#i find myself riddled with trauma responses

[overexciteddragon]

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[khaire-traveler]

Avoiding Trauma Reenactment in Pagan & Polytheist Communities

***Mentions of emotional abuse***

Something I've noticed is that there's a lot of trauma within the pagan and polytheist communities. Many trauma survivors - religious or otherwise - seem to come to these religions, maybe seeking comfort or maybe not.

Unfortunately, when there is a lot of trauma within a community, there tend to be cycles of it as well. People traumatize other people because, to put it simply, hurt people hurt people. I've experienced this first-hand and done it, obviously unintentionally, myself. So here's my advice on how to avoid traumatizing the shit out of one another.

Go to therapy or counseling if you're able. If you're not able, I suggest at least looking up ways to cope with trauma (CPTSD or PTSD may be specifically helpful for some people) and identifying your personal triggers. For example, some people might be triggered by not getting an immediate response to their messages, especially if emotionally charged, and may react based on the burst of emotion that triggered trauma can cause.

Recognize whether or not you're reenacting your own trauma in unrelated situations. This happens A LOT with abuse survivors specifically. There is a tendency to reenact one's traumatic experiences which can even come in assuming the worst of a situation or staying around people who remind you of (or treat you like) past abusers. Do you find yourself reenacting past trauma with others? Do you find yourself engaging with self-fulfilling prophecies?

When you feel yourself reacting with extreme emotion to a situation, try to pause yourself for a moment and ask yourself why you're feeling such a strong reaction. This is a skill that's easier said than done, and it takes some practice, but overtime, it becomes easier and easier. I've found it to be very helpful in identifying when my trauma is causing me to react a certain way to something vs. my genuine reaction.

Remind yourself that constructive criticism is not a personal attack on you. It's healthy to receive constructive criticism from others, especially friends who may be addressing issues within your friendships. Remember that when you receive criticism, it doesn't automatically mean that someone is trying to tear you down.

You are not responsible for how others react to you. This is a very helpful reminder for survivors of emotional abuse especially, since there's a tendency to self-blame. This is a reminder that takes a lot of practice, but when someone sends you cruel and hateful words, remember that 1. you don't have to listen to them, and 2. you are not responsible for the way someone else feels about or reacts to you. Simply put, we cannot control the emotions of others, as scary as that can be, and it's best to keep reminding that to ourselves.

If someone makes you uncomfortable, you are allowed to block them. You don't need permission from anyone to block this person. It's best to keep away from people who remind you of past abusers specifically to avoid potential reenactment.

Try to assume the best of people. Most people are not out to get you; most people are trying to passively enjoy internet time just the same as you. Of course, this doesn't mean harmful and hateful people don't exist, but it's best to not make yourself riddled with anxiety over that potentiality.

Practice healthy conflict resolution skills. This is something I recommend doing with a therapist or only after extensive research. The best type of conflict resolution, in my experience, is relating your emotions calmly and maturely. Try not to go flying off the handle or reacting with repeated apologies. Take a moment to ground yourself before addressing the conflict because even though it feels extremely pressing and urgent, it can likely wait for you to ground yourself first.

Don't go looking for a fight. Don't start arguments where it's not necessary, and don't go after people's personal character just to prove your point. These situations can end horribly for all parties involved. Should go without saying, but this includes not harassing people for their "wrong" opinions. It's an opinion, not a fact; please ground yourself if it truly upsets you that much.

Try not to say things with the intention of hurting someone. This is unwise for several reasons. It can lead to long-term regret later on, you can end up traumatizing someone with your words, and you may find that you were projecting your own feelings onto someone else. All sorts of consequences can come from this, so I encourage you to think before you speak. If you're extremely upset, wait to respond, and take time to cool off first.

This is all the advice I can think of off the top of my head. I hope it helps someone! Take care, everyone. 🧡

[potato-cerealkiller]

10 characters | 10 fandoms | 10 a negotiable number of tags

tagged by @zukoisblorbo :)

Damian Wayne. dc. i am an absolute sucker for human weapons who learn to be more than their past. the fact that his character development is imperfect and riddled with human mistakes makes me so insane. i just love that his palatability is seperate from his relative moral soundness, he isn’t a perfect abuse victim and i just love it. 10/10 he spins on my blorbo lazy susan a lot.

Bronya Zaychik. honkai impact. this was an og og fandom for me, but i do still love her. the supposed ‘lack of emotions’ she exhibits is very relatable to me as someone who probably has some form of alexithymia, the fact that she is nonetheless accepted by her friends and is portrayed as a complete human being just gets me so bad. also fits into the human weapon archetype <333.

Ranpo Edogawa. bungou stray dogs. i just adore him! similar situation to bronya where he isn’t told he has to fundamentally change himself to have a loving support system. his flippancy towards extraneous things like adult responsibilities, and his inability to understand the reasoning behind social conventions does remind me of myself at times. but as aforementioned, my favourite part of his character is probably that individuality doesn’t have to be sacrificed for success or respect! maybe i will catch up on the recent chapters some time…

Chongyun. genshin. social masking allegory and legacy character… i have a similar approach to fielding my emotions, and while I don’t have a decades long legacy to live up to, I find the way he has to navigate succession in his own way very interesting. he was also my first main, so!

Wanda Maximoff. marvel. similar thing to damian in the fact that she is an imperfect person who does not have an idyllic path to redemption and heroism. she’s messy and desperate, but that doesn’t make her undeserving. kind of love the position she’s in right now where she just has this quiet wisdom from all she’s been through. scarlet witch (2016) also has a special place in my heart for the second comic i ever read (shout out to the runaways for being the first).

Andromache. the old guard. immortals!!! love examining the impact of time on personhood, as in a ridiculously prolonged span of time, and boy is she fascinating. she’s completely jaded at this point, and only really existing rather than living. she almost becomes a product of time rather than an entity born from its passing. it’s just so interesting to see a character so entirely devoted to a cause through obligation, because what else can she do?, the only thing she remembers is how to fight.

Fushiguro Megumi. jujutsu kaisen. i love how much of a deranged mess he is. watching him have to unlearn his suicidal tendencies was so fucking interesting. he has this cool arrogance to him that makes him eminently unlikeable, but he is still a fundamentally good person at his core. for some reason my memory really failed me here? so not much to say, but I remember liking him.

Xie Lian. tgcf. innately good person despite his trauma! i love characters like this and i thought him fighting a literal manifestation of his past, more selfish self, was a fun way to signify his growth.

Homura Akemi. madoka magica. one of my childhood favourites. i watched this series at age seven and it probably severely impacted my psyche. her loneliness turned obsessive attachment and love is utterly heartbreaking to me. her unquestionable and desperate devotion to madoka is just. agghhh. the way that she needs her so intensely that she’s willing to sacrifice her personhood, the universe itself. ultimate blueprint for toxic yuri 10/10.

Boris Pavlikovsky. the goldfinch. he’s a lot of things but a mentally stable person is not one of them. i find the line he walks between total self annihilation and self preservation very interesting. he represents this kind of pseudo-eternal youth, he always commits to extremes. he doesn’t ever ‘overdo’ it but more because it would hinder his ability to live tomorrow rather than because of any adverse health effects. the fact that he is such an optimist at his core despite everything is just a fascinating contradiction.

tags if anyone wants to do this >>>> @sejaprune @calithilan @sizzlemourner @gladiikal

[firespirited]

I briefly tag-mentioned that I’d been working through feelings towards it/its neopronouns because the first reaction was a solid “oh I don’t like this at all - i’ve been itted and that was really unpleasant, most animals aren’t ‘its’ to me either”. So that involved seeking out people who’ve explained their choice and carefully reading and absorbing what its’ trying to convey and getting used to the ideas presented and understand the gender euphoria found in it.

Late last year there was emotional conflict between my images used for age regression and what that means to me as an adult who enjoys toys who wasn’t really allowed to be a childlike during childhood and sometimes gets distressingly perceived as childish as an adult - I don’t engage in play in the sense that most children do but then again I didn’t back when. I still don’t fully *get* what age regression is: the information out there is conflicting, entirely in jargon, sometimes demanding to be seen as valid without any testimonials or explanations because the people involved don’t want to have to justify their life or are too busy dealing with their own stuff (and I understand) however there’s not exactly a primer out there, not by the non-kinky or ‘look at this cringe’ folks.

I’ve recently been followed by a few people who don’t wish to interact with people with certain ideas about plural systems or age regression and the problem is that I have no answer whether I’m safe to interact with because I have no clue. These are areas where the information out there is either in bad faith or riddled with internal community conflicts. Often the basic premise is missing: these are a series of identities and what they mean in opposition to each other yes, but what’s the basics here? how did it come to be? what does it mean in practice? why does this matter to you? how is it helping? And I mean that with actual open honest curiosity as a fellow different kind of weird-brained person.

I’ll be honest, I would prefer people referred to any voluntary practices as something more akin to spiritual practice than folding it in with involuntary trauma responses. I find it uncomfortable not because it’s different but because it actively clashes with how I’m trying to grow.

It’s been very important personally to separate maladaptive or temporary coping mechanisms from others and learn to redirect impulses towards healthier ones but with an emphasis on not feeling shame about the not-great or not constructive practices.

So while I continue to seek out resources and a better understanding, I might not be validating or safe, maybe you can think of it as clashing disability needs?

For me there is no safety in daydreaming, no happy place at a certain age and the different facets of myself must be all fully integrated, intrusive thoughts carefully labelled as stray firing neurons, depressive or despondent thoughts put in a basket that says “full context required before you engage”. Re-integrating anger as part of myself that is not the devil on my shoulder, not shunned and even helpful has been a multi decade process for example.

Hope that’s clear enough, I won’t go out of my way to be an asshole but not sure I can engage in a way that makes you feel respected and understood, the best I can do is admit I have no clue what’s going on and don’t want to form an opinion without much more learning.

Thank you for reading, if you plan to unfollow please do let me know by anon why or if you have anything you think I should read/watch/listen to.

[blackberryfeatherfoot]

Nails in a fence

When people ask how i'm feeling, I never know quite how to respond.  The old "i'm good thanks how are you" seems to reverberate off my tongue.  Yet, I would never describe myself as 'good.'  The term 'good' fails to capture merely a fraction of ones state of being.  Humans are complex entities, thus I find it funny when we reduce the state of humanity to a singular noun which holds little bearing in regards to the human condition.  If it was socially acceptable, I would compare myself to a broken fence.  One with nails battered in, a few broken pickets here and there, and one riddled with holes.  I find this accurately symbolises my identity as a whole, the good, the bad, the flaws and the strengths that define individuality.  

I'm introverted.  A lone wolf.  I like to think of this trait as one of the nails in my fence, a nail that strengthens my foundations to protect myself from the pressure of the world.  I find comfort in my own thoughts, my own space.  As you could probably guess, school was therefore a tragic affair.  School was a tragic affair for anyone remotely different I guess.  One 'introvert' nail  is healthy, two perhaps is fine.  I would argue you can get away with 5 or 6.  It's only when the 'introvert' nails start to become the defining feature of your fence that an issue arises.  I could never fit in at school.  In response, I hammered myself with more metaphorical nails, trying to strengthen my armour for when I was inevitably hurt.  I figured by denigrating myself again and again, the words of others could leave little weight, for I already believed worse than the bitter comments spat at me.  By placing the nails in first, I ultimately gave others the hammer to solidify my beliefs, and low and behold, coming from an all girls school, they took the hammer with grace.

With this ideology, I was protected, the words of others were virtually meaningless.  I no longer felt anything.  Nothing good, nothing bad.  I was in limbo.  What remained was a void of a person and my fence was no longer functional.  My identity was gone, replaced by pain, hurt and shame.  I was battered and bruised.  There was no room for any more nails to strengthen the foundations of that fence.  Heck, you couldn't fit another nail on the fence if you tried.  It was now a waiting game for a small breeze to push me over into a dark abyss. 

It was at this point I started therapy.  Weekly appointments at first.  Every week she would ask "how are you," and every week I couldn't respond.  How do you explain you feel like a fence battered with nails?  Week by week she tried to dismantle these beliefs I had hammered into myself, but as each nail was removed, it left behind a hole as the nails had been holding my identity up.  I soon realised I was scared to remove the nails as I had established my sense of self on the falsified beliefs I had developed over the years.  Without them, I had no sense of purpose, no sense of worth, no sense of direction in life.  To this day I struggle to unpick these nails and rediscover myself free of mental turmoil.  Even when you develop an identity around something that hurts you, it's painful to let it go.  

I guess what i'm trying to say is that trauma is complicated.  Sometimes we don't want to let go of our hurt and face the holes left in our identities.  Sometimes we don't want to heal because our entire personality, community and sense of stability is centred around ones trauma.  Healing is not linear nor is it an easy process.  I'm still trying to reshape my perspective, trying to accept that once the nails of hurt are removed from ones identity, it doesn't in fact leave a hole but a scar.  These scars shape individuality, adding the beauty to your story if you let them.

[marsgod]

Can i have a matchup please (just whoever fits me above everyone else out of the fandoms cause i cant choose)

gender: cis female

pronouns: she/her

sexuality: heterosexual ally

appearance: 5’2 african American black curly wavy hair blackish brown eyes chubby cheeks hour glass shape

personality: kind smart funny motherly responsible empathetic anxious emotional moody perfectionist helpful people pleaser caring compassionate nerdy curious protective polite respectful indecisive fearful nervous introvert shy awkward clumsy low self esteem low confidence soft spoken sarcastic sassy

mbti: infj

enneagram type: 2w1

likes: animals books reading writing fantasy magic sci fi anime cartoons music video games friends alone time learning personality quizzes sweets and bread helping

dislikes: spiders loud sounds people who harm others people who dont take others into consideration people i care about not caring for themselves not being listened to test and math weird holes and patterns

what i look for in a date: just someone who will genuinely love and take care of me :)

what i avoid: anyone who’s mean or toxic or a jerk really im not picky

extra: i pace a lot i talk to myself i sing when alone im a picky eater

thank you

╰┈➤ I’d match you with… Riddle Rosehearts!

He loves how much attention you give to detail! Riddle appreciates it a lot but also has his own idea of “perfect” in his mind and that’ll lead to objects always being in one of two places (convenient or not??)

Riddle is awkward towards your motherly nature, he doesn’t not appreciate it but he doesn’t rlly know how to respond

He loves reading! especially fantasy books, so going to the library or doing book swaps are a “must do” at least once!!

Will infodump about tea and flowers and history if you even hint at being curious

is also a picky eater, so you both will most likely have to sit down and actually find recipes and foods that’ll work for the both of you

doesn’t understand personality quizzes but gets extremely offended at them (especially its “what’s your trauma” centered ones)

(his are always “you have mommy issues”-esque)

(<33)

admires your respectful and curious nature, and fully encourages any adventuring you do (.. most of the time)

will try his best to help you with math but really really prefers history and writing

“I think these “tests” you’re having me take are irrational to listen too and are completely rigged.”

[elizalona]

July 2024: WATCH THE CITY BURN

I painted over the cracks of my past. In their absence, I let the ruins of the city construct new ones. I think of the slabs of concrete that threatened my steady gait, the lovers who broke my footing before the sidewalk ever did. The flashes of headlights against my sunken gaze, my unyielding eyes in the reflection of a bar's smudged mirror.

I think of the women who fixed their eyes on me while I crossed my legs in anticipation as I waited to claim a bathroom stall. The amount of times I was lent more consideration by these women than the man on the other end of my phone. Her eyelashes are long, her cheeks are flushed. She watches as I wipe residual mascara from underneath my eyes and baptize my neck in more perfume.

"You're so pretty," she says, and I know she means it. She's waiting for her own text. I don't doubt for a second she'll receive it. She's so pretty.

I lost myself in the technicolor of Xanax and whiskey and the exposed skin of a greedy men. He presents himself in all his glory at the foot of my bed; I lay before him, a shell of myself. Something akin to desire exists in this moment, even if its hollow and riddled with booze and the smell of an unfinished cigarette.

I ride the train miles up north, my roommate at my side as she solidifies our evening plans. She speaks in a poetic cadence when she discusses the man she's seeing. I don't doubt for a second that he's in love with her. He makes a reservation for two at upscale restaurants, asks her for her opinion on the lecture he gave the day prior as a professor. When they come home, I hear the slow, rhythmic pulsating of her headboard against our adjoining walls. He confirms plans before he kisses her goodbye at the doorway.

On weekend nights, when I find myself void of plans, I drift to my balcony with a bottle of wine, another one chilling in my refrigerator. I play music that I'm certain will summon the music of a past lover or friend. Unexplained absences from work and a building gas bill tells me speak truth into my self-sufficiency. Aspirations stifled by closing shifts relinquish me of all responsibilities. I tell myself it's not my job to unburden the past. I can only float in the present.

The glistening windows of empty new builds, a cocktail that costs more than my hourly wage, the laugh of the men who live below me. The hungry mouths, the abandonment of a scheduled bus, all this teeming life. I pay my rent because I cannot afford the voice of my mother.

I stumble to the local Walgreens around midnight for smokes. There is a crowd of men laughing behind me, they idly wait in line as the condensation from their beer drips onto the linoleum. I flirt with the idea of turning around and asking them what their plans are for the night.

The next morning, I'm servicing customers with a placid smile. I wonder if they notice the beads of sweat on my forehead, a product of my over drinking. I adorn their hands with overpriced jewelry and feel envious of how delicate my touch is for them. I am a ghost behind this counter, an apparition that speaks in pleasantries. "Gold suits you," I whisper to the customer who tentatively appraises the jewelry in a nearby mirror.

After my shift, I walk to the train station and contemplate throwing myself onto the tracks. The train arrives before I can complete the thought and I am stifled onto a cart where someone is smoking a joint and blasting music. There is a family in the corner, visibly uncomfortable. You can tell they visited the city for a day, a sweet escape from the mundane cycle of the suburbs.

A text lights my phone up. It's from a strange man I met a few nights ago, a man I found myself under at 4 o'clock in the morning. His dick was limp from all the lines of coke he sniffed; I moaned in compliance. I reply back, "What're you doing tonight?" It's better I sabotage myself in the presence of him than in the presence of myself.

This trauma is foreign to me, almost exotic. It nestles into the crooks of lost memories and is less needy when the sun goes down. I used to awake to broken glass from my father's tirades, the resentful stare of my mother as I dressed for school. Those truths are rendered powerless in the becoming of my own sabotage.

[brujahinaskirt]

I've never seen anyone mention this, so I will: Kingdom Come is balls-to-the-wall obsessed with symbolism. This is fitting for a medieval game (the medieval world was obsessed with symbolism), and it's loaded with symbols in both its art and storytelling elements. What I find worth remarking on is that KCD takes a far more subtle, literary, and artful approach to its symbolism than most games within its genre; its symbolism thrives in the margins, as with literature. It doesn't flounce in the spotlight with a megaphone as with most games.

[Cut for rambly analysis.]

One of the things I deeply appreciate about the script is that it doesn't talk down to the player. If you don't actively think about the storytelling while you play -- if you don't watch for foils, parallels, symbols, motifs, read character expressions and pay attention to the content of the conversations as well as the emotional delivery -- you'll miss half the meat and meaning and message of the writing. That's a rarity these days; even "writing-based" games tend to spoon-feed players embarrassingly facile stories, childish depictions of trauma, and insultingly thinly-developed character arcs (ahem, rhymes with Why-o-Bear).

And sure, you can shut your brain off or come in with bad faith blinders on and steamroller through KCD's main quest, walking away having had a coherent if mediocre medieval video game experience. But you'll miss Theresa's apples scattering on the ground at the moment the daily life she ambivalently but carefully tended to is torn asunder. You'll miss how Henry's speech tics mirror his mother's word-for-word in delivery and in text. You'll miss that Hans presents himself as a swaggering hunter but is consistently visually associated with a hounded, hunted stag. You'll miss how Henry and Hans's relationship so doggedly parallels what we know of Martin and Radzig's, and to a lesser extent Istvan and Erik's. You'll miss that certain characters' clothing matches or contrasts in color schemes (another enormous medieval obsession). You'll miss how the sacking of Skalitz is what enables village bullies Matthew and Fritz to descend into real villainy, and how Henry gradually gains the sense of self to step outside Matthew's sphere of toxic influence. You'll miss that Radzig speaks honestly to Henry through metaphors and riddles and wordplay since he's far too awkward to speak to him openly. You'll miss that after forming a friendship with a peasant, responsibility-avoider Hans develops a new concern for how his actions affect everyday people, meanwhile layabout loafer Henry develops a sense of accountability to society at large. You'll miss that Theresa is almost always pictured nearby water (rain or rivers or puddles) just as Hans is associated with the forest and Henry is so often cinematically staged facing hills (and usually among flowers). You'll miss the journal entries, some of which are genuinely heartbreaking in the simplicity and earnestness of their longing, and in their hopes for better things ahead.

Some portions of the narrative are so well-crafted in this regard that the weaker portions/writers really stand out. That's the downside of writing in teams, but oh man, with an arty storytelling approach like KCD's, you can fucking tell when someone's writing skill wasn't up to snuff (ahem, Lady Tone-Deafany)... or when the team just wasn't in love with a character or a subplot enough to flesh out the symbolism.

But I'm getting away from my point now and starting to ramble, so I'll rein myself back in.

I edit books, so my storytelling field is a bit different. But by my metrics, the most successful novels—the ones that manage to both perform commercially and offer something of genuine artistic, emotional merit to audiences—do it like KCD does it. The basic narrative must be simple enough for casual readers to understand at a foundational level. But for readers who relish the experience of deep reading—who come equipped with thoughtfulness, a real desire to appreciate storytelling (at context and subtext levels), and the ability to critically & emotionally engage with multiple character arcs at once—there's so much more than the surface.

Many gamers praise game developers for designing game mechanics that don't baby them. Likewise, I praise writers who don't baby me.

[howtheworldcouldb]

A Rough Guide to KOTOR Characterizations

Listen, everyone is a caricature of like one characteristic/Vibe. Remember the vibe and you're golden.

Bastila

Recovering teachers pet with religious trauma. Was the "Gifted Kid" who let it go to her head. Insecure as shit, hides it with arrogance. Seeks validation and support like a kicked puppy.

Prim, proper, talks over people to lead in group projects, lil arrogant, goes the "holier-than-thou, this is beyond your understanding" route when threatened. Struggling to see things outside of black and white. Neglectful parents vibes. Just needs a fuckin hug, my dude. And therapy.

Insecure -> prim, condescending

Carth

"My defense mechanisms are defense mechanisms." Constantly defensive. Threatened? Lash out. Don't want to answer a question? Lash out. Man finds a cause and then he's ride-or-die, this cause is Right, Loyalty is My Middle Name. Closet romantic. As soon as he's given the opportunity to love someone romantically, he pulls out his lil book of cliches and goes through them like a checklist. Strong moral compass.

He's also the dude in the horror movie that questions everyone's bad decisions, but only in like select situations. Carth when faced with a specific situation? On the money, every time. Carth when faced with the trash fire that is his own life decisions? Just gets in the can and claims it’s fine.

Stubborn, defensive, loyal

Mission

"Fuck you, I can do it myself. I don't need your help." Street kid who both seeks adult stability and would rather die than be seen as a child. Really wants to not have to constantly take care of herself but is terrified of what it means if she stops. Also pretty defensive. REALLY sensitive about her age.

Spunky, defensive, fundamentally scared

Jolee

"I'm too old for this shit." He's here to watch you fuck up, because he's got nothing better to do. Trauma, but mostly made his peace with it. The only one with some common sense, which in this galaxy translates to "pretty fucking wise". Can't stand the smell of bullshit, and will call you on it. Does not matter the context. Social niceties? Fuck 'em, who has time. Crotchety old man who speaks in weird riddles because he genuinely does not care if you understand.

Down-to-earth, tired, crotchety, irreverent

Juhani

Lesbian who came out to her emotionally abusive parents and got kicked out. A kicked puppy with latent anger issues stemming from trauma. I repeat, again, an abused puppy. Think Tatooine Slave Culture but with Anakin's problems. A little feral.

Self-deprecatory/berating, anxious, deferential, hurt and hiding anger

T3-M4

The little boy who's backyard pressed up against yours who was your adventure buddy for a summer. Sane friend on the surface, until he pulls something batshit and you realize that sane is relative. He's the one running around quietly getting shit done while everyone else argues on the proper way to go about something.

Cheerful, loyal and affectionate, helpful, a little frustrated, imagine if someone had to communicate through charades 24/7

Canderous

Also does not have time for your shit. Values are on violence, weaponry and to a lesser extent, honor. He's a bounty hunter, man. He's got a moral code but it is absolutely not based on similar tenants to yours. His one response to Revan massacring his people was "It was glorious", and that pretty much sums him up. Competent, violent, and with some fucked up morals, but still cares in an odd way. Pretty unconcerned about most things, a little feral. Everything can be solved with violence if you try hard enough.

Violent, caustic/rough, weird honor code, unconcerned

Zaalbar

The one dude in the group project who doesn't want to be there and leans against the wall watching while everything goes to shit. Loyalty is to Mission above all else. Taciturn and distant, but will honor a promise or vow to the end of his days.

Reserved, unsociable, loyal

HK-47

A violent psychopath. Humans are below him (replace any names with "meatbag"). Literally would murder you in a second if given the opportunity, and would like to take said opportunity whenever possible. The only thing stopping him is the fact that Revan said no. Will still gleefully describe it in detail, though.

Murder and property damage

[journalformycptsd]

Day #1 — CPTSD Symptoms

(journaling through my bookmarks from Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker)

Common Symptoms of Complex PTSD

• Emotional Flashbacks

• Tyrannical Inner &/or Outer Critic

• Toxic Shame

• Self-Abandonment

• Social anxiety

• Abject feelings of loneliness and abandonment

• Fragile Self-esteem

• Attachment disorder

• Developmental Arrests

• Relationship difficulties

• Radical mood vacillations

• Dissociation via distracting activities or mental processes

• Hair-triggered fight/flight response

• Oversensitivity to stressful situations

• Suicidal Ideation

This is the first bookmark I made when reading this book, because I was alarmed at how many of these symptoms I experience regularly.

I have emotional flashbacks at least a few times a week; I didn’t know what to call them until now. Most days I would wake up already submerged in a flashback of anxiety, depression, and shame. I would feel shame from oversleeping, from being late on school or chores, from neglecting my loved ones or my pets. I’d open my eyes to my messy high school bedroom and feel nothing but disgust at my own lifestyle. I’d plunge into self-hating diatribes about how out of control I was, how right my mother was about me, how helpless and broken I felt. I didn’t realize these were my mother’s words. I didn’t realize these were not compassionate to myself. I didn’t realize that my brain was being taken over by PTSD.

The inner critic launched those attacks on me, while the outer critic lashed out at everyone who triggered my insecurity or sense of being judged. Everyone who slightly disappointed me became an untrustworthy traitor, because my trauma taught me that no one was safe.

Toxic shame and self-abandonment got their hands on the reins as soon as I woke, so that every interaction I had with anyone in my life was riddled with guilt and defensiveness. This triggered social anxiety — my mother’s lack of acceptance and unconditional love, as well as her refusal to hear out and reassure my insecurities, left me feeling intensely vulnerable and scared around others. I reflexively isolated, and made myself as lonely on the outside as I felt in my own mind.

Intense self-loathing and blaming myself for my abuse led me to develop unhealthy attachments, either clinging to others for dear life with the underlying certainty that they would “find me out” and reject me, or pushing others away before they could inevitably leave me.

My arrested emotional development caused me to regress under stress, and I’d lash out and yell at others — at other times, my emotional brain would take over and I’d retreat into isolation and depression, hopelessness and helplessness similar to a child without a parent. I had no concept of protecting myself from conflict — only protecting myself through conflict.

My mood swings led to a bipolar ii diagnosis that I’m not certain is accurate. I experience intense depressive episodes, but my hypomania isn’t very pronounced. I get triggered into emotional flashbacks and when i don’t know how to get out of them, they turn into days and weeks-long shame and depression cycles.

I’ve dissociated through video games, daydreaming, and oversleeping since I was a child. My fight/flight response is hyperactive; I’ve always been teased for being jumpy, or skinny from anxiety, or shaky. Stress debilitates me, freezes me in my tracks and leaves me trembling, crying, and sick.

Suicidal ideation, as rare is it comes and goes, does come and go. I’ve never attempted. I’ve never hurt myself. But I know that when that thought comes up, out of nowhere, that something is wrong and I need to catch it and fix it, quickly.

Experiencing all these symptoms on such a regular basis has made this diagnosis a life changer. I can’t believe I never realized that all these things add up to one diagnosis. I wish it hadn’t taken 22 years of life to discover it.

[lectophile]

I Love Nesta Archeron

SPOILER ALERT for Sarah J. Mass's A Court of Thorns and Roses Trilogy.

With the newly-released title and release date of Sarah J. Mass's Nessian spin-off, A Court of Silver Flames, I have noticed that the YA fantasy community, or at least a good enough portion of it, has begun to become very vocal about its lack of fondness for Nesta and their displeasure at her being matched with Cassian, who they believe "deserves so much better". As the self-proclaimed number one fan of Nesta, I have an urge, that will not go unrequited, to dispel the idea that Nesta is a terrible person.

I have to admit, when I first read the series, I disliked Nesta, Elain, and their father an unfathomable amount. I relished in the idea that somewhere, later on in the series, they would each be served a mouthful of the crap they deserved. I would say, in terms of relativity, Nesta was highest on my dislike meter, Elain next, and then their father. Elain having bought Feyre the small tins of paint and Feyre's father telling her to never come back and live out her dreams were small redemptions in their favor. I admired Nesta's protectiveness over Elain, but disdained her for so easily having forgone attempting to protect Feyre, because, after all, she was the youngest.

After having read the series three times, and having deliciously bathed in gallons worth of putting-Nesta-and-occassionally-Elain-in-their-place, compliments of our wonderful, and even more scrumptious, winged friends: Rhys and Cass, I have come to the new conclusion about our dear Nesta. As the oldest, Nesta was able to receive the most education out of all three of the Archeron sisters. She learned valuable skills for women in society, making her a suitable match for eligible bachelors—but that was worthless when their family became poor. Nesta had no skills in surviving in a world where you had to fend for yourself. All she knew was which fork to use with salad and how to greet gentlemen. Feyre, on the other hand, had not even learned to read and write, making it easier for her to adapt to their new situation and assume the role of interim head of household while the rest of the remaining Archeron family pondered on a life Feyre had never had the chance to be a part of.

Nesta began resenting Feyre when Feyre successfully began taking care of their family. Nesta was being showed-up by a fourteen year old girl that couldn't even read, and all Nesta had succeeded at doing was mope around and wait to die. Nesta was ashamed of herself for this, blamed Feyre for her shame, and, in turn, wanted to make Feyre feel it as well—hence, abusing Feyre, I do not excuse it, but I don’t know when the book community decided to cancel characters for being terrible in the past and GROWING to become better people. Nesta also never looked after Feyre like you would hope an older sister would do for their younger sibling because Nesta didn't feel that Feyre needed taking care of. Feyre could hunt, make money, make food, and anything she set her mind to—she didn't need Nesta for anything. Nesta took this as a jab, feeling that if Feyre thought she was so good that she could do everything for herself, why should Nesta even lift a finger? Feyre was doing it all and seemingly handling it perfectly fine. Because of this, Nesta preferred Elain to Feyre; for one, Elain needed guidance and someone to follow, which appealed to Nesta's superiority complex; secondly, Nesta took care of Elain as she did because Elain gave her a purpose, to find someone for Elain to marry off to and care for her in the meanwhile.

Later on in the series, when Feyre shows up to their home as Fae and with part of the Inner Circle, Nesta feels a whirlwind of emotions, which makes her lock up even more than she always did. Nesta is scared of letting people see how weak and frail she is and how she has no real purpose in this world; and she is especially wary of letting Feyre see it because, even though she always resented Feyre, she liked that Feyre admired her for her steely exterior and unbendable will. For one, Nesta was shocked out of her mind because Feyre was Fae, something that all humans south of The Wall were taught to fear; Another thing Nesta felt with Feyre coming back into her and Elain's life was fear. Nesta feared that Feyre was going to disrupt everything Nesta had achieved while Feyre was gone: getting Elain engaged to Graysen. With Feyre gone and their father on his secret voyage, Nesta was finally the one in charge, the dependable one, the one protecting their family—even if that was only Elain—and Feyre was not only throwing off the balance, but threatening to destroy it altogether.

After having felt like we, the readers, had gone hand-in-hand with Feyre through everything, from the trials Under the Mountain to her neglect by Tamlin, we were angry and enraged that Nesta had the audacity to be so rude to Feyre, who had done absolutely nothing to Nesta all the months she was gone. For heaven's sake, Feyre hadn't even made contact with Nesta up until this moment. But, we have to understand, Nesta uses her anger to keep people out and prevent them from seeing how insurmountably weak and riddled with dark emotion she is. Feyre seems to have the world figured out: a mate, a close group of friends, wealth beyond imagination, and a beautiful home; and Nesta is upset that Feyre would want to take away the little her and Elain do have for, what she believes, is Fae business.

After having realized all of this, I loved Nesta with my whole heart—the most out of the whole Inner Circle, Az coming in close, close second. She reminded me of myself: flawed, jealous, wrathful, prideful, and resentful. Feyre seems to be some kind of unnatural super-being—ignoring the fact that she actually is for the sake of my argument—able to overcome everything in her way, making me want to be like her and making me resent the parts of myself that she overcame within herself. Nesta is Sarah J. Mass's way of letting us know, we can be powerful, strong, courageous women that surprise ourselves with our ability to do anything we set our minds to, as well as being flawed, broken, and distant. We do not have to be Elains: so kind that an other-worldly Cauldron gifts us power out of its sheer amazement at how lovely we are inside and out. We can be ferocious and take power for ourselves, just as Nesta had ripped power from the Cauldron with her teeth as repayment for making her and Elain undergo what they did. Nesta is devastatingly beautiful, graceful, collected, cool, intelligent, determined, curious, wrathful, prideful, resentful, and most of all, humiliated with herself for not being the strong person she wishes she could be. I love Nesta so, so much. I wish her all the luck and happiness in the world.

And, last but not least, something to remind everyone of. In A Court of Frost and Starlight, Nesta behaves outrageously—but this is her way of trying to cope, trying to get some sort of feeling back after having been turned Fae. Her transformation had occurred during the chaos of the battle to save humans from Hybern, and so there was no time for her to take for herself and understand what had been done to her. Once the adrenaline of battle and victory had faded, she was left with a hole within herself in a foreign body, leading an immortal life with an even more foreign power within her. Feyre also suffered from post-traumatic disorder, but in a different way—as all people go through trauma uniquely and individually. Nesta does not want to admit how broken, how weak, how confused she is, and all the Inner Circle wants to do is what they think will make her happy—but they don't get that she can't even feel. Personally, I find that everyone, except for Cass and Az, seems to have their own opinion of her behavior without really trying to understand why it's happening—especially Feyre. I think Feyre has always felt responsible for the well-being of her sisters, and so she does this the most. She has never truly understood Nesta, why she’s so closed off, why she’s so distant, and it hurts her as well, because Nesta is the only sort of mother figure—a strange one I know, but she was the oldest, wisest woman in her life for a long time—Feyre had, as their mother was basically absent and then died. Feyre is also young, so we have to understand that she does not truly understand how trauma can be different for each person, and so she tries to solve this by assuming that Nesta’s trauma may be similar in some way to that of what she went through in Under-the-Mountain. Feyre isn’t doing anything wrong, it’s just a younger sister trying to make her older sister as happy as she is—think Anna with Elsa. Also, Feyre is confused because she would have thought that the beauty and power of the Fae realm would have made Nesta feel better about being Changed, but, as I will dive more in depth below, the circumstances surrounding their views on being Fae are completely different, and frankly opposite for Feyre and Elain/Nesta. Feyre’s seeming misunderstanding and attempts at helping Nesta infuriate Nesta because she feels like some broken doll her sister wants to sew up new so that she can look pretty for the rest of them.

I also want to add that being Fae means completely different things for each of the Archeron sisters. Feyre loves being Fae, and I think it’s because she has associated it with the insurmountable happiness that has been brought into her life after she had Changed: she found Rhys, became strong enough to defend herself and anyone she cared about, was able to paint whenever, whatever, and however she wanted, found a family that truly supported her and loved her and required nothing of her, and was finally able to dream of a future that was only for her, not for her sisters or father. Elain hates being Fae, or at least hated it at first but seems to be adapting to it, because it took away the future she had always dreamed of. While Feyre never really had the chance to dream of anything for herself, Elain did—because, she’s sweet and I also love her, she really didn’t lift a finger until she shoved Az’s knife into the King of Hybern’s neck. Elain was raised in a society where domesticity are the best characteristics of a woman, and it is what she should strive for. She strived to be a loving wife, with a beautiful home to decorate, to have parties and socialize with everyone, and to be the sweet angel her husband came to after a long day’s work. She had that, and being Fae took that away because her fiancé hates the Fae. The man she thought would love her no matter what she was or looked like, hated her. I mean, if that happened to any of us, we’d all have been destroyed from within: she trusted this man with her heart, she trusted that he would always love and care for her—and for her to trust men was difficult because she had trusted her father to always look after her, but he failed her—and then he said he hated her for the abomination she was, for something she couldn’t control. Being Fae took away Elain’s dreams, and so it is not all the pretty, supernatural stuff that we, the readers, would love to be a part of—because, remember that the series was written in first-person from Feyre’s point of view, so obviously we’ll have some bias towards being Fae and her beliefs. Nesta hates being Fae. Nesta demands control over her life, she demands being the one in charge of it. If she’s gonna die, it’ll be because she said so; if she’s gonna eat, it’s because she said so. She will not let anyone or anything control who she is or how she lives her life, and then she was forced to be immortal. Imagine, feeling so lost, so insurmountably despairing, in an immortal body. While she was mortal she could at least wait for death to take her away from the tortures of being poor, cold, starving, and out of control, at least death was something she had decided on accepting, not forced upon her—but as a Fae, she would have to wait hundreds to even thousands of years for merciful death to take her away from all these feelings, emotions, and general environments that she has absolutely no control of and feels she could never truly be a part of. I have not ever been depressed or suffered from PTSD, but from what I have learned, I have heard that it feels like a never ending hole you fall into, where you are consumed by darkness and there is nothing else you can see, and anywhere you are within that hole, you are alone and no one can reach you. Imagine that, but feeling like you will feel that way for the rest of your immortal life.

Last, last thing: Nesta and Cassian are mates. If she had an instinct within her to call Cass from battle just in time to save him from the Cauldron; if her willingness to sacrifice her life so she could die with him because she could not live without him, didn't convince you of their status as mates, I *clap* do *clap* not *clap* know *clap* what *clap* will.

Anyways, thank you for reaching this point of my fanatic rant over Nesta.

[quillandink333]

Scarlet Carnations ~ Part IV

BotW Link X Zelda ~ Detective AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.1k

WARNINGS: death, murder, loss, trauma, blood and gore, terrorism, organized crime, self-harm

Summary: Inspector Zelda Hyrule, assisted by the faithful Constable Link Fyori, is infamous for cracking the most confounding of cases in a town dominated by crime. Her latest assignment is to solve the murder of her own godmother, Impa Sheikah, the late CEO of Sheikah Tech. Incorporated, while staying under the radar of the dreaded Yiga organization.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Part IV • Part V • Part VI • Part VII • Epilogue • Masterlist

It was nine o’clock in the morning, two days after I’d made my arrest, and Paya’s trial was in its opening stages. I was watching from the gallery. Normally, as the one running the investigations, I would be the first witness to take the stand, but today, for whatever reason, the lead prosecutor, Urbosa Sigatur, planned to summon me second after Auntie Purah. Urbosa was far from a stranger to me, however. She and I had collaborated on several cases in the past, and she shared with me many of my own ideals. She’d once even known my mother before her untimely demise. And so I decided not to question her judgment, however unconventional it may have seemed.

The prosecution’s opening statement had been based on the fact that the stolen Sheikah Slate, along with a bloodstained bullet, had been found in the defendant’s room, which, until recently, hadn’t been searched as it had been deemed irrelevant to the case. With these conclusive pieces of evidence, she’d stated, the defendant had been charged with both the theft of the Slate and the murder of its owner, Impa Sheikah.

The stolen object was the most central piece of evidence in the prosecution’s case. It had once been a target of my own immense interest, even before its theft. But that had all changed following its recovery. The riddle, though having been solved by means of professional reprogramming, still made little sense to me if any. “Carnation” was its answer, according to Auntie Purah herself. Much to my dismay, the secrets that the riddle had supposedly kept hidden had turned out to be nothing but my own fantasy. Every last piece of data that had once been stored in the Slate had been deleted, meaning the possibility of proving a motive for its theft was next to nonexistent. The only thing left in its memory was a diary entry, written by Auntie Impa the day before her murder. This in itself, however, held the potential to serve as a lead to her killer’s identity, at the very least.

The diary entry, as projected onto the courtroom wall by the Slate, went,

“Today was the first day of Zelda’s holiday visit. It is hard to believe that the last long term visit she paid us was already over a year ago. We have all missed her dearly. She seems as interested in my sister’s work as ever. It brought me joy to see the two of them bonding over their shared passion once again.

“However I must admit, I would still love for her to also spend some quality time with Paya some day soon. I sensed some resentment coming from her directed at my dear granddaughter. Perhaps it is something to do with that boy. Either way, it seems their relationship has hardly changed since she left the nest.

“I cannot say for certain whether anyone will ever be able to read this, but I have faith that Purah will figure it out. I am no good with machines like these, but I believe in her. At any rate, I hope she is the one who gets to read this message, but in the event that it happens to fall into the wrong hands, I will sign off here.”

With this, the prosecution’s argument, though a bit scattered across several different points, seemed sturdy enough so far. That Auntie Impa had seemingly known that her life would be taken the following night after writing her final message, combined with the fact that she’d received no threats from the outside world up until then, was one of the strongest pieces of evidence in our arsenal.

Paya’s defence lawyer, one Revali Twii, had made several attempts to dismantle her argument by claiming she had no possible way of knowing whether or not the victim had received a threat from outside the estate by phone. These attacks were easily deflected. As a foreigner to this city, Mr. Twii had been unaware that, thanks to the Sheikahs’ company, household phones here were all equipped with recording devices. Naturally, Ms. Sigatur had already listened to each recorded call since a month before the murder and had detected no discernible threat in any of them.

And yet in spite of all that, the argument shifted heavily in favour of the defence when it then carried out his cross examination. With how confidently Urbosa had stated her case, I never could’ve imagined how easy it would be for the opposing side to shatter it into countless, tiny pieces.

Mr. Twii’s primary line of questioning was a solid one, to say the least. He concurred with my deduction as presented by Ms. Sigatur that the parlour indeed was not the true scene of the crime. However, he claimed that the real crime scene could not possibly have been the defendant’s bedroom either. His basis for this was the gunshot. Paya’s room was in the same hallway that the sleeping quarters of the current witness, Auntie Purah, as well as myself, were in. Mr. Twii had her testify about the sound of the gunshot that she’d heard. In addition to the fact that it hadn’t seemed loud enough to have come from the very next room over, she’d only heard it once: from the parlour.

No doubt he intended to question me about the same thing when the time came for me to take the stand. I’d been itching to speak my mind and set things straight so badly that I’d had to cross my legs just to keep myself from getting up too soon by the time court was finally adjourned for a half-hour recess.

Now the prosecutor and I were together in a private room reserved for witness prepping. Normally I did just fine testifying on my own, but in this trial, everything was at stake, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from racing no matter what I tried. Thankfully I had Urbosa here, and simply talking with her had done much to calm my nerves already.

“You’re originally from out of town too, aren’t you?” I noted, thinking back on her performance.

“That I may be, but unlike that lawyer, I’ve spent enough time here to know of the perils this city is facing, and who’s been holding it together in spite of all that.”

“Right.” My lips rested against the curve of my index as my leg bounced restlessly underneath the table. “That schmuck really doesn’t have a clue, does he?”

“No, not likely. Though he’s quite the formidable opponent, I must say.” She leaned back in her chair, looking pensive, but not the least bit agitated. “My case took quite the beating out there.”

My heart rate was starting to pick up again. “You don’t think you’ll...lose...do you?”

“Who, me? Lose?” She let out a hearty bout of chuckles. “Young lady, are you quite sure you know who you’re speaking to?” I returned her laughter halfheartedly, unable to shake the foreboding feeling lying at the pit of my stomach. Urbosa cleared her throat, preserving her calm smile. “All jokes aside, I wouldn’t worry even if we do end up losing this one. The true criminal is still out there somewhere, and there is no such thing as a perfect crime.”

“I suppose...” Perfect crimes may not have existed, but neither did perfect investigations. If they ruled Paya out as a suspect, then only one other, “safe” option would remain.

“Alright, out with it. What’s on your mind?” Her hand had landed on my shoulder as she’d reached across the desk, over my half empty glass of water. “And why are you so set on getting Paya convicted, if I might ask? Sibling rivalry is one thing, but this is...”

I avoided her perceptive gaze, staring intently at the latch on my bag. What could I possibly tell her? “It’s just,” I stalled, eventually settling for a vague, “I’m running out of time.”

After a long pause, she leaned back, letting go of my arm. “I see. Well, whatever it is, know that I’ll be on your side no matter what, little bird.”

Oh, if only she’d known.

“So to sum up, you were outstandingly negligent in your investigation of the defendant’s bedroom.”

My jaw unhinged at what I’d just heard come out of the attorney’s mouth. I’d just finished giving him an explanation of my findings in as much detail as I could, during which time he’d been surprisingly polite, until now.

“You likely saw the Slate along with the bullet and made your arrest right then and there. You didn’t even stop to consider the possibility that you hadn’t found all there’d been to find in that room, did you?” I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off again. “In fact, I’m willing to bet you didn’t even attempt to look for the murder weapon.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” I retaliated with chest puffed up, “but my team and I searched the property from top to bottom, repeatedly, for two whole weeks, and—”

“Yes, I am well aware. However, you failed to complete a thorough search of this so-called ‘true crime scene’ before you arrested Ms. Sheikah. Do you deny it?”

I was floundering for words. Why bother questioning me if he merely intended to cut me off and answer his own questions? “I-I...”

“Objection.”

All eyes fell upon the prosecution. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“The defence is harassing the witness, Your Honour.”

The judge gave a slow, considerate nod of his head. “Objection sustained.”

Twii gave Urbosa a subtle but unmistakable side-eye. I thanked her silently. “Speaking of the murder weapon,” he continued in his signature, holier-than-thou tone, “I have here Exhibit F: a list of traits possessed by the elusive firearm responsible for the victim’s life.”

This wasn’t good. The list in question had been compiled by the prosecution based on traits of the fatal wound revealed by the autopsy, as well as other traits shared by the two bullets that were found at the estate. It contained information like its .38 caliber and that it had likely been fired twice at point blank, to name a few examples.

“My question for you, witness, is the following. What did you find during your ‘investigation’ regarding the weapon?”

This was fine, I kept telling myself. He still had yet to present the most fatal piece of evidence in the record. “As I’ve said before, none of our searches turned up any sign of it, other than what’s listed on that piece of paper you’re holding.”

“Is that so?” The sarcasm rooted in his voice had me sweating bullets. “In that case, Ms. Hyrule, I’d like to turn your attention to this passage here at the bottom.”

That was “Inspector Hyrule” to him, but of course, he couldn’t care less for such trifling things as common decency.

But when I read over the passage at which he was pointing, my throat closed up.

“Allow me to read it aloud for the court.” He snobbishly cleared his throat. “And I quote, ‘The murder weapon and the circumstances surrounding it strongly suggest an Octoric M&P revolver,’ end quote. I’d also like to add that this particular model is favoured by the district bureau of police, who issue them out to many of their detectives for self-defence.”

I gritted my teeth, annunciating each word as I spat, “Get to the point.”

The smarmy bastard was hardly even phased by my unmasked hostility. “Now, now, Ms. Hyrule, you’ve no reason to worry,” he waved off. “After all, I have no intention of accusing you.”

When he spoke that last word, my heart stopped, and deep down, I knew it was over.

“Firstly I wish for you to clarify a few things for me, as you were one of the first to discover the scene of the murder when it happened.”

I gave a slow, strenuous nod, losing strength in my knees by the second, but standing my ground all the same. “Go on.”

“The defendant showed no sign of having a gun on or anywhere near her person when you arrived, correct?”

“Correct,” I lied.

“Good. Now that we’ve established that the defendant was unarmed, I’d like to present another piece of evidence.” He laid out flat a second sheet of paper on the stand in front of me. “Exhibit H. This is part of a record kept by the precinct where the witness is currently employed, alongside the rest of her team. It details a list of the firearms given out to detectives each day, as well as the time when each one was issued and when it was returned to custody at the end of its designated officer’s shift.”

And there it was. I’d known all along that it had only been a matter of time until he’d bring out this piece of evidence, but, evidently, I’d failed to prepare myself mentally for this. Perhaps a part of me had hoped not to be on the stand when it happened. All I could do now was hold my peace and pray that it wouldn’t get worse from here.

“This page corresponds with the day before the murder. Now, Ms. Hyrule,” he addressed, summoning a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, “I’m sure you’ll recognize this badge number here. Would you please read it aloud for me?”

I swallowed my nerves and did as he’d requested. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“Thank you.” He flashed me that shit-eating grin of his. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the number belonging to one Constable Link Fyori, the witness’ very own investigative partner.” A few whispers drifted through the gallery following that announcement. “One who reads this will also notice that, after his revolver was issued out to him the morning before the murder, it was never returned to the precinct’s custody thereafter. In fact, it is still missing to this day.”

With this, the whispers grew in number, creating a din of distrust that had the attorney smirking from ear to ear.

“Objection.”

The whispering dissipated. Twii’s shoulders sagged as he hypocritically shot Urbosa a look that said, “What now?”

“Mr. Twii, how is this relevant? Unless you have definitive proof linking Constable Fyori to the crime, I see no point in bringing it up.”

The judge gave a pound of his gavel with a bone-chilling shake of his head. “Overruled. The court will allow the defence to continue, provided that it has good reason.”

My mouth fell open, and so had Urbosa’s.

“Thank you, Your Honour. I was just getting to that, my good prosecutor.” Now even she seemed on edge. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut through with a knife. “I may not have proof as things stand currently. However, that is about to change. You see, I have reason to believe that our witness here is covering for someone.”

The courtroom broke out into an even louder din of murmurs, as if I couldn’t clearly hear each backhanded remark the members of the gallery were making at my expense.

The pounding of the judge’s gavel echoed throughout the room, and the whispering ceased once again.

“You must be mistaken.” I stood as tall as I could with how close my legs were to giving up on me. “I happen to be one of the most trusted detectives in the force. Why do you think I was put in charge of this case despite being one of the first on the scene?”

“Ah, but that, dear witness, was your superiors’ fatal mistake.”

Damn that solicitor. “What do you mean?”

“Although my client has elected not to testify to the court, she has let me in on a certain piece of information—one that I believe will make the jaws of everyone here drop to the floor.”

Surely not. Surely even she wouldn’t dare stoop so low.

“Inspector...” The attorney looked me dead in the eyes. The air was suffocating. “What do you have in your briefcase?”

Everyone was staring at me and murmuring amongst themselves, more raucously than ever before, like I was the one on trial.

“N-No, it’s—it’s not what it seems,” I wavered. Then mustering my shattered courage, “You!” I pointed my finger at Twii. “Prove to me that the defendant wasn’t lying. I demand to see proof!”

But my demands were met with silence. Even Urbosa was looking at me with cold contempt and disappointment.

“Bailiff.”

An officer appeared from the sidelines. He seized my bag.

“Wait, stop!”

I tried to wrest it from his grasp, but he was too strong. I watched helplessly as he opened it up, reaching in and revealing the murder weapon for all to see.

“No...!”

“Bailiff, what is the number engraved on that weapon?”

He seemed to recite the number in slow motion, twisting the knife with every digit. “FB7732Z438LL.”

“No, please!” I screamed. “It wasn’t him, he’s been framed! Please, Your Honour, you have to believe me!”

Amidst the roar of the crowd, I saw the conclusive shake of the judge’s head. With a pound of his gavel, he said, “I hereby order the immediate detainment of Link Fyori under the charge of first degree murder.”

I met eyes with my partner but half a second before I saw him be dragged out of his seat with brute force.

“No!”

“As for this witness, she shall receive her sentence after being questioned by the police for the concealing of evidence, contempt of court, and perjury.”

I cried out when an overwhelming pain shot through my arm. My family watched from the gallery in either horror or disgust, or a mixture of both perhaps. I tried with all my might just to get the bailiff to stop hurting me, but it was futile.

“Your Honour, just a moment please.”

With the judge’s approval, the man’s grip on my arm lightened up. The one who’d spoken had been none other than that wretched defence attorney.

“Inspector, if you don’t mind, I have one more question to ask you.”

I held my breath, bracing myself. Though there wasn’t much he could say at this point that could possibly make the situation worse.

“Why?” he finally asked. “Why did you feel the need to conceal such a critical piece of evidence?”

My entire face boiled over with heat. I looked around, taking in the courtroom’s atmosphere, and my whole being was filled to the brim with indescribable anger and shame. Barely able to swallow the charged whimper lodged at the cusp of my throat, I choked out the words, “No comment.”

The trial had ended while I’d still been in the middle of interrogation by my own peers. I was lucky enough to get off with a fine, but it was because of that hour-and-a-half-long lecture that I only found out about Paya’s “not guilty” verdict after the entire courtroom had been cleared out. This was no surprise to me, of course, but still a disappointment, to put it lightly. What was a surprise was that no one, not Paya, nor Auntie Purah, nor even Urbosa, had bothered to wait for me.

That was fine. They could think whatever they wanted of me. I’d simply have to redeem myself by proving Link’s innocence in his trial.

It was to this end that I made my way to the district’s Centre of Detention.

When Link appeared behind the iron bars of the visitors’ room, he was already sporting a worn and faded prisoner’s uniform, surely having just undergone an interrogation of his own. Though, from the looks of him, his had been considerably more thorough than mine.

I cleared my throat. “Hello, Link.”

“Hello,” he replied.

Deathly silence filled the air. The harsh ticking of the clock on the wall behind me was slowly starting to crawl under my skin.

“They, uhm...didn’t go easy on you, eh?”

He shook his head, eyes wandering without aim.

Why did it have to be so hard to talk to him sometimes? He’d never been so unapproachable back in our days as teenagers. Though now, I supposed, recent events were only making things even more difficult for me than usual.

“Look...” I took a deep breath, shifting in my seat. “I’m sorry. Alright? I couldn’t cover for you forever. They were bound to find out eventually. Please, don’t be upset.”

“What? Zelda...” His demeanour morphed from listless to urgent, almost apologetic, as he struggled to find his voice. “Why would I be upset with you? I never asked you to cover for me in the first place.”

“I know.” Now it was I who couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eyes. “I just knew that you couldn’t have possibly... I mean, you would never—”

“I didn’t.”

He’d caught me with my mouth hanging open, when he’d cut me off.

“I didn’t kill her. I promise you.”

Of course he hadn’t. It was obvious, even though the revolver had borne no fingerprints and, with the gloves that he always wore, he wouldn’t have left any. What motive could he have had? He was an amnesiac, and even if he hadn’t been, he still wouldn’t have had a reason to kill my godmother.

I took out my pen and notebook, the only things left in my case that hadn’t been confiscated. “Tell me what you know, Link. Everything.”

A beat. Then he straightened his posture and began to explain his side of the story. As it turned out, my intuition had been spot on. This whole mess was the design of the Yiga organization. Link told me about his encounter with them before the murder. They had blackmailed him into surrendering his revolver to them, after which he would never see it again.

Though, even without a hint of deceit in his tone or manner, I had questions about the means by which the Yiga had blackmailed him. He had virtually nothing to lose. Didn’t he?

In any case, I honestly had considered showing him the gun that I’d found on the scene that night, but somehow I’d had the distinct impression that he’d known nothing about it, despite the very object in question belonging to him. I’d thought perhaps someone from the organization had switched out his weapon for another without his noticing. It was no secret that even the police bureau was infested with their ilk. In the end, I hadn’t been far off the mark.

The whole time he spoke, he had his head lowered, hair falling in front of his eyes, as if something were holding them back from meeting mine. Then he muttered, “When I had my encounter with the organization, I...remembered.”

His limited annunciation meant I had to take a moment to decipher the syllables of the last word he’d uttered. Then they sank in. “Wait. What? You mean you...” It felt beyond strange to even speak the words after so long. “You got your memory back?”

He lowered his head further. Was that a nod?

My mind went back to what he’d said to me on that one occasion in the office, not long after this whole mess had first begun. “Link, you...” My hands curled into themselves around the strap of my satchel. “All this time...why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” he pleaded. “It would’ve been a hindrance to the investigation.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Dropping that bomb on me would only have thrown my conscience deeper into its already tangled web of turmoil.

Amidst all the questions swirling in my mind, one suddenly appeared, eclipsing all the rest. “Why did you disappear back then?”

At this, he finally looked up and met my gaze. But when he did, his eyes were wide, almost trembling. His look seemed to cast the whole room into a great, looming darkness.

“Oh, it’s...it’s okay if you’d prefer not to talk about—”

“No,” he exclaimed. “I must.” But the way his shoulders came up to meet his ears and how rapidly his chest rose and fell told me it wasn’t going to be an easy story to tell. “It was the Yi—” He choked on his words. “The...organization.”

There it was again. The name of the group I’d been chasing without rest ever since their appearance eighteen years prior. “I knew it...” I mumbled without thinking.

He steeled himself, then continued. “That day, my father was picking me and my sister up after school. Normally we would’ve ridden home with him in his automobile, but that morning, he and I had planned to surprise Aryll by getting...I think it was ice cream, on our way back. Anyway, we decided to walk home that day. But...” His face darkened yet again. “But then...”

Pressing him for more details would have been beyond cruel. I could only imagine the horrors that those blackguards had put him and his family through. “How many of them were there?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that they had us outnumbered.” I nodded along, without thinking, as he continued his tale. “They were all armed with what looked like military grade shotguns, and they wore those masks with the inverted Sheikah family crest... I’ve always known that I’d seen that image somewhere before.”

No one knew why the organization had chosen this symbol for themselves, though I personally suspected it to be a show of opposition.

“Anyway, after they sh...shot father,” he struggled, a hand coming up to his now quavering lips, “they must’ve felt threatened by Aryll and me, because the next thing they did was...shoot her, too.” The way his tone had started to oscillate and how his face had drained itself of colour made my stomach churn. His anguish was so clear, it was devastating. “One of them had said something to the ends of, ‘We can’t have you scamps telling on us.’ But before they could...’shut me up’ as well, I fled.” Another pause. He kept on breathing. “I was too terrified to notice which way I was going. The whole time I ran, they kept firing at me. They were too reckless to aim properly, though, mind.”

“Well...that’s lucky, at least,” I tried. This was met with a sigh of reluctant agreement. “Still, how did you make it out of that with your life?”

“They stopped chasing me when I made it out of the back alleys and into the open,” he explained. “I suppose they couldn’t risk revealing themselves.”

Now it all made sense. Seven years ago, when he’d vanished without a trace, it was as though he’d never even existed in the first place. No one could get in contact with him or his family, and yet, no one batted an eye about it. It had seemed I’d been the only one who’d thought of it as anything less than perfectly normal. Just like when my mother had lost her life.

“We never had the chance to get ice cream that day.” He looked all but ready to burst into tears with that sentence. That was the moment I realized, no matter how drastically the last seven years of hell had changed him, there was still a fragment of that playful, hollow-legged sixteen-year-old left deep in his dark, forgotten core. If there was a way to bring that bright-eyed child back out into the light, I would find it, even if it spelled my demise.

Even so, there was one thing left that had yet to be explained. “What about your amnesia?”

“Ah...” His brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t know what caused that, to be honest with you.” He seemed to be racking his mind, but to no avail. “By the time those thugs finally gave up, I didn’t recognize my surroundings. I remember trying to find my way home, but I suppose I just ended up getting myself even more lost from there.” It was no wonder. The street names in this town were of little help in navigation, and it wasn’t hard to understand why he might have been apprehensive to ask for directions in such a bustling and hostile environment, especially after what he’d just been subjected to. “So I fell asleep in the streets that night,” he concluded with a shivering exhale. “The next morning, I woke up without the slightest notion of who I was.”

My heart took a plunge at the thought of his young self curled up in some alleyway, like a baby bird who’d fallen from the nest. “It must have been some sort of mental defence mechanism,” I conjectured. “That’s the only explanation I can come up with.” He slowly nodded his agreement. “After that, then, I suppose the rest is history.”

“Indeed...”

The visitors’ room fell into a deep, reflective silence, one nothing like that which had had me gasping for air moments ago. I watched the weary feelings of dread swim in his once bright blue eyes, tearing him apart.

He’d spent five whole years in that cold, cramped ward without even a name by which to call himself. And now we were back where we’d started. He may have regained his memories in the end, but at what cost?

I no longer felt the need to hunt down those who had wronged me. Now, my only desire was to slip between the bars that stood between the two of us and whisk him away to a far off land, where no one would ever hurt us again. But I pushed the impossible daydream aside. Even if escape were an option, we’d only be running straight out into range of Yiga fire.

“After your trial tomorrow...well, at the very least, I’ll lose my badge,” I smiled waywardly. Then, letting it fade and rolling my shoulders back, “Until then, I swear, I’ll do everything within my power to prove your innocence. Then we can go out for ice cream together.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears when he looked up at me then. Now that I thought about it, this seemed like the first time I’d ever seen him come close to crying, even in the time before the incident. Of course, he’d seen me in tears countless times back then. I wondered if he remembered them.

“Zelda...?” My name had started to leave his lips with conviction, but weakened on its way out. “There’s...something else I should tell you.”

“Anything.”

Just then, I caught him straightening out the cuff of his black-barred sleeve, concealing the fair skin of his wrist, out of the corner of my eye. “Never mind.” He again cast his gaze downwards, muttering an inaudible, “It’s nothing,” under his breath.

[smilelikeaknife]

OK so

Let’s talk about Laurent for a second here, break down his whole mindset and what’s going on in his brain

we see his childhood in season 2 and we see that he was this bright and happy lil boy, adorable, trying to study to give his mom the life he thinks she deserves, happy and well cared for

he sees his mom swindled, and her health decline, and then she drops dead in front of him, gotta be something to mess up the head a bit

now there’s a blank space, cause he was still a little kid when she died, he wasn’t a teenager who could go off on his own or even all that close to it, he was like, 12ish? that’s about five years before he can be legally considered an adult in many European countries (I’m mostly only familiar with Britain, which is 17, idk how it is in Belgium). we aren’t sure what happens during this time, foster care? adoption? some sort of system? again, not familiar with the customs in Belgium/Europe regarding these things.

next time we see him, he’s charming and boozing his way through life, he is literally Fiyero from Wicked (great AU maybe? shit, it’s already got Wizard of Oz all over it, make him the fucking scarecrow, right?) he’s given up on all his childhood dreams of using his smarts and charm for anything good because who is it for? just himself?

this is the first instance now that I find that Laurent should have been in therapy (other than watching his mom die, obviously): he has a co-dependent personality type, he needs someone else in his life to focus on for him to try to be anything resembling happy and stable. without his mom, he doesn’t care, who does he need to impress?

now, he sees a chance to avenge his mother when he sees the swindler again, and then we see Dorothy sweep him into the team, apparently under Shi Won’s orders. she herself isn’t all that impressed with him at first despite treating him warmly and with enthusiasm, because he didn’t seem all that impressive at first: some young man with a sad story that’s literally wasting his life (and riddled with STDs, that line got me laughing I won’t lie).

HERE IS WHERE THE NARRATIVE TAKES TWO SIDES: from the START Dorothy tells him that they are not family, they are not lovers, they are lone agents. the original team made these rules and they are the only ones who truly abide by them. Laurent says okay, sure, I can do that, my only family is dead. but then he starts falling for this bright and warm woman who lives her life without fear and regret. the rules were not ones he ever truly agreed on. but Dorothy never really wavers. sure, she becomes more and more fond of him, they sleep and live together (but wait, she says in the narrative that it’s occasional. it’s not serious for her. not forever.) but she’s never once given a thought to it being anything more. she shows him time and again that her life and choices matter more to her (and shit, that’s fine, I’m not knocking her, she was right upfront with him from the get go, it’s on him for slipping up) when he shows genuine concern for her life after being strung up by goons for a job and she ignores his care in favor of finding out where the money is. she is annoyed with him in this moment. so what does he do? he proposes in the next scene. her response? to tell him that she thinks marriage is archaic, it’s not for her, it’s a curse. to her, marriage would be a cage, not freedom. it would not be this liberating warmth that it seems to be to Laurent. he is driven by caring for people, he needs someone to love. he’s desperate for it. but he keeps trying and they do still fall together each time. so he wears her down and she agrees to be cursed (girl actually accepts his proposal and calls it a curse at the same time, there’s red flag #18724893274 for you, Laurie). they have their almost retirement party, everyone agrees to go their own ways, Seiji is gonna go back to his family (I don’t want to talk about Seiji and honestly Dorothy’s comments about them, we won’t go there) Shi Won is going to keep ballin’ and Laurent and Dorothy are going to live happily ever after, after ONE MORE heist to go out with a bang. Dorothy is now the most animated she has been in a while. she’s always animated for the cons, the cons are what fuel her.

so this whole time you had Laurent believing he found his one true love and being finally ready to live the normal life he always wanted, to be a good person. he thinks they’re going to do this one last job and that’s it, they’re done and can be happy. Dorothy never wanted that. she wanted to live the con life, to live free and untethered or weighed down by anything or anyone.

now. I have seen the theory before and I actually think it’s true: Dorothy staged her own death. maybe not all of the pieces were exactly as planned or intended such as the part where the real princess was found, but honestly? maybe she did know. point would still stand, she was planning this as her escape from a life that she never wanted to keep the one she had. I was just about to ask myself why she couldn’t just say no but I remembered we were talking about Laurent here, and he doesn’t really understand the concept fully.

she planned the con with Seiji and Shi Won perhaps, maybe they were in on Dorothy’s fake death. it would make sense, considering they were going to need someone to retrieve her after she fell into the ocean.

I’m not going to go so far as to say she planned the whole rest of the story that would happen after she vanished from Laurent’s life, that would be insane. but a big part of me fully believes that her “amnesia” at the end is probably faked and that she had also faked her death to avoid being trapped. and the ring coming back to her in the end shows that Laurent is finally letting her go too, as was her intention.

also all this plays into how Laurent is in the present part of the show, how he treats Makoto, whom I do believe he actually cares for, is fond of, honestly maybe loves, because he literally doesn’t know how to process emotions from all of the trauma he endured, so traumatizing those he cares for is how he shows affection. I AM NOT EXCUSING HIS BEHAVIOR OR BLAMING DOROTHY IN THIS EITHER. honestly, everyone in the damn show needs massive amounts of therapy. Seiji should fucking pay for it too.

[southslates]

Thoughts on Violent Reflections

Discussion (not really spoilers) about this WIP of mine will take place under the cut. Will include mentions of dissociation, PTSD, unhealthy relationships and the understanding that fiction is not reality. 

I’m also going to preface this by saying that I’m a minor and that I use fiction to explore ideas. 

To summarize, violent reflections is a capturefic in which Katara loses her mind after being captured and briefly forgotten at the beginning of season one. While she’s stuck, Sokka and Aang make it to the North Pole, only for Azula and Zuko to catch up. Azula then kills the Avatar, and Zuko and her both collaborate and take down Ozai, thus leaving Zuko as Fire Lord while Azula controls the Earth Kingdom and the other poles. Zuko rediscovers Katara on his ship as he comes back— a Katara that has lost her mind and is severely disassociating, along with having PTSD from her capture. She’s a broken person and he grows fascinated with her, living with her in the Fire Nation palace. They eventually get married and have a child, but that’s where the first chapter ends off, so I’ll end the summary there. The rest of the fic surrounds the incidents laid out by the first chapter. 

I’m writing this, particularly, because I got a message about this fic and aspects of it that the sender didn’t agree with. This isn’t in just response to them, it’s just a general analysis of the fic, my thought process, and how I feel about it. I think it presented a good opportunity to do so. 

The first note they made was “Don’t say this is how a capture fic would actually end up. That’s not your goal you just want to make something different from the norm and weird. If that’s your goal be proud and vocal about it, but don’t lie and say its realistic” So let’s talk about realism.

Violent Reflections is a direct response to the many— perhaps dozens— of capture fics that exist on FFN and older Zutara archives, especially ones written while the show was airing and before shippers knew about Zuko’s redemption arc. I was having a lot of trouble seeing all of those, particularly because they seemed riddled with Stockholm Syndrome that wasn’t acknowledged. I think there’s a lot to be said about writing darkfic— but with FFN’s lack of a proper tagging system, those relationships seemed romanticized. 

Criticisms of Zutara that claim that it’s an oppressive ship, in my mind, are legitimate when it comes to those stories. The world has evolved in the past fifteen years, so of course we do not consider plots where Katara just becomes the Fire Lady a part of Zutara now. But Zuko was not always a good character. Yes, those stories exist. Those stories romanticize toxic relationships. 

With Violent Reflections, I wanted to not do that. This fic may not be how a capture fic would actually end up, because that depends on your interpretation of the story line and your headcanons. But relatively, the fic explores dissociation, PTSD, and a really toxic relationship, which are themes that show up in real people’s lives when they’re captured. And I have talked to real people about this story and how it relates to them, and they have told me that it’s an interpretation they relate to. Of course it isn’t perfect, but it’s fiction, I have tagged it, and those are themes that I am exploring. These are themes that people who are reading the story have told me they understand. 

Of course this fic is not going to be accurate because this is fictional writing in a fictional world and it’s my interpretation. 

On that I “wanted to make something different from the norm and weird” and should be “proud and vocal about that” . . .

I did want to write something different from the norm, and I think that’s legitimate. I don’t think that makes a story inherently weird, and again, if you think it is, cool. I’m not holding a gun to your head. I have warnings and tags. AO3 can block stuff. Exit out. And I’m not going to be proud or vocal about anything I write, particularly— but although I’m writing this for fun, it can be pressing for me too. That’s why it takes me so long to update. This fic takes me, personally, to some bad places, and writing it helps me cope with those feelings. It’s not my goal to write something weird. 

And then I was told “That doesn’t even make sense, it’s not more realistic for a TV show. Have you even seen how it plays out or you just heard of it. It’s not realistic for this.”

I sincerely hope that nobody reading this relates greatly to Katara, but I know people do. Yes, ATLA is a TV show, but that has nothing to do with the themes I write about. ATLA is full of whump fics, people analyzing imperialism in another world, and the fandom itself discussing the show from a meta angle. A lot of fandoms are just TV shows, but media— that includes fanworks and these shows— are inherently criticisms on the real world. ATLA is a TV show and Katara and Zuko are just characters that I am using to tell a story.

No, I have not personally witnessed this exact situation play out. Yes, I know and have heard from many people who have gone through situations. A lot of the themes resonate with me, which is why I am able to write this, but I owe it to nobody to extrapolate further on that. 

If you believe this story— or any story— is not realistic, that is your perspective. The tag that I was using, ‘how a capture fic would actually end up’, implied that if a fourteen-year-old girl was captured as a war prisoner and left alone in solitude she could, indeed, lose her mind, suffer from PTSD, and disassociate. These are all outcomes much more probable than her falling completely in love with her captor. This is all fiction. Realism is all relative. 

The last sentence was “You just wanted to make some weird gory fic” which says a lot because this fic contains absolutely no gore and contextualizes an unhealthy relationship. If you aren’t going to read a fic, quit it. Don’t tell the writer— who, with fic, often uses writing to work through their own personal experiences and trauma— that their fic is weird and simply something it is not. 

To summarize, and to conclude, Violent Reflections is hard for me to write. It’s emotionally taxing. But it’s also important for me, which is why I am writing it. 

I know plenty of people who are not reading it because the tags make them uncomfortable— I know people who are taking it step by stem— and I know people who find it intriguing. That’s all valid. At the end of the day, this is a story, a fictional story, and honestly? It’s just as valid as anything else I have posted, though it’s of a different theme. I write to explore myself, and this is one way how. 

If you want to talk to me about themes in that fic or any other, please reach out to me. But please, I ask, if you don’t want to read, don’t. Look at the tags and go away. And don’t comment on how a story looks at a surface level, either. It’s usually deeper than is presented. Block me or blacklist me, I don’t care. Just please leave me alone. 

[sweetsmellosuccess]

Sundance 2021: Day 3

Films: 4 Best Film of the Day(s): Cryptozoo

Playing With Sharks: Valerie Taylor and her late husband Ron were pioneering shark conservationists for the last four decades, paving the way for protected marine parks in Australia and helping to create a different perception of sharks. As Sally Aitken’s doc on Valerie’s life and times suggests, however, the Taylors were also paying something of a penance: First, for all the spearfishing they had done in their teens and 20s (Ron was a world champion); later, for playing a significant role in helping Jaws achieve some of its underwater shark scenes. As a result of that film’s supernova success, sharks became one of the most egregiously hunted species in the world for decades (one conservationist in the film explains that after 100 million sharks were killed for twenty years  —  a result of macho big game hunting, yes, but far much more for their lucrative fins, which go on to make the soup considered a delicacy in China  —  only 10% of the world shark population still exists), leaving the Taylor’s favorite filming subject in dire peril. Aitken’s film, loaded with wondrous footage  —  a benefit of Valerie’s being in the public eye, and working as marine oceanographers for most of their lives  —  charts the evolution of Valerie’s relationship with the animals in the sea, and displays her fearless brand of adventuring along the way (Ron dubbed her “Give it a Go Valerie” for her willingness to put her life on the line). Now 85, we also watch her travel to Fiji for a dive amongst a newly replenished population of bull sharks, aided greatly by her, and other conservationist organizations, working to end the shark genocide. For this Jaws aficionado  —  an animal advocate myself, like the Taylors, I have to acknowledge the harm the film did to marine ecology in my devotion  —  watching the couple film their notable live shark scenes in Spielberg’s monster movie opus was a thrill, but watching the couple’s dedication to their cause in subsequent years is far more significant.

On the Count of Three: It seems like a great idea to start a film with a pair of best friends holding up guns to each other’s heads in a suicide pact, only to go into extended flashback and retrace what led to this moment right before they pull the trigger, but that’s precisely where things begin to go awry for screenwriters Ryan Welch and Ari Katcher. In comedian Jerrod Carmichael’s feature debut, the two friends, Kevin (Christopher Abbott), and Val (Carmichael) have a long history of helping each other through their respective childhood traumas  —  Kevin was abused by one of his therapists; Val had a physically abusive father  —  so they mean to come to this moment in a sort of full-circle act of final friendship, but then various sillinesses intervene to extend the day into a series of escalating incidents until finally things go too far to simply go back as they were. A cross between an unrealized dark comedy (much humor is derived from Kevin’s “horrible” taste in music, including a far too on-the-nose track from Papa Roach concerning actual suicide), and unbelievable drama (driving around in a bright yellow jeep, with Kevin wearing practically a technicolor dreamcoat, it’s impossible that the pair wouldn’t have been arrested almost immediately), the film gets decent mileage out of its pair of leads, who share a solid rapport, but never seems to find its footing enough to make much of an impact otherwise.

Cryptozoo: In his zoom video intro to the film, writer/director Dash Shaw appears through a kaleidoscope filter, a fitting visual enhancement for the trippy animated film he’s created. Painstakingly hand-drawing the cells, which gives the film a much less fluid but appreciably personalized appearance, he’s crafted an engaging story about cryptids  —  mythical creatures, from gorgons, manticores, and chimeras, to unicorns, pegasuses, and a baku  —  being kept by a kindly woman (voice of Grace Zabriske) in a secret park in order to keep them safe from outside forces. Tracking down the creatures from opposing sides are Lauren (Lake Bell), a fiercely determined woman, whose childhood was saved by a nightmare-eating baku when she was a child; and an evil-minded capitalist (voice of Jason Schwartzman), who has a mind to sell the creatures to the military. Trippy it most certainly is, but the story remains solidly coherent  —  imagine a kind of Jurassic Park but with a kraken, and a lot more peculiar nudity  —  which keeps it beguilingly grounded, despite its fantastical imagery and thematics. As an analogy for how it is mankind has lost all instinct and contact with the magical realm  —  well, beyond the MCU, and LOTR, and all the movie series that have made billions of dollars on the idea  —  but, also, a treatise on what happens when even our best intentions turn out to be misguided.

Eight For Silver: Sean Ellis’ werewolf movie tarts itself up a bit with 19th century gothic imagery and a steady atmospheric gloom, but the script, which Ellis also wrote, can’t escape most of the worst cliches of the genre, and its earnestness alone can’t keep it from being pretty insipid. Alistair Petrie plays a wealthy landowner named Seamus Laurent. When a group of Roma come to settle on his land, which they (rightfully, it turns out) claim as their own, he and the other nearby landowners pay a posse of mercenaries to eviscerate them as cruelly as possible. As a result, Seamus and his family, wife, Isabelle (Kelly Reilly), daughter, Charlotte (Amelia Crouch), and son, Edward (Max Mackintosh) are put under an ancient curse. Many predictable things happen from there involving a pair of silver, canine-like teeth, innocent people being gored by some mysterious creature, and lots of arterial sprays of blood (Ellis seems to have a penchant for them, as well as for severed limbs  —  I lost count of how many hands and feet were forcibly removed from their trunks). When a pathologist (Boyd Holbrook) comes to investigate, he puts all the pieces together, but not enough of the landed gentry listen to him in time to save themselves from their appointed maulings. Shot in the French countryside, the film has a grand palette with which to work, but too much time is spent establishing things that seem perfectly obvious, and the script is riddled with peculiar anachronisms (“Me, neither,” one character says in response to someone being unable to sleep) that keep throwing off its calculations. It’s trying hard, but simply isn’t made carefully enough, or with enough originality, to have it rise above its B-movie sort of station.

Sundance goes mostly virtual for this year’s edition, sparing filmgoers the altitude, long waits, standing lines, and panicked eating binges  —  but also, these things and more that make the festival so damn endearing. In any event, Sundance via living room is still a hell of a lot better than no Sundance. A daily report.

[themoonandotherslikeit]

Gone - Epilogue

Dean

It wasn’t functional, but when has anything that Dean Winchester has done been functional?

He signed in at the front desk and walked down the long hallway. It was the fifth door to the right, he had it memorized at this point. The door was unlocked, as it always was, because he wasn’t permitted a lock. He was too unstable, and it was understandable given the circumstances. Dean opened the door and stepped through the threshold. “Hey,” he said softly into the dark room.

There was a muffled response through the darkness, and Dean shook his head. “Listen, man. The light is good for you. We’ve talked about this.”

“No ‘s not.”

Dean smiled and shook his head, his heart aching. “I’m going to open the curtains.”

“No.” It came out as a whine, which normally would irritate him, sending a sharp pain through his temple, but it didn’t. Not now. Not anymore.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “I want to see you.”

There was a huff and shuffling, a groan from the bed as he moved with a bit of struggle. “Fine.”

Dean walked through the room, stepping over piles of clothing, discarded blankets and pillows that were thrown off in fits of frustration.

He opened the heavy, dark curtains, letting the sunlight stream in through the windows. He turned to find Castiel twisted in a pile of blankets, looking sleepy and riddled with irritation. Dean smiled at him warmly, nonetheless. “Good morning.”

“What is so good about it?” Cas groached.

Dean walked to him and leaned down to kiss his pouty lip. “I get to see you and,” he said, standing back up, “Naomi was convicted today.”

They’d caught her. Her confession’s to Castiel were enough, and he was not only deemed a victim of her, but also a hero.

“Okay,” Cas said quietly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is it any better today?”

Dean hadn’t gotten to him in time, Cas broke his promise, and he barely made it. It could’ve been worse, but it was bad...really fucking bad.

Naomi had poisoned him. Cas told him that he thought it was whatever she used to drug him before, to confuse him… but he was caught. It was arsenic. A huge dose. It was a miracle that he was alive, but he didn’t escape unscathed.

The sun caught Cas’ blue eyes, and he sat up with some struggle. “I haven’t gotten up to try,” Cas admitted.

“Let’s get up.” Dean offered a hand to him, and Cas took it. He pulled Cas up, his weight straining on Dean’s arm. He slid his arm through Cas’ and held him at the waist. “We should put on your shoes.”

“I’m fine,” Cas said through gritted teeth.

He had been in a coma for a month and was still recovering. The poison damaged his nerves, and he was working with a physical therapist to learn his new way of life. There was a chance that he would never regain that feeling back. Dean had been with him everyday, honoring his promise of making Cas laugh, being with him, loving him despite his bad attitude and continuous struggles.

Cas’ nails were planted in Dean’s arm, stinging the skin, but he didn’t mind, because when he ran into that room, gun extended only to find Cas slumped in his chair with a broken mug at his feet on the floor, Dean’s heart stopped in his chest. He knew then that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to see Cas again. “Get on the fucking ground! Naomi Smith you’re under arrest for the murder of Meg Masters…” He couldn't breath. The EMT’s were running in after him, poised, and ready to help. He felt far away, like he was in a dream, and every day he regretted letting Cas go into that room.

He was a fool.

They stepped outside, and Cas sucked in the fresh air. “Summer,” he commented. “I never liked it before.”

“Why not?”

Cas smiled a bit, turning his face to the sun. “Didn’t like to be outside.”

“Ah so that’s why you’re so pale.”

Castiel shot him a look, and Dean grinned back at him. “Before being inside, locked in that morgue was the only place I felt like myself…”

“How about now?”

“Now… the only place I feel like myself is when I’m with you.” He tilted his head to the side, leaning into Dean’s touch just a bit more than he had been before.

“When did you turn into such a sap, Cas?”

Dean felt Cas’ shoulder nudge him in defiance at the question which just made him grin wider.

“Maybe when I almost died?”

Dean’s heart cracked at that and ached deep inside of his chest. “Yeah,” he commented quietly, squeezing Cas’ waist. “Made me a sap, too.”

“I was kidding,” Cas said, looking up at Dean, squinting from the sunlight.

“Not funny.” He leaned his head against Cas’ as they walked. “You know, I was thinkin’ about that first day on Meg’s case.”

They didn’t talk about it much. It was a potential trauma trigger for Cas, and when he said it, Cas’ blue eyes seemed to glaze over, but it was on Dean’s mind, and he couldn’t shake it.

He felt Cas tense under his fingers. “What about it?”

“I asked you to call me if you found out anything… I did think things were weird about the case, but more than anything I wanted you to call me. I just wanted to see you again.”

Cas looked up at him incredulously. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, defensively. “I’d seen you around before, and I always thought you were handsome.”

Cas clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I’m odd.”

“Yes, I never said you weren’t.” Dean grinned down at him. “But I’m kind of into it.”

Cas laughed, filling Dean with joy that seemed to warm his entire being. “I was thinking… after all of this is over maybe you’d want to…” Why was it so hard? He loved Cas. Cas loved him. The worst part was over. The bad guys were gone . As far as what Cas said things were clear in his head for the first time in a long ass time. So why was it so hard?

“I would want to what, Dean?”

“Um… maybe… stay with me? And Sammy. He’s back with me now and doin’ good by the way.”

Cas smiled up at him warmly, his cheek not rising completely from the damage to his nerves, but the smile traveled all the way up, settling in his blue eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.”

It was like he’d asked the guy to prom. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, making his fingers tap at Cas’ side. “Yeah, it’s good.”

“Yes,” Cas agreed.

“And uh, the rest?”

“Hm?”

Dean stopped their walking and turned to face Cas, still keeping a hold of his hip. “If you don’t want to stay with me, Cas, just say it. Okay? Can’t take this…”

His beautiful lips parted and a laugh escaped them, poking at Dean’s annoyance, making his own jaw twitch. “What the fuck is so funny?” Dean snapped.

“You,” Cas said softly, reaching forward and touching Dean’s nose. Even the minimal contact had chills running up his spine. “Asking questions you already know the answer to.”

“I don’t know the answer. That’s why I asked.”

Cas’ reached his thumb up and touched Dean’s bottom lip, stroking it gently. “Of course I will. I’m not in a good place right now… I haven’t been for a long time. I don’t know when I will be okay, but I do know one thing. When I’m with you, I feel sane.”

Dean pulled Cas to him then, in a pressured, feverish kiss.

+++

Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, the warmth of Dean’s lips fading into his own. He pulled back, breathlessly, opening his eyes to tell Dean that he loved him, and of course he would live with him. It felt like the most pointless question that had ever been asked, but he had his answer anyway. He opened his eyes and his stomach dropped out from under him, his breath ripping out of his body like he’d been punched.

Dean was gone.

The outside air.

The grass under his feet.

He stood in the morgue, his hands dripping wet from where he’d scrubbed them in the sink trying to stop the bleeding, and he was staring at the table in front of him. The table that had a woman laying out, exposed, her chest sewn up, her hair spilling out across the shining silver.

+++

Masterlist

Thank you for reading!