek groused. “They’ll be fine. You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not some token human, you know,” Stiles said, following after him. He thought he heard the sound of sirens now, which was just great. “I can fend for myself.”

Derek shot him a raised eyebrow. Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“I was taken by surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, and Stiles blinked in surprise. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Du- Derek, why are you apologizing?”

Derek didn’t answer, starting toward the door. They were less than five feet away when a gunshot cracked through the air.

Stiles spun around, expecting pain. But it wasn’t aimed for him.

Derek roared in pain, dropping to one knee. Stiles’s heart stopped when he saw the hole in his stomach; the blood already welling. Out of the shadows came the woman, a pistol in hand and a smirk on her lips.

“Aw, Derek,” she said. “Does that sting a little?”

“Kate,” Derek growled, blood splattering his lips. The woman— Kate— stopped a few feet away and smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“You miss me, sweetie?”

Stiles snapped back to reality, shoving himself between them. Kate’s eyebrows shot up and her lips pursed in amusement. 

“Oh,” she said, sounding mockingly disappointed. “Honey, don’t choose sides now. I’ll put the mutt out of his misery and you can go free to daddy. You hear those sirens, don’t you? They’ll be here in a few minutes, I expect. Maybe even less.”

“No,” Stiles said, surprised his voice wasn’t shaking. He’d never actually stared down the barrel of a gun before, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t going to end well for one of them. “You won’t kill him. I won’t let you.”

“Let me?” Kate asked, laughing. Derek made a soft noise behind him and Stiles resisted the urge to turn around. “Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t a fight you’ll win. Tell you what, move aside and I’ll let you take the credit for taking out murderer Hale here. You’ll be the town hero. Think about it.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Oh, but sweetie,” Kate said. “He is.”

Stiles clenched his fists. Kate chuckled. 

“Have you seen his red eyes? Do you know what they look like? People say they’re the color of blood. Alpha eyes resemble the innocent lives they’ve taken, kid. Do you realize what that has to look like?”

Stiles’s heart thudded against his chest. But slowly, he unclenched his fists, staring at her. Because it clicked, then. 

“No,” he said. “I don’t. But you don’t either, do you?”

Kate’s smile faltered. Stiles bared his teeth in a sneer, straightening his shoulders.

“You have no idea what they look like. And you know what,” he said, “I wouldn’t either. Until about twelve hours ago. And you know why that is?”

Kate’s eyes turned hard. Stiles glanced over his shoulder and met Derek’s gaze. He was hunched over, a hand wrapped around his chest as his shirt turned red with blood. His face was half-shifted and Stiles met green eyes. Green eyes— and he thought that was all that mattered.

“You,” Kate said incredulously, drawing his attention back. “You?”

“Guess so,” Stiles said, turning back to her. “Guess I’m the boy that runs with wolves.”

Kate’s lips curled up in a snarl and she raised the gun again. Stiles leaped forward, catching her wrist, and twisted. Kate cried out and the gun clattered to the floor. A wild fist connected with his cheek but Stiles refused to let go, hooking his foot underneath hers and pulling hard. They both went tumbling to the floor. 

Stiles thought he heard Derek shout his name.

He reached over Kate’s head, scrabbling for the gun. She kicked up and caught him in the stomach and Stiles cursed, seeing stars. But his fingers still wrapped around cool metal and he shoved himself away, stumbling to his feet. Kate pushed herself up too and Stiles lifted the gun, a trembling finger wrapping around the trigger.

She went still, looking at him. Then her eyes flashed and she sneered.

“Can you pull the trigger, kid?”

Stiles’s hand trembled. Kate scoffed and stepped forward.

“You’re not a killer.”

“No,” Stiles said, heart in his throat. “Guess I’m not.”

Kate’s eyes flashed in triumph. But then Stiles aimed the gun downward and pulled the trigger twice, and her scoff turned into a cry of pain as she fell to the floor. Stiles stumbled backward and the gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. He kicked it away and turned to Derek, falling to his knees at his side.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles said. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding. It’s bad. Can you heal through this? Derek, why aren’t you healing through this?” 

“Wolfsbane,” Derek said raspily, eyes half-closed. “Like poison.”

“I don’t— I can’t— is there anything I can do? God, Derek, you’re not allowed to die on me.”

“Not here,” Derek said. Stiles tipped his chin up but Derek looked sharply away, teeth bared slightly. Stiles caught a flash of red and stilled. Derek’s chest rose and fell in heaves.

“Hey,” Stiles said softly. “Derek?”

“You don’t want to see.”

“I do,” Stiles said. “I… I do, Derek. Can you show me your eyes?”

Derek didn’t move for a second. Stiles swallowed and slowly, the man turned his face back. His eyes opened to reveal the color of crimson red that glowed slightly in the darkness. Stiles’s breaths caught in his throat and Derek started to turn away, but Stiles reached forward and touched his cheek. 

Carefully, he moved his fingers up, touch ghosting over Derek’s forehead and following the shifted ridges above his eyes. Stiles cupped his palms against Derek’s face and leaned forward, touching his forehead against Derek’s own.

“They’re beautiful. Both kinds.”

Derek sighed. 

“But, uh,” Stiles said. “Maybe we should get out of here?”

Quietly, the man nodded. Pulling back, Stiles linked an arm underneath his shoulders and grunted as he hefted the werewolf up. He took a few stumbling steps sideways and nearly lost his balance, but found it at the last minute, starting toward the doorway. One step after another, Derek’s feet shuffling on the floor.

“You’re a fool, kid,” a voice called behind them. Stiles paused and turned around. Kate sneered up from the floor. “You’re saving a monster.”

“No,” Stiles said. “But I am sparing one. Hope you have a good explanation for the police.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Don’t convince me to pull the trigger again.”

Her sneer slipped. Stiles turned and half-carried, half-lugged Derek toward the door. He thought she said something else, but he wasn’t listening this time.

Stiles came outside to the wail of sirens and the sound of echoing voices on the other side of the warehouse. Clenching his jaw, he turned away and started toward the empty street in the other direction.

Derek was unconscious by the time Scott found them. But he was still alive.

And that’s all that mattered.

- 

Stiles flipped through the folder for a third time, scanning the pictures and reports and everything they’d managed to scrounge together. He tried not to shift again in the chair beside the bed; Lydia had already informed him he was stressing everyone out by squirming. And then they’d still ended up leaving because he still couldn’t stop.

His eyes rested on a picture in the corner; one of a younger Derek and flashing eyes against the camera. Stiles studied it, shaking his head.

“Nice.”

“S… Stiles?”

Stiles jumped, nearly spilling the entire contents of the folder onto the floor. Over on the bed beside him, Derek blinked over, and Stiles straightened, grinning widely.

“Dude, you’re awake!”

Derek winced slightly. Stiles blushed and lowered his voice.

“Sorry. How are you feeling?”

“Are we at the loft?”

“Straight from the vet’s office,” Stiles said. “I can’t believe you guys actually go to the vet for an injury. I mean… that’s kind of funny, right?”

Derek blinked at him, raising a brow. Stiles chuckled nervously.

“Don’t look at me like that. It is.”

“What happened?”

“Well,” Stiles said, waving the folder through the air. “The police arrested one Kate Argent for possession of unregistered weapons and murder on three accounts. And once this baby is delivered, we think it’ll be enough to up that charge to…” Stiles’s smile slipped. “Well, a lot more.”

Derek looked confused. Stiles lowered his eyes, shrugging slightly. 

“It might be enough to clear you.”

“What?”

“I mean, I still need to talk to my dad. And he might have to know about some things. Like, werewolfy things, if that’s okay with you. But I think we could figure this out, dude. I think we could clear you.”

Derek stared at him. Stiles licked his lips nervously, glancing back up.

“Is that okay?”

“You did that,” Derek said. “For me.”

“Of course,” Stiles said. I mean, I do have a degree in criminology. And it’d be nice to go to the grocery store without getting arrested, right?”

Derek didn’t say a word. A knot formed in Stiles’s stomach.

“Unless that’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” Derek said, sitting up with a small wince. “It is, of course, it is. I just— why?”

“Because,” Stiles said. “You’re innocent.”

Derek’s face tightened. Before he could say a word, Stiles leaned forward and caught his hand. Derek blinked in surprise and his eyes snapped up to meet Stiles’s.

“I know I don’t know everything about your past,” Stiles said softly. “I mean… you know. But Derek, you’re not what Kate says. Or what any of them say. And I swear to god, if I have to find all the evidence in the world to prove that, I will.”

Derek looked at him quietly. Stiles started to pull his hand away, but Derek held on tighter, fingers intertwining with his own. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, ducking his head. “Maybe I’d do anything for those eyes.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turned red. Stiles chuckled.

“They're pretty,” he said. “Both of them.”

“Even the red?”

“Even the red.”

“And,” Derek said slowly. “If they were blue?”

Stiles blinked in confusion. But, seeing Derek’s face and nervous expression, he found himself nodding. “Blue’s just pretty.”

Derek’s face softened. He tugged on Stiles’s hand and Stiles set the folder aside, moving over to sink down on the edge of the bed beside him. Stiles raised a brow and Derek rolled his eyes, touching his forehead against Stiles’s own.

“Thank you.”

“Oh my god, you are a sap.”

Derek laughed. Stiles hesitated for a moment, before leaning closer and touching his lips against Derek’s own. The first brush was soft; careful. Stiles closed his eyes and hummed quietly, which made Derek growl. Chuckling, he pressed forward a little more, fingers brushing along Derek’s jaw and moving up into his hair. The man growled lower.

It sent shivers down his spine.

Before Stiles had known colors, he’d categorized them as feelings. Green, he thought, was two seconds ago. Red was if things went on for another five minutes or so. But this? This was vibrant. A color he didn’t quite know yet— or he hadn’t yet seen.

He thought it’d be hilarious if it was bright pink.

[evergreenstringbean]

For The Messages About Roundabout

I’ve been getting a few messages sent to me about Roundabout and how “I shouldn’t talk about gambling addiction or alcoholism if I don’t have those issues”

Let me tell you a story.

When I was seven years old, the electricity went out in our home for the first time. I asked my dad what happened, and he told me we were just short on money until he got paid. This happened at last six times a year, if not more, until my mother died. I later found out it was because every week, when my dad would get paid, she would take what he made along with her disability paycheck and play slots at a casino until it was all gone.

When I was eleven years old, my parents started leaving my sister and I at home with my other sister who is ten years older and her boyfriend who I’ve known since I was a kid to babysit us while they went to the casino. Every time they did so, my oldest sister would get out Monopoly and some form of alcohol and ask if we wanted to drink too. My twelve year old sister accepted, while I declined every time. Alcohol was scary.

When I was twelve years old, in May, I woke up to an ambulance in the driveway. My dad walked into the room my sister and I shared, sat on her bed, and simply said, “Your mama stopped breathing last night.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask questions. I got dressed and went to school. I learned when I got home that, despite having several other illnesses including Lupus, she died of Nicotine Poisoning due to chain smoking. 

When I was fourteen years old, my oldest sister and my now brother-in-law were celebrating their one year wedding anniversary by camping. They asked if I wanted to come out and camp with them, which I accepted. They offered me alcohol, to which I accepted a cup of cola with a splash of rum in it. That night, they hotboxed their tent while we played cards. Despite an oncoming storm, I was calm. I felt great.

When I was fifteen years old, I went with a group of friends to another’s house. My other sister was a part of the friend group, and the friend who lived there offered to pay their mom to buy some Smirnoff Ices. I drank two. That was the first time I got drunk. I went home the next day, and in the gas station parking lot, gave my dad money to buy me some scratch tickets. I won a ticket back on one, then spent the remainder of my money buying more.

When I was sixteen years old, I moved to another state with my oldest sister due to my dad’s drug addiction taking a step up and making it impossible for me to be taken care of. Her and my brother-in-law had no rules about drinking or smoking. I had not thoroughly processed my mother’s death. Things were changing too quickly to register. I threw myself into both of these with no proper thought.

Again, at sixteen, I asked my sister to keep buying scratch tickets for me with my money. What little things I can remember of my teen years consist of getting into cars with the floorboards littered with losing scratch tickets and rechecking them to make sure I hadn’t won anything.

When I was seventeen years old, I was attempting to finish high school online due to medical issues keeping me from public school. I was working on a math assignment, and realized I couldn’t remember a single thing I had learned in freshman math. Nothing. I couldn’t even remember how to divide. Frustrated, I slammed the laptop shut and didn’t try again for months.

Two weeks before turning eighteen, I had begun really thinking about what life would be like once I was a legal adult. Once I had a steady job, my own place. And I realized if I didn’t change, I would be like this my whole life.

I’d be my mother, using rent and utilities to sit in a beat up old car and play scratch-off games I wouldn’t win. Or be my sister, wasting my grocery money on cheep wine coolers.

I got my moment of clarity.

So, when I was eighteen years old, I moved out of my sister’s house and into a friend’s, quit drinking, smoking, and gambling, and have been speaking with a counselor for a year.

So really, this is a vent fic for me. Virgil, to an extent, is the one I’m living vicariously through. It may not be the best level of coping, but I’m at a point that I feel better writing a story about it rather than keeping feelings of it in my mind or just speaking to a professional and getting nothing else from it.

I’m leaving out a lot of details, believe it or not, but this is already a very long post. To everyone saying I have no right to write about alcohol or gambling addiction, if an alcoholic gambling addict can’t write about it...who can?

[scrumptiousalpacadeer]

A Note on the ‘F’ Word - (Forgiveness is Willy Wonka)

I’ve come to think that forgiveness is a bit like the scene in the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film where Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory is opened to the public after years of secrecy. In this classic scene, the crowds are gathered at the entrance of this most magical of places - a place that grandparents told their grandchildren of at bedtime in hushed tones; a place of flowing nectar-chocolate and sweets that burns like heaven in our hero Charlie’s imagination; a place they had never truly dared to believe in but dreamed of many times; a place run apparently run by some weirdo eccentric that the cynical masses had given up on long ago. 

That is until five Golden Tickets are sent out into the world...Willy Wonka is opening his factory again.

In the scene, Gene Wilder approaches the eager crowd, leaning and limping heavily with his cane along a red carpet; a look of grim severity on his face. The whole falls silent; all that is heard are the regular steps of Wonka and the taps of his cane. What the hell? This is not what anyone is expecting; this God-like man of mystery and invention  a miserable invalid? The opening of the Chocolate Factory is meant to be an epic event; the whole world is watching.. 

Wilder suddenly stops walking right next to his baffled fans and the world stops, holds its breath; locked in Wonka’s charismatic spell. Then something very weird happens; he begins to topple forward away from his cane - as if he’s had a stroke, or has suddenly died or fainted.... the crowd gasp, utterly horrified. Its the end of everything and it was meant to be the beginning. 

And then....well, Willy Wonka does a perfect forward roll and springs up beaming from ear to ear: it was all a façade of ill-health; a silly joke. The crowd goes wild with relief and joy and the factory’s golden gates open for the day, signalling a new era. 

 The other day I had a phone call out of the blue from an old friend; a friend I hadn’t seen or heard from for eight years. Rahul; my party hard philosopher; he who introduced me to the basics of meditation in my student digs 1996, whom I’d shared hundreds of fags with and laughed and danced hard with at house/techno nights ‘down the Student Union in my final year at London University, 1997. Rahul who I’d watched Sideways with and had half a lager with when I was seven months pregnant. Rahul who often got so insanely drunk and gobby at a party that no-one knew what to do with him. Rahul, wild man of peace; loose canon. Rahul who years became a Maths teacher as I became an English teacher. 

I very nearly didn’t answer the phone because I didn’t recognise the number, but I was in a care-free mood, listening to Radio 3 in the kitchen (how times have changed since 1997), so I picked up. 

One of the first words I said to him was ‘sorry’. ‘Sorry, Rahul!’ - It was weird because I’d been thinking of getting in touch with him for a while to ask his forgiveness. I hoped for an opportunity to say sorry to him for being such a crap friend; for taking him for granted; for being a selfish shit-bag; for not answering his calls, for the years of silence; for draining his resources then abandoning him when I found new pastures. I needed to say thankyou to him for being there for me at times in need; times I’d been hollow in spirit and he’d stepped in, but I hadn’t grasped it at the time. 

“What do you mean? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, “ he said. “this is how it works with you. Years go by.” That's the thing with forgiveness; it hurts. It pained me that he forgave me without a second’s thought when I knew full well I hadn’t played fair. One time, in our mid-twenties, Rahul had bought me a ticket to go and join him in Atlanta America where he was working in I.T. His generosity was always off the scale.

Since our last meeting Rahul had lost half of his family and was now an orphan. His younger sister had died from a ‘cancer thing’ he told me; his mother crossed the threshold in April this year after contracting Covid in hospital. Her death was a relief, he said. “She was so happy to get the virus; all she wanted was to join her two children.” Apparently there had been a cot death. Rahul was the only one left alive now. He was talking to me from his flat in Hounslow, looking out over the town. 

I had to steady myself on the windowsill as he told me how his world had imploded. I felt the disappearance of his world in my stomach; and a sudden revelation of the nature of our connection. I hadn’t realised it before, but Rahul and I were conjoined by our exiled status. He, more visibly - a boy of high Indian descent inhabiting a West London life of hedonism, doing the drugs and the booze but also somehow accepting an arranged marriage foretold in his stars - a marriage that ended in disaster...Me; a girl from a house of shame and smutty lies and buried criminality, trying to climb the ladder and be so gleaming white and impressive... We both knew how hard it was to play the game in this world; feeling all the time we could only exist outside it.  Perhaps that's why, back in the 1990s, filled with the possibilities of our lives - born out of joint as we were - , we could feel the beat so keenly and dance so crazily together. Rahul and I knew the art of getting wasted and causing trouble.

I enforced the point that I’d been a real bitch and I told him how and why and that he deserved better. I told him of my stark memory of his mother singing sweetly to my baby daughter in Summer 2012, distracting her, so that we could sit and chat in his garden.  I told him I lived in the country now; that so much had changed. “Are you comforted?” he asked. “Are you still Chrissy Woo?” It was always his nick-name for me - a nick-name I didn’t mind. “I don’t think I am,”  I said. “I couldn’t go on like that.” 

Did he know that my father had died...that I was an orphan too? Rahul and my father had met many times so I didn’t inform him of my father’s subtly racist jibe after he’d come over for fish and chips one time. I didn’t tell Rahul about my revelation that my father was, on one level, arguably, as far as I was concerned, often, a ball-less sack of shit (that’s a W.O.P.E. Whole Other Post Entirely - very much related to the ‘F’ word) Out mutual disappointment of our hopeless fathers was the subject of a much longer conversation.  

I think the thing that’s so frickin’ scary about forgiveness as I am just as the very beginnings of understanding it, is the sheer unknowability of the space that comes after it. For my part, all the resentments, angers, prejudices, judgements, pulsing hatreds at times, these were very loyal friends that I woke up with each day without even having the faintest idea I was doing so. Sure, they were ugly and they caused merry hell enough, but, well, at least I knew where I was. At least I was livin, and sometimes that's really hard to do. They were the furniture I manoeuvred around; the reliable chairs I sat in for comfort when I was never good enough; when I just couldn’t keep my head above water. What happens if I let that all go? What will I hold onto? If I know longer want to stab my father with a screw-driver in the manner I meant to stab the lawn today as a form of irrigation for my new grass seed (see previous post and the WOPE I referred to earlier is coming soon) what the fuck happens then? I will have absolutely no idea who I am. Everything has the potential to start looking like Wonka’s Oompa Loompa Land with giant toadstools and chocolate rivers and that’s just too much happiness for anyone, surely, to stomach. I will know that I don’t know anything, and I’ve spent my whole life pretending to know everything. Surely the space will swallow me up, won’t it? How on earth do you start something entirely new? 

There’s that terrifying moment of suspension before something new comes in - like Willy Wonka topping over his cane. There’s those seconds when, learning a new guitar chord, our fingers hover in space over the fret; the new contortions our fingers must make to strike a new sound feels so awkward; so wrong; the muscles tearing into a new shape.. There’s that burning second that we leap out in the dark, blind, towards the possibility of a new tune, we take a mad punt and see where our clumsy fingers land, risk making a new sound... Chances are first few times around we’re gonna fuck it up. It’s agony. Forgiveness feels to me, when it comes in, like a hard grounding grief, a thunderstorm of reluctantly received understanding that wipes out the old and invites me to the chocolate factory. And some days it leaves me entirely and I feel like I’m back in the dumb days again. 

But, and I’m riffing here, I think the answer partly has to do with a belief in change and a steady embracing of transformation; or at least a basic faint belief that it might just be possible. Cynics and miseries say ‘people don’t change,’ ‘things don’t change’, but this is of course undiluted horse-shit. People  transform utterly on a daily basis, all the time...One of the tricks, I’ve learnt, is to spend as large a proportion of time as possible with people who also believe in change and progress - a bit like stocking up on sunlight for those dark hours that must be spent with angel eaters - ( translation: rampant materialists/misery guts who refuse to believe in magic of any sort).

But oh the rewards; oh the sheer mad silly fun of Wonka’s gates opening and guzzling on that chocolate.. The ecstasy of hearing a G major chord sung from your own fair hand. 

I hope to meet up with Rahul this Summer - to see him in the flesh. No doubt it will be somewhat awkward; he’s forgiven me - in fact; he doesn’t see what the problem is. I’m a different person; I’ve had some chunks taken out and they’ve been filled in with wholly different colours. He’s a different person too; I made him promise me on the phone that he would look after himself - so he’ll be made of different colours too. How will we talk to each other? What words will we use? How will we navigate such unknown waters? How do you build something new with someone who looks the same, but is wholly other?..

I have no idea. I think we might just have to chuffing well make it up as we go along; trying to forgive ourselves for all the mistakes we make along the way. 

                                                    *    *   *   *   *

As a random and seemingly unrelated end-note - I went out for a walk down the lane to catch some air mid-blog. What with it being a Saturday night and me being a party fiend, I thought I would ‘pick up some litter’ for fun. I picked up a can of cider and a paper plate. Two cars zoomed past. It struck me that had the drivers of these vehicles happened to take a passing interest in the woman in a camel coat walking alone along the side of the road with an unsteady gate (wellington boots rub my right heel real bad!) and an empty can of cider in her hand they would surely been able to draw only one conclusion: PISS-HEAD!.. OLD SOAK! lonely Saturday night Sussex forty something alcoholic staggering along the lanes with empty cans of cider for company... 

Ah the deception of appearance...

And so, dear reader; Happy Saturday and judgeth not a lady who walketh with a can of cider down a country lane. She might just be a blogger on a break.

I hope you enter the chocolate factory of your choosing some time soon or are already there sampling the delights....

Love from Christine x

[lovemesomesurveys]

have you ever lied to a person of authority? what did you say? Yeah. are your eyebrows darker than your hair? Yes. My eyebrows are definitely black, while my natural hair color is dark brown. what do you prefer, lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs? Spaghetti and meatballs. are all your pets micro chipped? Yes. would you ever cope in a jail? Nooo.

have you ever seen an alligator in person? No. do you live across from a corn field? No. how long have you been tattooed? if you’re not, do you want to get tattooed?   I do, but I doubt I’ll ever do it. were you fearless or a coward in the face of the child hunter in “chitty chitty bang bang?” Uhh I don’t remember much about that story. did you ever hit anything while learning to drive? I haven’t learned how to drive. jeff foxworthy, bill engvall, ron white, or larry the cable guy? None. have you or a pet ever gotten a tapeworm? No. do you know any furries? No. do you ever worry about your future? (i.e.: college, marriage, kids, etc) I worry that things will get worse and never get better in regards to my health and just my life in general. I worry I won’t get my shit together and figure out what I want to do with my life. do you snore? steal the covers? roll around in your sleep? I move my arms around a lot in my sleep. I sleep by myself so I don’t have to worry about stealing the covers, they’re all mine. I don’t think I snore. is the lion the best character in “the wizard of oz?” Sure. would you immediately look for someone right after you broke up with your bf/gf? No. I would need time. do you tell your best friend EVERYTHING? No. do you have someone who you can be your complete self around? For the most part. have you ever tried to learn another language? how did it go? I took 4 years of Spanish in high school and 1 semester in college. It went well, I actually caught on pretty quick and did well with it. I just wish I stuck with it and practiced more cause then perhaps I could have been fluent. have you ever shared a house with a significant other? No. do you have a crush on anyone? tell me about them. No. have you ever had something signed by someone famous? what and who? Yes. Drake Bell, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Jim Carrey. does your father have any facial hair? Some. have you ever felt like you were making a mistake when dating someone? My first, and only (technically), boyfriend. I realized I wasn’t ready for a relationship and wasn’t happy so I ended it. did you continue the relationship or end it when you realized? I ended it. He was pretty upset and hurt, understandably, but I couldn’t let things go on if I wasn’t comfortable and happy in the relationship. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us. do you think you look similar to your siblings? We have some similarities. have you ever played cards against humanity? did you like it? Yeah. it was fun. do you know anyone who’s lived through a natural disaster? No. how many brothers/sisters do you have? Two brothers. are you lactose intolerant? I am. would you describe yourself as more punk or pastel? I’ve never heard someone being described as pastel. I love pastel colors? how do you feel about tattoos and piercings? explain. They can be cool. list the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel. I saw the Jonas Brothers a couple times (I was obSESSED with them), Green Day with Franz Ferdinand, Drake Bell a couple times (I was obsessed with him for a bit, too), and a couple Jingle Ball concerts (concerts thrown by a local radio station that had different bands perform each year in December). At the Jingle Ball concerts some of the bands/artists I saw was Paramore, Jesse McCartney, Katy Perry, Boys Like Girls, and 3OH!3. Oh, and I saw High School Musical in concert... :X lol. have you ever been on drugs for anxiety, depression, mental illness? Yes, i am currently. Well... I haven’t taken my antidepressant in almost 2 weeks, whoops... do you like green apples? I’m not a big apple fan. have you ever had a guinea pig for a pet? No. do you shop at hot topic? Yeah.

have you ever studied any new age or occult religions such as wicca? No. would you rather be a boy or girl?   I’m perfectly fine being a female. do you prefer to be around introverted or extroverted people? I’m very much an introvert, but I’ve had both introverted and extroverted friends. Extroverts can be quite draining sometimes, so it can be hard, but it’s also good in that they helped me get out of my shell at times. what do you think makes you a good girlfriend or boyfriend? I don’t think I’d make a good girlfriend. what do you think makes you a bad girlfriend or boyfriend? Everything. has anyone written a song or a piece of poetry about you? No. how many drinks does it take for you to become drunk? It didn’t take much at all. do you admire brutal honesty? I could really do without the brutal part. what is your party trick? I’m lame, I don’t have any. if you had a mental disorder, what would it be? Uh, I do. I have depression and anxiety. This is question is worded like, “if I had to have one, what would it be” and I don’t like that. do you think the “paranormal activity” movies were scary? Yeah, but I’m a big baby. do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed? I don’t have any sexual experience, so I don’t know what I would like. the last time you drank with someone else or more than one person who was in the worst shape? Me. what would you say is the worst part of high school, period? It’s just a difficult time in general because it’s at that time that you’re going through puberty and trying to figure out who you are and it can be really hard. are you someone who actually likes to babysit children? No. what is the worst name a friend has ever called you? do you remember? Nothing in a serious way. do you find any of your friends’ parents creepy or really mean? No.

what is your least favorite word? The C word and the P word. what turns you on? Neck kisses. what turns you off? Arrogance and cockiness. have you ever been to a psychiatrist/therapist? No, but I really should. have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? No. who is your celebrity crush? Alexander Skarsgard. who is your most loyal friend? My mom.

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

Desperate Times-Lip Gallagher Imagine

Requested: No

Warnings: mentions of drug use, alcohol abuse, angst, swearing, and some fluff

   So far, Y/N had had a pretty decent day: her boss at her internship for Chicago Times complimented her proof reading for an article, she got free coffee from the Starbucks near work, and her mom made Y/N’s favorite dish y/f/d for dinner that night. Even her dream was unbelievably amazing since it involved a certain, hot male celebrity and rolling around on a Caribbean beach. However, Y/N was forced to come back to reality when the sound of crashing glass alerted her. Immediately, she jerked up in her bed, feeling pretty disoriented. Then, there were footsteps and Y/N got extremely nervous.

    Y/N didn’t live in the best neighborhood so she was pretty sure that the intruder was holding some sort of weapon and was dangerous. Unfortunately, her parents were the heaviest sleepers known to man so they wouldn’t be any help. So, Y/N grabbed the bat that she kept underneath her bed for emergencies and tried not to shake too much as she climbed out of bed and slipped out the door. Her footsteps were quiet as she listened for anymore noise. The only sound that came from downstairs was broken glass crunching as the intruder stumbled around.

     “Y/N…Y/N!” Lip yelled.

     “Lip?” Y/N whispered.

     She lowered her bat to her side and frowned. She hadn’t seen Lip since high school and she thought he had been doing well. However, Y/N couldn’t have been more wrong. Y/N stood on top of the staircase and what she saw made her heartbreak: there, stumbling towards the staircase was Lip Gallagher, an extremely intoxicated Lip Gallagher. His eyes were blood shot and he had no sort of balance. When he saw her, he smiled a little and leaned against the staircase.

        “There you are,” he said.

        “What are you doing here? Why did you break into my house?” Y/N hissed. 

        “I wanted to see you,” Lip said, his eyes roaming over her body. “You look good.”

         Y/N folded her arms across her chest, feeling her y/s/c cheeks warming up at his words. She had known the Gallaghers since she was eight years-old, but was closest to Lip. His quick wit and genius made him interesting to talk to and the fact that he was good with words added to his attraction. Also, he was extremely good to look at. However, it wasn’t his sharp intellect that had Y/N crushing on him for so long but rather the darker side of him, the side that made him steal money and do many illegal odd jobs. It was with darker side of him that drew her in and took her to a very scary place in her life—-a place that she never wanted to go to again.

         Lip began trying to walk towards her but tripped over one of the stairs and fell pretty hard. He muttered curses under his tongue, but Y/N moved to immediately help him up. She wrapped her arms around his waist and helped him to his feet. Lazily, he leaned his head back to look up at her and smirk.

         “You’re so lucky my family’s too broke to have a security system or you’d be in jail by now,” Y/N whispered.

        “You’d never snitch on me,” he said with a laugh.

        “Be quiet. I’m gonna be nice and let you stay over but you have to go by morning.”

       “Bout time we spent the night together anyway.”

       Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering around in the pit of her stomach as she helped Lip walk up the stairs. She thought that she was over her crush on Lip that she never admitted to him, but old habits were supposed to die hard. 

        She managed to sit him down on her bed before she started making a pallet of blankets for him on the floor next to her bed. 

        “I have no idea how I’m going to explain the broken window to my parents but I guess I’ll think of something,” Y/N said as she stood.

        “Why can’t I sleep in the bed with you?” he whined.

        “Because you’ve been bad.”

        “So are you punishing me?” A sly grin worked its way onto Lip’s face and Y/N shook her head.

       “Just lay down on the pallet and go to sleep while I clean up.” She started to walk past him but Lip grabbed her wrist and pulled her close so that she was standing between his legs.

        “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

       “It’s a window, Lip, my family and I will figure out a way to pay for it.”

       “No, not that, I’m sorry that I got you in a load of sh-t. I…I shouldn’t have let you have that coke,” Lip slurred. “It’s my fault, all of this is my fault.”         “Go lay down, Lip,” Y/N whispered back.

        Even though every fiber of her being was asking Y/N to stay exactly where she was, she pulled away and went downstairs to start cleaning up the glass. As she swept, her mind drifted back to that particularly low point of her life that Lip had just apologized for. In spite of all the therapy Y/N had gone through, she had a bad habit of repressing memories that she didn’t enjoy and avoiding people that she thought triggered her. Lip managed to fall into both of those categories. Sure, he had offered her coke during a party in their freshman year of high school and she had taken it, but neither of them could’ve guessed that she would get hooked the way she did. Y/N could still feel the gravel digging into her knees when Tyler forced her down to them when she was short on money and she could feel her veins in her arms begin to itch with withdrawal.

       “Stop it, that was the past and this is the present,” Y/N whispered to herself. “You have changed, you don’t need anything to take the edge off, you’re healthy and you are doing well.”

     After fifteen minutes, Y/N managed to clean up all the glass that Lip broke when he broke into her house and prayed that a real intruder wouldn’t take advantage of the broken window. When she got back to her room, Lip was passed out on the floor. He looked so sad and troubled that Y/N could’ve cried. She knelt down and draped a blanket over him before crawling back into her own bed. Unfortunately, her dream did not pick up where it left off since all she dreamt of that night was a dark void.

      The next morning, Lip stumbled down the staircase and froze when he saw Y/N eating dinner in her kitchen. She was dressed for an office and seemed fairly perky.

      “Good morning, Lip,” Y/N said.

       “Morning.” Lip glanced at the broken window. “Sh-t, I’m guessing I did that.”

      “No, the intruder I scared off last night did. My dad’s filing an insurance claim so we don’t have to pay for it.”

      “Huh.” Lip scratched the back of his head and walked over to her. “I’m sorry if I said anything stupid but I had a pretty f-cking bad day yesterday and I had a few too many drinks.”

      “That’s pretty normal except most people refrain themselves from breaking into old friends’ houses and scaring them half to death.”

       “I said I was sorry.”

      “Yeah, I know.” Y/N ran a hand through her hair. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

       “Not after I left the bar.”

       “Well, after I found you stumbling around in my living room, you told me that you were sorry for…for what happened back in high school.”

        Lip hesitated and looked at his hands. “Yeah?”

        “I know that we’ve drifted apart over the last couple of years, but I never got to tell you that I forgive you for what happened. We were good friends at one time and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.” Y/N tightened her grip around her cup of coffee. “I was in rehab for two years and I had to do therapy as well. They helped me come to terms with my addiction and the underlying causes of it. Basically, it was a coping mechanism but while most people learn to cope with stress via religion, exercise, or a sport, drugs were my way of coping. Whenever I was upset or under distress, I’d do a line and it made things seem less bad, but then I…I almost got hit by a bus because I was too high to notice that the walking light hadn’t gone on.”

       “Why are you telling me all of this?”

       “Because I want you to know that I forgive you and I’m doing okay now. I got my GED and got into Northwestern on a scholarship. Not everything is your fault, Lip, I had an idea of what I was getting into when I accepted your offer. My addiction was my problem and I caused it, but I’m doing better now.” Y/N glanced at her watch. “I have to head to my internship soon, but if you ever want to talk about anything going on with you, my number hasn’t changed.”

        “Thanks.” 

         Y/N washed her dishes and grabbed her purse before walking out of her house with Lip. She felt a bit of a weight being lifted off her shoulders as she locked the door behind the two of them. Closure certainly was a beautiful thing.

        “Besides that whole apology thing, did I do anything else last night?” Lip asked.

         “Um, you were a bit of a flirt but that’s normal with most drunk guys, right?”

         “Yeah, I guess.”

          They started down the front steps and Lip insisted on walking Y/N to the nearby L. It was a pretty warm day since it was summer in Chicago, but Y/N still had to wear a stupid long-sleeve button down and a pencil skirt to work.

         “Wanna hear something funny?”

         “I’d kill for funny right now.” 

         Lip chuckled a little bit. “Ian thought you had a thing for me.”

        “When?”

        “Middle school and high school and I told him that guys don’t have to be gay to have straight girl friends.”

         “Course not. You didn’t have to walk me to the L, you know, I can take care of myself.”

          “C’mon, Y/N, you used to make me walk you all the way home from school because you thought you’d get jumped if you walked alone.”

         “I’m older now, I’ve changed and so have you.”

         “I highly doubt that.”

         “Fine, I’ll remember that for the next time you ask me to be your fake girlfriend to get some hoe off your back,” Y/N teased.

         “That’s not fair.”

         Y/N laughed at Lip’s whining and shook her head. It felt like old times except there wasn’t a Karen or Mandy hanging around as well. Mandy and Y/N got along just fine, but it was Karen who almost fought Y/N because she knew how Y/N felt about Lip. She would flaunt the fact that Lip was really into her in front of Y/N that would have the young girl crying herself to sleep sometimes. Y/N was sure Mandy knew too but she was nice enough not to say anything. In fact, Y/N was surprised that Lip didn’t know that she had had a crush on him for most of their friendship.

         Finally, they got to the L and Y/N paused. “Well, this is me.”

        “Yeah, have fun interning.”

        “Wait, I never asked you what you were doing.”

         “I’m working for my sister over at Patsy’s Pies. You should stop by sometime, I might slip you a free slice.”

         “Will Fiona like that?”

         “She won’t know about it.”

          Y/N shook her head and started walking up the stairs for the L. “See you around, Gallagher!”

        “Not so loud, I’m hung over,” Lip joked back.

         When Y/N got to the platform for the L she knew one thing was for certain: she was not over Lip Gallagher, not one little bit. 

[skysplinter]

Draft: Out of Order

A/N: This scene deals with some heavy subjects, such as depression, suicidal thoughts and mentions of drug abuse.

Kit courtesy of @hexagonal-nuts

The bar was quiet. All the other patrons had either left or fallen into a sleepy drunken haze. Flies buzzed around the boiling striplights overhead. The air was heavy and stale, steeped in the stench of cheap booze and expensive hookers.

Kit had picked out a table hidden in the corner. They had said it was because they still needed to lay low. There was another reason why they had chosen a wall seat, but they didn’t say anything. It would only make their companion all the more likely to refuse their request.

They’d been sitting in silence for hours now. Forrest, of course, had filled the gaping void with beer and tobacco. A small wall of glasses lined her side of the table, sheltering a tiny mountain of still-smouldering cigarette butts. Kit still nursed half a cup of water.

They couldn’t both just sit here forever. Sooner or later, they needed to tell her. They gritted their teeth. ‘Look, this… this just isn’t working.’

‘Excuse me?’ Forrest belched.

Kit ran a finger through a puddle on the table, drawing a small circle as Forrest drained her last glass. ‘If you just drop me off here, we can… I can sort myself out from here, and you can get back to your job.’

Yet more silence. Seconds slowed to a crawl, stretching into long, miserable minutes.

‘Oh,’ said Forrest. Her voice bit into them them like a rusty syringe. She slammed her pint-glass down hard and chuckled darkly. ‘My job,’ she mumbled. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious. They could let you back in,’ they said, though even they doubted it. ‘I mean, you went AWOL after running into a rogue juicer. You could use that. Say I kidnapped you. Or something like that. Say you were overpowered, held against your will…’

‘Oh yeah, held against my will by a juicer who falls outta their chair when they get them dizzy spells you do. A big scary juicer who can’t drink coffee no more because they get the jitters and end up scaldin’ themselves.’ Forrest pulled out a match, struck it against the peak of her cap and lit herself a cigarette. ‘Of course you overpowered me. Sure thing. Let’s go with that. I’m sure my commandin’ officer’ll buy that one.’

‘They don’t know what… They don’t know my condition. You could tell them anything.’ Kit sighed. They traced a little flower in the puddle, then wiped it away with the palm of their hand. Gritting their teeth, they looked up at Forrest. She glared back, angrily smoking her cigarette out of existence. ‘You could go back… You could have a regular life. Go back and see your friends. You don’t need to be here.’

Forrest sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I know I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I am. And I am because I want to be. And you’re a terrible liar, because like fuck would you be okay if I just left you here.’

‘I’m fine…’

‘You’re not fine, Kit,’ said Forrest. ‘I know I ain’t the smartest, but even I can see you ain’t exactly firing on all cylinders these days. That’s what happens when you juicers go cold turkey from them drugs they hop you up on. People die cuz of it. People that are bigger, and tougher, and meaner than you ever was. They just drop in a heap after the kinda stuff you’ve gone through.’

Kit plucked their cup from the table and took a long, slow sip. Even half a drink of water was enough to get their hand jittering. Or maybe they were just nervous, or angry at Forrest for being so damned stubborn. Yes, they told themselves, that was probably it.

Why couldn’t she just give a little? Couldn’t she see that this was dangerous? The more they thought about it, the less sense it made.

When they’d first met, Forrest had been an RV driver for the military. She’d had a squad. From the stories they’d been told, on the nights when she’d been a better mood of drunk, she had a rank, a reputation - a future.

But Kit? They’d been washed up for years now. Even before they’d gone and signed their life away on the juicer scheme, allowing quack doctors to pump their system full of mind-warping, body-straining drugs to turn them into a super soldier, Kit had been heading down a path that led nowhere. Looking back, it seemed as though their whole life was just a string of bad decisions, each one bigger and more stupid than the last.

Becoming a juicer had been a mistake, but trying to fix the problem had proven even worse. They’d broken away from their unit, the only people that even cared about them any more - and then they’d found a freelance fixer out on the open road. They’d had the genius idea to have a full purge of the gunk that had been pumped into their system. Of course they knew the risks. They knew that becoming an ex-juicer had a high chance of turning into becoming one of the ex-living. Death, however, wasn’t something they’d been scared of for quite some time. If it all went wrong, that would just be a quick end to another depressing story.

With the help of Forrest, they’d pulled through. They didn’t know what to think of that. Part of them wondered if it had been worth it. Deep down, part of them was disappointed that they’d even woken up from it. Dying would have been welcomed, but instead they had survived - weak, broken and unable to care for themselves, having to relearn every tiny action they had once taken for granted as they adjusted to a life off the drugs.

Forrest was probably the only reason they were still here now. If they had escaped alone, they probably would have found a good hole to crawl into and left themself to rot. But Forrest wouldn’t let them.

It wasn’t even as though she had cared for them. She hadn’t nursed them back to health or done anything for them that they found too complicated to do alone. She just… stayed with them. She was there to talk to no matter where they were, and if they were struggling, she stayed back and watched them, telling them to try again.

Kit clasped the cup in both hands and lowered it slowly to the table. ‘I don’t want this,’ they muttered.

‘Sorry?’

They closed their eyes. ‘I don’t want this,’ they repeated. ‘I don’t want you here. I don’t want you holding my hand like this. I can do this by myself. I’m better off alone. So please. I just want you to leave.’

Forrest pulled her hat from her head and ran her fingers through her long dark hair. She sighed in exasperation. ‘How about I say no?’

‘I’m asking you,’ said Kit. ‘I’m pleading with you to leave.’

‘And I’m telling you, you can shove that right up your ass,’ she frowned. Her hands still knotted into her hair, she sank forward, her elbows and chin slowly coming to rest on the tabletop. When Kit mustered the energy to look at her directly, she gave the smallest and saddest of smiles. ‘... Look, buddy. I know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m just not gonna go for it. And the sooner you learn to accept that, the easier this is gonna get for the both of us.’

They felt sick. They wanted to curl up into a ball and forget everything that was happening around them - no more Forrest, no more bar, no more anything. And yet it wouldn’t go away. They hadn’t the strength to even hide their face in their hands. Despite their best efforts, everything persisted, marching on around them as they just sat and sagged under the weight of their own weak, useless, broken body.

‘I don’t understand,’ they whimpered. Phantom tears prickled in their eyes, but nothing would come. They couldn’t even cry, as though a rift had torn them open and devoured any tatters of emotion they had once possessed.

‘Hey, c’mon. Don’t… don’t do me like this, Kit.’

A small, soft hand stretched across the table. Kit looked up and saw Forrest trying and failing to reach them from her seat, her arms a little too short to grasp onto anything. Eventually, with a sheepish grin, she settled for giving them a half-hearted thumbs-up before settling back into her seat.

They both sat in an awkward silence, neither one of them entirely sure what to do, until finally Forrest snorted and they both began to laugh, Kit’s own dry, confused chuckle all but drowned out by the raucous cackling of their friend. A few of the other half-conscious patrons of the bar turned to look at them, but by this point Forrest had tears streaming down her face and Kit could only wheeze and try to catch their breath.

‘Wh-what the heck was that supposed to be?’ they said, half-coughing as they recovered from their outburst.

‘I… I…’ Forrest still wept, her nostrils streaming as she utterly failed to compose herself. ‘... Wait a minute, wait a minute.’ She wiped the tears from her eyes and sighed. ‘There we go, I’m better now. Well… Well anyway, I was trying to be a supportive friend, but unfortunately I don’t got the arms for it.’

‘You mean you didn’t mean to just stick your thumb up at me from across the table?’ said Kit. They could feel a small smile still lingering on their face.

‘Oh, yeah, sorry, of course that’s what I was tryin’ to do. Silly me,’ she giggled. ‘I mean, yeah, people do that all the time. Your buddy’s feeling down, first thing you should do is give ‘em a good old thumbs up. Really lets ‘em know you care.’

They both sat and smiled, saying nothing for a little while. Kit’s ribs still ached from laughing, but it helped to take their mind off all the other pain, if only for a few moments.

‘You’re really weird,’ they said finally.

Forrest smirked. ‘That’s one of the reasons why you can’t get rid of me. I’m here for my own protection. Can’t go lettin’ a weirdo like me wander around without proper supervision. Imagine all the trouble I’d get into otherwise.’

Kit didn’t argue. For some reason, they couldn’t find the energy.

[twoscoopsofrecovery]

re·cov·er·y 
a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.
 I wouldn't say I'm in recovery, but I also wouldn't say I'm fully in my ed or addiction at this point. I feel like I'm re entering recovery. But this time fully and honest, and I think that is why it is taking a little longer to surrender. When I do surrender I am doing It fully and completely. Two months back in treatment. Three months since I last wrote, so as assigned I'm writing again. An assignment I actually don't mind, I get to do what I love. A lot has happened. I've found myself kicked out of my parents house, yet again, jobless, broke, living with friends. Seems to be the norm. My mood has been extremely unstable and my behaviors are out of control. Well, sort of. I stopped purging. Since December 20th, when I finally came back to rosewood, I've only purged once. Which, is crazy because before I came in I was purging everything I ate. So major improvement there. Readmitting myself was this whole process. Due to health reasons it took longer then expected. My doctor found I had pancreatitis, which freaked me out to no end and back and motivated me to start eating a little bit before I even got back into treatment. Which, was insanely hard. My first two to three weeks back, I couldn't finish a single meal. It was humiliating to some extent, I felt completely incapable. With restricting, I haven't really been. There's this grey area in my brain where if I don't have the means to eat and if I don't have money, I don't have to eat. Which, was a bit of a problem maybe a week or two ago but I've seemed to improve with that one. So I guess my behaviors aren't out of control; I haven't purged, meal plan compliant, I don't binge, I don't use laxatives/diuretics/diet pills, I don't over exercise. Where does the problem stand then? Easy: my drinking. I'm in a constant debate with myself lately. Do I have an alcohol problem? A year ago I would've instinctively answered yes, I am an alcoholic. Today, well, I am not sure how to answer that question. I've drank a couple times now since being back. I'm supposed to be sober, everyone is supposed to be sober while in a program like this. My rational is: if I don't have a problem, I shouldn't have a problem staying sober for the duration of my stay at rosewood. But I find myself trying to sneak around the rules to drink. Is it a problem? I'm not too sure. When I drink I don't do so excessively, just enough to get decently drunk. Which, if you know me, you'd know its pretty easy for me because I basically have zero tolerance. So, again, I ask, where is the problem? The problem that I am encountering is not the actual alcohol it's self, or any drugs, or anything tangible for that matter. I do not think I am physically addicted to any substance currently as it stands. What I am addicted to, is escaping. And that's where the problem lays. I can't handle my reality, I want to get plastered, and forget about the shit show I call my life. I'm still terribly depressed and it keeps coming and going in waves and I can't really take it anymore. My life is currently rotating between, I want to kill myself and I'm writing a suicide note, to, my life is amazing and I love everyone so much and I'm so grateful for what I do have and people are inherently good. Which, is exhausting. A wave of sadness hit me the other day. Partially due to concerns, partially because of no reason. The other night I spent most of the evening with my boyfriend. I almost went into a flash back and started disassociating but was able to pull myself out of it before it had happened. He was extremely supportive and understanding, which was extremely comforting while I was in a more vulnerable place. When I got back to my friends place that I'm staying at, I was texting him, and something had come up. I've found myself scared to think about what things would be like with out him. Which, is insane because I haven't thought that about someone since my ex who I dated for almost two years. I don't find myself pushing him away, if anything I'm scared because I know I'm becoming attached, and commitment is scary, but I want it so badly. So, relationship wise, I'm extremely happy with where it's going. I'm very grateful I met someone who gets me and is there for me. It's going on the right direction, I'm in love, I'm happy, communication is there, things are good. So abnormal for me, but hey I'll take it. It's good and exciting. But, i miss my mom. My sisters, my brother. I know I have family, they're there, just not there right now. I have other family, family of choice vs. family of origin. I have people around me that help me out and are there for me. But I still miss them. So much. Before I readmitted me and my mom had probably the best mother daughter relationship I could of ever asked for. We had very real conversations about life; the good the bad, the nitty gritty details of addictions and my eating disorder. My mom confided in me and I the same. I miss my mother terribly. I miss my sisters and their beautiful sun-filled smiles. Sophia and her innocence. Audrey, who finally felt comfortable enough telling me her deep 5th grade coming of age secrets. Leo, who was just beginning to trust in me once more. I miss them. I miss them so much it hurts and I try not to think of it. So I won't talk about it anymore. I guess over all everything has improved and become more complicated. Still Canadian though, that's a major stress for me. But, I think I have figured out a way around it. I can get an F-1 visa, which is a student visa. Of course I'd have to take out loans to be able to go to school, and probably be in debt for the rest of my life, and after I'm done with school my visa is up and I cannot switch visas to something more permanent. So, it would just be delaying the process of going back to Canada. Which, at this point, I don't mind too much. Who knows where I'll be in four years. Four years ago I definitely didn't think I'd be back in treatment for a second time. Nor did I think I'd be alive at 20. At 16 I thought by time I was 18 I'd be dead. And "If I make it to twenty I'll have dentures" which didn't exactly happen. So yeah, maybe things have improved. I don't have much to complain about right now. Well, I have tons to complain about, I'm just choosing not to, because I'm not so sure how that'd serve me at this point. Wallowing in my own self pity doesn't help much anymore. I realize I need to get up, and move forward. I need to take action. It is my life and I do want it to be better then it has been. Ive recently reconnected with an old friend. I'm extremely grateful for her, as she has been there through the most depressive points in my life, and still has stuck by. She is family, and I love her dearly. Talking to her more recently I've realized how much I have changed, although I feel as though I haven't. We used to be a little group, me, her, my ex who is her step brother, her best friend, and her boyfriend who is now her husband. We used to do everything together. Before I had initially started treatment I lived with her because, well, my parents kicked me out. She had taken me in and for about two months we were this happy little family, until my suicide attempt. Which I regret so terribly and hate myself for putting them all through. When I was 18 I had an episode where I slit my wrists and hoped to die. Instead, my ex came into the bathroom where I was attempting to do so, and then a few minutes later, the rest of everyone. They rushed me to the ER and I was admitted to the psych hospital about twelve hours later, where I had never felt so alone. I spent five days in the hospital and then went to reasons inpatient for my ed because like my friend had said "be honest about your eating disorder". They had stayed with me while I was in the ER and the entire time she had been saying to be honest. And honestly if I didn't listen to her I probably never would have gone to treatment. So ash, if you're reading this, thank you. Thank you so much for everything you've ever done for me. I love you and you're a huge part of why I ever decided to change and learn to live. My parents always told me growing up that friends never last and family is forever. I'm upset, I'm hurt, I'm angry. Where the fuck are my parents now? If family is forever where are they? All I have is friends at this point. Which, again, I am so insanely grateful for. I don't know what I would be doing with out any of you. The people I choose to surround myself around are the people who actually stick around. Who knew, if you surround yourself by good people, good things happen. In my relapse this last time around, someone had asked me why I was killing myself over making my parents happy. At that time I wasn't exactly too sure what they meant and why they would say something like that. I was upset and hurt by it. But looking back just three months I completely understand that statement. Unfortunately, if I want to recover and live my life, I have to be separated from my parents. I love them so much. I love them to the moon and back. I have so much respect for them and would never do anything to hurt them. I think they are amazing people, but right now as it stands I have to love them from afar. And I'm coming to a place of acceptance with this. I think this is manageable at the point. As far as my visa goes, I've decided to get my F1. A student visa. I'll take out a loan and pay for school. I'll probably be in debt for the rest of my life but at this point, I do not care. All I'm doing is going to school for cosmetology and honestly, that's not that much money. So I need to finish high school. Which is on my list of things to do. This week I'm going to figure out how/where to go to get my transcripts. Or if I'm just going to take my GED. Also this week I'm going to meet up with a friend on Sunday and see if I can get a job anywhere. I'm excited honestly things feel like they're moving forward finally. And that's because of me. Because I finally decided to stop crying and wallowing in my self pity and actually get up and do something. The good news is, everyone else's voice is out of my head. I'm a lot more clear on what to do and how to do it.

[malinka-nostalgia]

August 29, 2018

These are some powerful words I read from Wasted by Marya Hornbacher. And I relate completely. Not to the eating disorder part. But to everything else. Mostly my past dating life and where I’m at right now. 

I’ve never been in a normal relationship before. Therefore I did not have a good baseline or foundation. I’ve never had a good example either. What I have had plenty of however is plenty of low self esteem. Insecurity. I’ve had so many crushes in middle school and high school. But being a dorky girl whose first language was not English, it was hard to approach anyone. 

When I did finally get into relationships there was always something wrong with them. Junior year in high school, I fell head over heels for a goth guy who had a girlfriend. He flirted with me nonetheless. Never made a move though. Then his gf cheated on him. And we kind of became friends with benefits. Nothing official. He was always amazed at how I was 17 and still a virgin. Obviously it didn’t go anywhere. I was a lot more religious than I am now. I wasn’t gonna have sex with him. And I just let him use me for everything else. Making out and transportation. This went on for maybe 2-3 months so it’s somewhat significant. Finally he broke it off with me. At the mall. Then I found out he was making out with some other girl. Like 20 mins after breaking things off with me. Pretty sure he was two timing me for a while. 

First year in college. Got a real boyfriend. Real deal. I was in love with him. Stupid teenage love. Met at a high school bible camp. I was a part of the worship team and he was there with his mom’s high school church group. It was long distance but it’s like we were mad about each other. He introduced me to foreplay. I’ve never gotten this physical with anyone before. This made me even more attached to him. I saw a couple of early red flags however. He would kinda snap at me over text. I later found out he’s depressed. I tried to be there for him because I was so attached to him. Didn’t wanna lose him. He was having a spiritual crisis. I’m not allowed to date non-SDAs, but I loved him and didn’t wanna leave him. 6 months into our dating, his parents sell their house and they move to NC. Even more long distance than we started. He’s even more depressed. Pays less attention to me. Likes other girls pictures on myspace/facebook but ignores mine. I feel unimportant. I cry. I confront him. He makes me feel stupid for getting mad about this. I get depressed. Relationship is a mess. Finally ends when he moves in with some girl. He breaks up with me so he could “take care of her” because her life’s a mess. I’m depressed, I start using drugs to deal with it. I try to move on by hooking up with other guys. Just foreplay, never all the way. Was trying to save that for marriage.

I’m 22. I meet a guy in a ceramics lab. Gorgeous guy. Choppy hair. Awesome tats. Nostril piercing. And an amazing artist. We hit it off, talking about some art and music. Go outside to smoke a cigarette. He gives me his business card, says we should paint together sometime. A few days later I hit him up. Go to his house and we paint together on the same canvas. Next time we hangout again. I’m thinking this is just gonna be another one of those hookups I’ve been having. We get into some foreplay. He gets a little controlling with what he likes. Later on he texts me saying something like, if we’re gonna continue to do this (hook up) I need to shave my vagina, straighten my hair, wear makeup, etc. Instead of saying goodbye to his shallow ass, I agree. We hangout some more. He pressures me into sex. I try to say no. He rubs his dick on me and I get paranoid from getting pregnant from pre-cum. So I say ok whatever, put on a condom and lets just do this. He does that. I finally lose my virginity. Doesn’t work for him though. He hates condoms. He has to do it with it off. He gets pissed cause he can’t stay hard and gets angry at me for not trusting him to pull out. I don’t have insurance. I pay $250 to see a gyno and get a scrips for birth control. He has it his way. I get stuck in a ~2-3 year relationship with a controlling guy who abused me emotionally and used me as much as he could. I could write another whole long post about how much he tortured me. And yet I couldn’t leave him because break ups are hard and I’m weak. In fact, I’d rather almost kill myself from heroin to deal with his abuse than break up with him. Finally I break up with him. Over text. I know, it’s not the right way to do it. But he is so manipulative. I’ve broken up with him before and he pretty much talked me back into it.

A few months after that was over. I found a guy on facebook by accident. We started talking. I thought he was so amazing. A complete opposite of the last guy. We had so much in common. He was so respectful. It felt so good to talk to a guy who likes me who does not put me down and does not put his needs before mine. Someone who cared about things I like. Liked the songs I liked. Also long distance. But when we finally met things moved too fast. I think it was the third date, we had sex. I was absolutely drunk. Because I need to drink to socialize with people I don’t know very well because of my old friend social anxiety. It didn’t feel right though. The next morning I felt like shit. We still hung out. Later that day I got drunk again. Almost blackout drunk. And we had sex again. He wasn’t drunk. The next day I felt so dirty. I know he wasn’t meaning any harm but it felt like I was taken advantage of. I told him we need to slow things down and take a step back. To be just friends and build it up from there. He didn’t like that and went a little nuts. Whatever. He lives far away and doesn’t even have his own car.

I’m 26. In nursing school. Very shy. There’s a guy in my clinical group. Very good looking. Clearly takes care of himself. Ladies man. Works out. Great hygiene, great sense of style. Kind of a neat freak, likes to me in control of his life. Excellent social skills. Very funny. I get a lil crush on him. We have a group chat on WhatsApp, among my clinical group. I get his number. Add him on snapchat. He starts talking to me. We get close. I invite him to my bday party. We get drunk. I lead him to my friend’s guest room and we end up making out and so on. Not going all the way. Yet. It was hella fun. For both of us. However, when I brought up to him the next day that I like him, he said he’s not looking for a relationship because he’s too busy with school, work, and gym. Ok, whatever. Made me a little sad but ok. We still hung out a lot, were hooking up, eventually all the way. We spent a lot of time together. We texted every single day. Everything we were doing, it was like we were a couple. But without a label. I liked him a lot. He was more than just those hookups I’ve had in the past. I felt like we were actually friend too. I thought there was a strong bond. That is, till he went behind my back all summer and started hooking up with one of my closest friends. Later I found out he hooked up with a couple girls in the nursing program too. While he was hooking up with me. I felt so betrayed and so stupid. I knew we weren’t official but I thought, as a friend, he wouldn’t do that to me. 

Every relationship I listen was fucked up. Every relationship tore a little piece of my soul. Every time I did drugs to deal with it made me more and more desensitized. I’ve become more and more like a zombie.

Now, relating to those quotes I posted from Wasted.

I’m 27 years old. I meet a guy from a dating app. Amazing guy. Funny. Cute. Has a real badass job - a firefighter. We have a lot in common. Go on a few dates. Then it becomes official. Feels kinda weird. I haven’t had an official boyfriend since my first boyfriend in college. That’s 8 years ago. Anyway. Tried hooking up with him. This guy’s almost like a virgin. Only had sex with one girl. Makes me look kinda bad, compared to my 6 sex partners. So obviously, this guy’s inexperienced kinda. Never even foreplayed before. I had to teach him things. Got some of it down. Tried having sex once. Didn’t workout. Not even sure he put the condom on correctly. After attempting for like 5 mins but which felt like 30, we decided this is not the night. I’m not used to this. I’ve never been the “experienced” one in the hookup. Feels like I’m hooking up with someone much younger than me even though he’s older. Not his fault. He tried to wait till marriage too, cept he lost his v-card like a year or two ago. This guy’s pretty much pure. Literally, nothing he’s doing is wrong. And there’s room for learning. So I try to move past it. It’s no big deal. Other than that, he’s got a golden personality. Such a gentleman. Takes me out, tried pulling a chair out for me, pays for me, just all those little gestures, being respectful. Very sweet. He even got interested in my religion and started going to church with me. Which no guy I’ve dated would EVER do. But it’s normal. And I’m not normal. I’m not used to this. This is foreign to me. He likes me too much. I’m his wallpaper on his phone. It freaks me out. I’m too nice to say anything about it. I don’t wanna hurt his feelings. He’s already done so much for me. He went as far as meeting my scary family. Oh and my family likes him. Which is also a new concept to me. I didn’t dare introduce anyone to my family since my first college boyfriend. I’ve been going behind their backs to meet up with guy because I knew they wouldn’t approve. This guy treats me right. He’s not a douche. But I tend to find little pet peeves in certain things he does to push myself away from him. Which is ridiculous considering I let a guy treat me like shit for 2 years. Twice. Now my mom is getting all excited about me dating someone. Starts bringing up marriage. I fucking can’t. I already feel so uncomfortable. This normal behavior does not feel normal to me. It all happened too fast. I feel like we missed a “friend” stage. This is exactly why I hate dating apps. You already know you’re interested in each other. You skip the friend stage. You skip wondering “I wonder if he likes me” or trying to impress someone. You swiped right or whatever, you started talking, you went on dates, and you’re like “ok I could date this person, I like them”. It just does not seem genuine. Did he know I’d be such a spazz with anxiety when we became official? No he did not. Maybe if we remained just friend for longer he would know. He wants to me a dad one day. Idk if I could be a mom. I feel like I have at least 3 mental illnesses going on right now. Depression, anxiety, maybe a little mix of PTSD and OCD. I’m insane. I don’t want to put anyone through what my first college boyfriend put me through. I don’t wish all that permanent brain damage upon anyone.

I don’t know what’s gonna happen now. I just hung out with him. We watched a movie. And he wanted to get cuddley or whatever. I couldn’t do it. Any time he touched me today my muscles would get tense. I got so anxious. He asked me what’s wrong. I said I don’t feel touchy. He asked why. I said I’m depressed. Then it just got worse. My mouth got dry. Sympathetic system going crazy. I had to leave. I needed to calm down. I went by the gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes probably for the first time in a year. I went to Danny’s house and hung out with him and Mike. I didn’t wanna go home until I calmed down. I needed to be around someone who did not expect any loving gesture from me. I needed to be around someone I could be my own stupid self and not hurt anyone’s feelings. 

I don’t want to be in a relationship. I don’t want anyone’s feelings depending on me. I can really hurt people. Not because I want to. But because they get so invested in me and start to care about me and then when they see me suffer it hurts them. After all those shitty relationships I’ve learned to take care of myself and be emotionally independent. And I’m so so scared that I’m always gonna be like that. I’m gonna end up alone because I’m too scared to let anyone else in. I’m sick in the head. And sadly, so so sadly, it’s become normal for me. 

[iamadrianaelizabeth-blog]

Wish you were here

1

Wish You Were Here

I’ve had this reoccurring nightmare since I was little. It started when I was around seven or eight either right before or right after my parents’ divorce I’m not sure. This wasn’t your average “oh no there’s a scary monster under my bed” dream. When I was younger it scared me to shit but now it’s just concerning that such a young mind could come up with such an extensive dream. All I can assume is that my parents were letting me watch some really scary movies without thinking I knew what was going on. At the time I probably didn’t know what was happening in the movies but my subconscious apparently absorbed whatever it was. However concerning the dream may be these days it makes me somewhat nostalgic. It makes me miss the times when I could wakeup my parents and force them to give me brownies and cuddle with me until I fell back asleep. Back when my biggest problem in life was that I couldn’t go play outside because it was raining. Mostly I miss the parts of the nightmare that were only a dream and not my current reality.

It starts out like a night at home my parents putting me to bed saying goodnight, the usual. Except for some reason my dad seemed to be rushing me through the whole process. Considering how normal it started out the first time I had the dream I thought it was real. For some reason I got up after my dad had put me to sleep, I guess to get water or something, when I noticed this man was at our door. I read somewhere that the mind is unable to create new faces

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so anyone you encounter in a dream is someone you have seen in your real life. This man standing at my door talking to my dad was an African American guy in his mid-thirties with an oversized afro wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. I wish I could describe his face because as I write this I can picture him, although it would be a very average face to anyone but me. The man stands at the door talking for a while when I notice that there is a U-Haul parked on the left side of our driveway closest to the street. We had a circular driveway. Just as I noticed the moving truck I heard a noise coming from the back door and saw two huge white guys had come inside and then the black guy pushed my dad and ran inside too. I don’t really know where my mom was during all of this commotion but I guess my mind didn’t want her in this part. After the guys are all inside our house my dad starts screaming at me to run and so we both did. Granted our house was a small three bedroom one bathroom house on the beach so not very many places to run and hide. As I’m trying to run and hide one of the guys comes out of my parent’s room (no idea how he got in there from the back door, but this is a dream after all) and grabs me. My dad trips and falls trying to stop me from being grabbed when the afro guy grabs him by the ankles. This is where the dream gets kind of fucked up. The guy tied my dad up while another guy brought in this giant chair with straps for the wrists and feet. After my dad is hooked up to this chair the guy pulls out this needle and sticks it in my dad’s arm. Almost immediately my dad dies and they roll him out to the U-Haul in the chair and just straight up leave. I don’t know why or who the guys were but they just drive away when suddenly my mom decides to make an appearance in order to comfort me. That’s when I always wakeup. Confused and scared as hell that my dad just died in front of me. I think what concerns me most about all of this is the way my dad died. My seven year old mind came up with a torture chair and lethal injection. Or the

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fact that this man, who I can picture so clearly as if he’s in front of me, is someone that I have actually come in contact with at some point in my life. When you think about it lethal injection is a pretty fast and humane way to watch someone die. Much less painful than pumping toxins into the body once a week.

Growing up I was always extremely close with my dad. Everyone at his work called me little Dave because I was his mini. I was very close with my mom too don’t get me wrong, but he was the guy who would make sure I always did my math homework but at the same time get me drunk on the weekends with my friends. I guess that’s why this dream shocked me so much as a child, seeing my best friend die in front of me was traumatizing to say the least. Little did I know that five years later I’d be going to doctors’ appointments with my dad watching a needle be stuck in his arm while he sits in a chair. It’s almost as if some higher power entered my dream in order to prepare me for my future. Which is bullshit but still something to think about. My dad didn’t die from being murdered by a needle or anything, yet somehow I think I would have preferred that.

When I was thirteen my dad was diagnosed with an extremely rare cancer in his trachea that no doctor in Florida had ever seen. One day he was walking around everything was fine and normal then the next day he was in an elevator and couldn’t breathe so he was taken to the emergency room. Luckily he worked in a hospital so it wasn’t a far trip. Everything felt like a dream that day. Probably due to the fact that I would have rather been having a nightmare so I could wakeup and everything would be normal and my parents would put be back to sleep telling me it was all a dream. But that wasn’t the case. Being pulled out of my eight grade English class while we were discussing comma splices and punctuation seemed great at the time until I saw

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my mom sitting outside on a bench waiting for me. When she told me they found cancer in my dad I didn’t believe her. My best friend in the whole world was now plagued with some demon and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. From then on out nothing seemed scary any more. My reoccurring nightmare was still there accompanied by ones far worse but somehow they didn’t make me feel anything. I was numb to it all. Or so I told myself. I wanted to be the person my stepmom and mom and baby brother had when shit hit the fan even worse. So I sat by and held his hand as he went to chemo and radiation treatments, and made him facetime me the whole time he was in Boston for surgery. For a while everything was better and seeming to shrink but cancer is a son of a bitch that likes to play games. For two years he went to appointment after appointment trying new experimental drugs that seemed to make everything worse. In the midst of all this chaos the universe threw in a little extra something just to stir the pot a little more. As if one parent withering away before my eyes wasn’t enough of a nightmare, my mom was diagnosed with breast and brain cancer. A huge “fuck you” from whatever higher power there is up in the sky. Being chased by a man with an afro seemed pretty appealing right about now. Being a sixteen year old girl dealing with all of the normal high school girl problems like boys and wanting to be in the right social scene but with the added depression, suicide attempts, and two dying parents is every little girls dream! I sure if I would have told one of my many therapists about my reoccurring nightmare they would have tried to psycho-analyze me and tell me it was just me being a kid scared of the future or scared my dad would forget about me when my parents got divorced. I’ve always thought therapists were full of it and people who go to them are just sent so they can be pumped full of Prozac until they aren’t an inconvenience to society or their families anymore. A little dramatic I know, but after you’ve done all the steps of

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therapy, grief counseling, and drugs over and over you become a little cynical of the system. But nonetheless I continued going through the motions with a small shred of hope that I would eventually be okay.

On March 21st 2012 after two years of constant agony my dad finally died. He didn’t get rolled away in a chair into a U-Haul and I didn’t wake up in my bed sweating and scared. As many times as I had seen my dad die in my dream I thought I would be prepared for the real thing and boy was I wrong. I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream or, ask to say goodbye to his body. A few days before I said my goodbye and told him it was okay to let go. He was no longer in pain and I no longer had to see my best friend suffer. To be honest I don’t really remember the three days after that or even his service. The whole time I had this weird feeling like I was in a sort of trance just floating through life, I can thank my brain for that because I don’t think I wanted to feel anything. No one spoke at his service except me. I had this image to uphold, of being tough and nothing could hurt me. What a fucking lie. I didn’t realize how actually bad off I was until I had to do all of it again when my mom started getting worse. The two years in between my dad dying and my mom dying I was a mess. Going from party to party blacking out every weekend, dating a drug dealer for the hell of it, until eventually I took a handful of pills and landed myself in a rehab facility baker acted. All I wanted to do was be with my mom but instead I was stuck in this building with heroin addicts and psychotic ex-girlfriends. Eventually I got my shit somewhat together and graduated high school and got into college. The day I moved into my apartment was the day my mom died. She had held on for so long to see me graduate and to make sure I made it safe to Tallahassee, even if she wasn’t completely there, she was there. Brain cancer has a way of taking over that person unlike any other cancer I had seen. Once again I didn’t cry or freak out. I

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held it together and knew everything would be okay. Except this time I believed myself a little bit more.

When we were assigned this essay someone in class asked if we could read something happier because everything we read or watched was depressing. I thought about writing about the day my brother was born after I had been an only child for twelve years, or about my first boyfriend and how stupidly attached I was to him later to find out that’s not what love is at all. I could have even written some complete bullshit feel good story that would have been more enjoyable to read and no one would have even known it was a lie. What I chose to write about is the raw and honest truth of my life. I also didn’t write about this to get sympathy points or for pity, I genuinely felt compelled to be real for once. Obviously there were happy moments throughout the awful times, I’m not completely on Poe’s level of sadness and depression. During this insane shit storm that has been my life I have been lucky enough to have people who care about my wellbeing and want me to better myself more than I could ever want them to. Obviously I still have my nightmare occasionally about the men breaking into my house and killing my dad, that’s why it’s called a reoccurring nightmare but as I said it’s somewhat solacing. At least when I have the dream it starts out normal and I get to hear and see my parents, even though I always know what happens next. The dying part doesn’t bother me anymore. What bothers me the most is that when my mom finally makes an appearance in the dream is when I always wakeup. For those split seconds of normality in the chaos of my REM state I feel genuine happiness. That’s a rare feeling for me these days so I like to hold on to it for as long as I possibly can. I’m not saying I’m never happy because that would be an exaggeration, but true and genuine happiness that what’s rare. Whatever insane thing happens to me next, and I know

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there will be something the universe doesn’t like to let me have a normal life for too long before flipping my world upside down again, I’ll be prepared for it. Or maybe I won’t. I thought my dream prepared me to see my dad die but I was wrong. Whether I’m prepared or not something will happen and ill face it without fear. In “Letters to Earth” Satan is looking down on mankind

and says “the earth is insane. Nature itself is insane.” Mark Twain wasn’t wrong when he said this. The earth is fucking insane.