#i returned and checked on my bird and her toes were amputated and she had a broken wing that ive to this day not know how it happened

[birdyverdie]

Not to vent on main but this has been a truly shit year

[sunflowerslyf]

Unmasked ~~ Twelve

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @sunflowerslyf for generously offering up your inbox for posting this story as well as your patience in dealing with my editing errors and multiple submissions You’re a gem. Please enjoy the twelfth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 12 ~~

My dreams are pleasant and I wake to warm sunshine and cheerful bird song. When I sit up and examine the room, I see that Peeta is already awake and gone, but no matter. I feel as though we have made excellent progress, now that I know more about him. So many questions remain, about his life as a Mellark, but as last night proved, he is willing to provide them. Perhaps during our ride today we might discuss it some more.

As I enter the breakfast room, my eyes find him first. Maysilee sits perched on his knee, detailing their adventure for the day. As if sensing my presence, Peeta meets my gaze with a soft smile and an unexpected heat in his eyes. My toes curl in my shoes as I picture how that expression might appear in shadows and candlelight, between just him and I and our bed.

I think I need a confessional today.

I am ahead of myself, however and halt my musings. I do not even know my husband’s birth date nor any number of other inconsequential to momentous details about him. I know that he is a baker, an artist. He prefers to sleep with a window open. He always knots his cravat without the use of a mirror and he never takes sugar in his tea. I know the name of his true mother and father and the nature of his rather humble beginnings, yet there is so much more to him. I already know this and am quite eager to find out more.

And to think of how determined I was to proceed right to the consummation without the courtship. Why though? Perhaps to prevent a connection or affection from forming between us, to convince myself that he is the brute I believed him to be that first day we met. Now that I know the source of both his haste and his reluctance to dismount, I feel quite bad about my initial assessment of him, although I do not know if I am so low as to sabotage my own marriage. Perhaps then it was a desire to be done with it, to not have the deed hanging over my head, or perhaps still it was a means to make myself feel superior to Peeta. That last is ridiculous in light of the manner he has approached our lives together so far – as a partnership, an alliance as he called it that first time. But allies must be equal, each contributing to the further well being of the other and of the alliance.

This courtship idea of his is quite sound, I admit to myself. We now have the chance to get to know one another in a way we were not given time to before our wedding, which I hope can only serve to strengthen our bond.

I choose to ignore that the reason for my not knowing Peeta well is that I focused on pursuing his brother as a potential mate and not Peeta. Why did I make that choice anyways? Was it because of Peeta’s birth or because the one meeting I had already had with him unsettled me so? If the first, then I am a despicable and judgemental creature. If the second, then my judgment in general is suspect. Sir Robert had seemed a safer choice at the time, but his elopement with another women shows that to be utterly false.

I further ignore the man in the mask. Whichever brother it was that night can have no bearing on my future with Peeta. I must judge the character of the man before me, not dream of some fantasy that may have been a complete lie. And thus far, as my mother said that first day, it appears that I have before me a very fine man indeed.

Although I had little choice in our engagement, I have control over how I approach our marriage. I could do so with scorn and resentment, but that will do no one any good. It benefits no one to live in a household with the lord and lady ever at odds. No, I choose now to face my marriage to Peeta as he has done – with an open heart and hope for better things to come. At the very least, we can be good friends and equal partners in our life together.

I force myself into the room as Maysilee reclaims his attention. Standing at the sidebar, I fill my plate. I shall need extra sustenance today, I think. I do not plan to end this day a stranger to my husband nor he to me. Peeta can still take his time with all the niceties and pomp in courting me if he wishes, but I need to know as much as I can learn about him today.

Madge stands from the table and presses close to my side, questions in her eyes.

“What?”

“You practically glow this morning, Katniss,” she whispers. “What happened between you last night?”

“He told me about his mother – his birth mother,” I say, eyes averted. I can feel blood humming in my veins, rising to stain my cheeks pink and know that I will not get away with secrecy, yet I cannot stop thinking about what it means that he trusted me with such knowledge, and oddly enough, I cannot stop thinking about what kissing him in truth may feel like.

“That is not all that happened.”

“No,” I concede and then sneak a peek at the pair still engrossed in their breakfast and plans.

“Tell me, Katniss. The suspense and worry are killing me.”

“There is no reason to worry,” I say.

“So then… he has not hurt you? Been…unpleasant or rough at night?”

“Hurt me? No!” I whisper furtively, glancing over my shoulder and relieved to find Peeta engrossed with both Maysilee and Prim.

“Oh you’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that. He seemed such a gentleman, and his treatment of you appears above reproach, but I suppose who we are behind closed doors is never the same and both of you seemed so… so tired and distressed in a quiet sort of way and…” her words trail into breath and I stare at her for a moment.

I snort quite loudly. Madge’s brow draws together. We both check that no one eavesdrops before I explain, because I can hold it in no longer.

“On the contrary, Mr. Mellark is the utmost gentleman in the bedroom. One could say he is too much of a gentleman.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh! You mean that he hasn’t…that the two of you have not…” She waves her hand about in a vague motion as I purse my lips and shake my head.

“He says he wishes to court me first.”

“But…you are already married!” She hisses under her breath and I smile, sly and satisfied with my next words.

���I think it terribly sweet of him.”

“Astonishing,” she says and we both turn to take our places at table. She whispers one more thing before we move within hearing range of the others. “There is still hope then for a truly blessed marriage.”

Hope. The feeling flowers inside me at her words.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Prim asks and I refocus on my food while Madge diverts attention from me and our whisperings.

*************************

I am unable to ascertain more of Peeta’s past during our ride as Doctor Aurelius arrives just as we are headed out, with plans to finally remove the plaster cast my father has worn since late spring, when Doctor Aurelius was finally satisfied with the setting of the bones broken in Father’s accident. A good thing too, as I have heard whispers that my father has been in and out of fever the past few days, but the source has remained a mystery.

I am distracted as we ride, unable to enjoy our time together. Sporadic winds kick up dry dust and the heat is stifling today. Even though I chose to wear breeches today, something I have not done in some time, I have sweat like a pig and am excessively dirty and disheveled in no time at all. Peeta suggests we cut our outing short to return, and I eagerly accept.

As we ride up to the house, Madge greets us, taking Sagitarria’s bridle in her hands. “Doctor Aurelius is still with your father. He wishes all of us present. I fear the news is not good, Katniss.”

I leap from my horse and hurry up the stairs, breathing hard as I enter the room.

“What news?” I ask, as I approach Doctor Aurelius. My mother barely looks at me and even Prim is subdued. The lack of response to my appearance confirms that the news is not good. The stench in the room is my second indicator of how bad the news must be. True there has been an overall smell in Father’s room, more stale and slightly foul. This is undeniably foul.

“One moment. This is news all of you need hear, as it will affect the entire household.” I huff in impatience as we wait. When Madge and Peeta join us, she closes the door and Doctor Aurelius nods. “Mr. Everdeen remains in his coma, unresponsive. There was always a risk of bed sores given the length of time, as well as infection. Come and see for yourself.”

He moves aside bed linens and the sleeve of my father’s shirt to reveal discolored skin, an angry red with sheets of it that have peeled off. I cover my mouth and nose at the pus oozing from several blisters. Doctor Aurelius shows the cut away cast, the sheets of discolored dead skin that have accumulated and adhered to the cotton interior.

“Gangrene,” Peeta says behind me and I turn to face him. Tears cloud my vision, making a muddled mess of his image, hazy and distorted like those drawings of his from distant battlefields.

“Quite. It has advanced too far already. I must amputate this arm immediately.”

“And if you do not?” I ask as my mother bends over my father, clutching his good hand, shoulders shaking with her quiet sobs.

“Your father will be dead in a matter of days.”

“Then amputate,” I say. “Take the blasted arm off!”

The doctor gives me a sympathetic look and Peeta’s hands grasp my shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“It is not that simple, Katniss,” my mother says, lifting her tear stained face.

“There is a chance the amputation itself will kill him. There is risk of further infection, a severe fever or even pneumonia in response to the amputation, it is possible that the infection began deep in his tissues at the same time as his fall or during the resetting of his bones and is only now manifesting where we can see it. In that case, it may have advanced further up his arm than I am able to observe and an amputation will not solve the problem at all. It is risky with a coherent patient. I have never amputated on a comatose one.”

“But there is a chance he will survive?” I ask and the doctor nods. “And no chance at all if you do not?”

“That is correct.”

“Then amputate,” I say again. Both of us look to my mother. She manages to nod in assent.

“What do you need from us?” Primrose asks.

“I will need assistance with the operation itself. Perhaps two people of stout constitution with some modicum of physical strength as well, a background in healing or medicine would be ideal…” Doctor Aurelius looks between my mother and my sixteen year old sister, clearly not impressed with his options. My mother has barely left the house since Father’s accident and has ceased all of her duties as healer. Without Mother’s supervision, Prim has had little practice in the past few months either.

Peeta steps around me then. “Doctor Aurelius, I have been present during a few amputations, although I am neither doctor nor healer. And…I have survived one.”

“Have you really?” The doctor squints at my husband.

“My left leg, sir.” The doctor’s gaze drops as if he could see through Peeta’s trousers. “I would show you, doctor, but there is an odd assortment of ladies present to include my wife and her as yet unmarried sister. I doubt that their mother would appreciate such a display.”

Madge laughs first, only a note or two, then strangely enough my mother joins her and Prim as well. Doctor Aurelius even cracks a small smile.

“Very well. Your assistance will be welcome, Mr. Mellark. I shall send for my kit, as I did not bring that one with me. Mrs. Mellark I need a boy to run the errand.” I move to the door and shout for Horatio. Doctor Aurelius eyes the clear evidence of outdoor exertion on Peeta’s clothes. “And you shall need a bath and change of clothes, Mr. Mellark. Then we need one more—“

“I will do it,” Mother says, rising from her chair on unsteady feet.

“Are you sure that is a good idea, Mrs. Everdeen?” The Doctor questions. Her resolve seems to waver a moment, and Peeta moves to speak directly to her.

“Madame, you know what we will need. A good, hot fire; supplies similar to what you would use to dress a laceration that requires stitches, in greater abundance as it will need to be cauterized,” Peeta tells her gently.

My mother nods and leaps into motion. The doctor watches her in astonishment, but it seems that having something to do for my father has given my mother purpose again. She is a healer, and having both brought many a babe into the world as well as held the hands of countless dying, it seems that what truly crippled her in this case was the waiting and impotence in regards to my father’s care. There was nothing she could do to revive him from his coma except to sit and wait.

“Katniss, we will also need a schedule of persons, perhaps in pairs, to sit vigil afterwards and tend to the wound we shall create. He will need observation at all hours of the day for a few days. See to the organization of that?” My mother says, even as she moves about the room.

The house becomes an uproar as a fire is built up in the grate in my parents’ room. The windows in every other room thrown open to release the heat that seeps through the walls. The door is strictly monitored to reduce the number of insects entering my father’s sick room. Supplies gathered. Baths ordered for Peeta and myself.

I’ve no time to linger in the room adjoining the kitchens, designed by my father to meet my mother’s needs as a healer. A clean body is less likely to contract infections, she would remind us each time we complained of the frequent baths she demanded of the entire household. My father, in an attempt to appease his wife as well as to ease the burden of carrying hot water or the large brass tub up stairs for baths, designed this room and oversaw its modifications. I take only a moment to appreciate the high windows that admit light without compromising privacy, the clean design of drainage, and wonder if this bathroom will be one of the few things we have left of him at the end of this week.

I dare not linger too long, though. Scrubbed clean and dressed in a simple gown, I gather the household and set a schedule for watching over my father for the next few days. Horatio returns with a leather bag for Doctor Aurelius and disappears with it into the chambers.

Silence descends. I pace the hall, unable to sleep as the doctor suggested I do to prepare, as I will sit the first watch with Charles. We eat a sparse lunch and after, Madge keeps Maysilee busy, distracting her from the somber mood that has covered my home. I cannot even hold my sister as she’s insisted on being present as well. As a healer in training.

Just as I am certain I can take no more, Maysilee yawns. “We should take you upstairs to nap.”

“Wanna nap here,” the child whines and Madge soothes her back a moment. “Mama, play music?”

Madge kisses her daughter and rises, settling Maysilee on the sofa with a blanket before moving to the piano. She sits and glances at me for one moment and then begins to play.

The melancholy notes drift through the house, entering my soul and permeating deep. I find stillness through them and close my eyes, recalling the words to the tune. On a deep breath, I release one line and then another. My voice cracks at first, uneven and hoarse from months of no singing at all. As the song continues and Madge ends it only to begin another on its heels, I sing. I sing until my voice warms and grows to something splendid, as it was on days when I would sing with my father.

With steady voice, shaking hands, and tears on my face, I sing and pray that my father will survive this day. I know not how many songs I sing as Madge plays, but when the notes from the piano stop abruptly and Madge gasps, I turn to face the door.

Peeta stands there, looking exhausted and with red speckled on his sleeves. I do not want to consider the amount of my father’s blood that was shed today, but Peeta nods to me.

“He is alright for now.”

I take three steps and then fling myself into his arms. He holds me tight to his chest and we stand there, feeling one another as the birds sing outside. When we move apart, he holds my cheek in his hand. I do not even know how to describe the look that he gives me then, only the effect that it has on me. He is so calm and so steady in this moment, when I feel as though my world is crumbling to pieces. I need not be strong for Peeta, as he knows what anguish I live in right now. His hold on me reminds me that I can survive this. We can survive this, and all hope is not lost.

“Go see him,” he whispers and I need no more urging to race up the stairs.

The room is unbearably hot, although the fire has been extinguished for now. My father lays perspiring in his bed, his body twitching, already caught in fever. My mother wipes his face with a damp cloth, her hair a mess and her eyes distressed. Servants gather stained sheets and dressings and aprons, bustling from the room with grim looks on their faces.

“When did he become so thin?” I ask no one and no one answers.

“I should have seen it,” my mother whispers instead.

“Mother, it is not your fault.”

“I fear that it is. I spent so many days sitting beside him, waiting for him to return to us, that I…I told myself I could not become a ghost. You were engaged to be married. Primrose spoke of Mr. Hawthorne with such fondness and… Life was passing by and I was spending it here, neglecting my daughters for a husband who might never return to us and I tried to right it. I tried to right it and instead failed your father. I should have—“

I halt her words with an embrace and hold her until her tears are spent. “You could not have seen beneath the cast, Mother.”

She sniffles to end her cry and nods. “I shall sleep well knowing he is in your care now, Katniss.”

My mother kisses my cheek and then leaves as Charles enters. Ours is the longest watch, beginning as soon as the operation is deemed complete and continuing to midnight, an easy time for all to remember, and a chance for all who shall sit vigil to complete tasks or to sleep as needed. At midnight, we will begin our regular rotations. Charles and I work through the evening and into the night, refreshing bandages, bathing Father’s fevered skin. Charles nods off and I sing quietly to my father, wishing that perhaps I had done so sooner, as my mother had once asked of me.

When Madge and Joe relieve us near midnight, I head to the kitchen, unsurprised to find Peeta there, kneading dough. Words are not needed between us as I sit, and yet as he works, we begin to talk. I speak of my father, as though sharing all my cherished memories now might somehow preserve his spirit. Peeta listens and encourages my words. We eat slices of a hearty bread, heavy with nuts and grains, a goat cheese with dill in it melting into the pores and slices of cucumber. Then we retire to our room.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Peeta wakes me from a terrible dream. I cling to his shirt and refuse to let him go until he climbs into the bed with me. I fall back asleep wrapped in his arms, his fingers caressing over my shoulders and back.

It becomes our routine. The entire household moves in rotations, everyone showing the strains of long days and long nights. I sing to my father on my shift with him. After a late night of keeping watch over my father, I join Peeta in the kitchens. He bakes. We talk and eat. And then we retire. After that first night, he does not even bother falling asleep in the chair, but settles beside me in the bed. He is there to wake me and comfort me from the terrible visions of the night.

The fears are easier to manage with him beside me in the darkness, warm and steady, healthy and whole. A survivor of such an ordeal, his wholeness gives me hope to cling to. In the mornings, he rises early to take his turn caring for my father, kissing my cheek before he goes. I hunt and take Sagittaria for long rides. Life somehow continues in this strange way.

“Is this how you lost your leg?” I ask one night in the kitchens as the stars burn and Peeta kneads dough for tomorrow’s bread. Mrs. Chilton, our cook, mentioned that she has begun to leave some for him to work on each night, since he seems so fond of it. I watch his motions as another question forms in my head before he answers the first.

“No,” Peeta says. “I did not lose my leg to gangrene, although I saw others who did lose limbs in this manner.”

“Then how?”

“A sword,” he says simply and I think he will not continue as the silence stretches. Then he does. “It sliced deep enough that I needed a tourniquet or I would have bled to death. The ironic part is that my job was to care for the wounded soldiers who could be saved, treat them enough on the battlefield that they might be then moved to the medical tents. If I could not help them at all…they perished on the field.

“Most days I was not in the midst of heavy fighting, but rather followed the movements of the soldiers. That day, I was…overwhelmed with patients and did not notice the shift in the tide of fighting until it was too late and I was suddenly in the thick of it. I applied the tourniquet to myself after I was wounded and continued to help others whom I could drag myself to reach, but when the fighting was over, I should have been left where I lay.”

“Someone moved you?”

“Joe. As a horse trainer and stable hand, he had a gentle touch and demeanor with the beasts and could coax them into places they would otherwise shy from. He drove the cart that moved the wounded from battlefield to medical tent, and then the dead to their graves when only the dead held the field. Joe and I had already become friends of sorts. He lied to the others about how close I was to death and ordered them to get me on the cart, after I had already told him to leave me.

“By the time I was moved to the medical tent, there was no saving my leg. The doctor amputated immediately, sutured and cauterized, and then left me on a cot, bidding me good luck in surviving.”

I stare at my hands then, thinking on how close he must have been to dying that day.

“Your father does not have an easy road, Katniss. If he survives, there will be a host of challenges when he wakes.”

“But you have survived it, so you know how,” I say and lift my gaze to him. “Will you stay to help?”

“I have no plans to leave,” he tells me. Such gravity in his eyes as he makes his promise to me. I add it to the ones he gave me on our wedding day, and for one moment, I am certain that he is going to kiss me. So of course, this is when a soft, silly laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I would not describe Joe as having a gentle touch.”

“Only where horses are concerned,” Peeta says with a smile and we both manage a laugh then. It is a relief to still be able to laugh.

I begin to form an enticing though not yet complete picture of my husband.

“You are more familiar with that bread than I would expect someone who ceased baking at ten to be,” I say on another late night.

“I did not stop at ten.”

“You would sneak into the kitchens of the Mellark household to bake then?”

“It caused a great deal of lectures and strikes of the strap. Such a chore is beneath the son of a Marquis, apparently.” I silently fume at his words. Although I am not surprised to hear that the Marquis resorted to such punishments, as it is quite common, I know that they are not necessary. My mother and father never once struck us that I can recall. Why would one wish to cause your own child physical pain? It seems a brutish practice to me.

“At first I would bake during the day, with the servants, but when the Marquis and Marchioness began to blame the cook for encouraging inappropriate behavior in their ward instead of blaming me for convincing the servants to let me, I began to bake at night instead. By then I was old enough to not need any supervision in the task and no one would suffer except perhaps our poor arithmetic tutors who could not entice me to stay awake for lessons.”

I laugh at the image of a stern man in spectacles attempting to wake a tired Peeta as he dreamt of bread rather than equations.

“It must have been so lonely and confusing for you.” I watch a hundred emotions pass across his face in seconds and know that I have found the truth of it. His adjustment to living in the Mellark household after a mostly happy childhood with William and Nancy Thackeray was not at all easy.

“In many ways, it was…but I did have one brother who became an instant friend and ally. He was more interested in my skill as a playmate and at talking our way out of scrapes than who my parents were.”

“Robert,” I say and cannot meet his eyes, although I see Peeta nodding in my periphery.

“Robert was the only one in that household whose acceptance and welcome of me was both immediate and unconditional. He called me his twin and his brother the very first day and never stopped. He defended me to those who would use my birth as an insult.”

“You must love him a great deal,” I whisper, thoughts of the things Peeta did in the name of protecting his brother foremost in my head. What would I do to protect Prim? Marry someone I knew did not wish to marry me? In a way, that is precisely what I did in marrying Peeta.

“I do. He is my brother. I love him as you love Primrose,” he says and finishes with tonight’s loaf.

Four long days after Doctor Aurelius amputates his arm, my father’s fever breaks. It is during my shift, and I cry out with relief as I feel the sweat finally cooling on my father’s brow, his skin clammy and cooling as the heat dissipates. Charles is near asleep on his feet by then, and I send him to fetch Peeta to relieve him and help me. Peeta and I bathe my father and cover him with a warm blanket, changing his dressings one last time as the day ends, and a new begins. My mother enters as soon as she receives word.

“Thank heaven,” she says when I confirm the change.

“He remains unconscious,” I remind her.

“Yes, but it is enough for now.” She takes Peeta’s cheeks in her hands and pulls him down so that she may kiss his brow. “Thank you, dear boy, for taking care of my Kent. You are nothing like your father at all and such a welcome addition to our family.”

She hugs me and tells me to get some rest, reminding me that the crops will keep.

We walk through the house in silence as I consider my mother’s words and before I can think of something to say, we reach the bath room and Peeta speaks first. “You go ahead. I will see about some food for us.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

After I bathe, as Peeta takes his turn, I find a tray of food in our room. I am famished and dive right in to eat. My eyes droop, and as much as I try to stay awake, I am unable to do so. I wake to Peeta tucking me beneath the covers and protest when Peeta does not join me but moves towards the sitting area instead.

“Peeta?”

He shakes his head from the chairs and arranges a pillow. “Your father is out of immediate danger. I assumed that meant that I should–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Get in the bed,” I say and his eyes widen for a moment. “You are keeping me awake, husband.”

His lips twitch and he nods, joining me, pausing only to sit on the edge of the mattress to remove trousers and false leg before laying beside me with a relieved sigh.

We shift and move, trapped in a sort of limbo of uncertainty. Do I touch him? He has held me every night since Father’s amputation and now we lay with an ocean of space between us. On those nights, even though he held me close, I felt a thousand leagues away, drifting in a haze of concern for my father. Tonight, despite the space between us, I am very aware of Peeta’s presence.

I roll to my side, attempting to discern his profile in the dark room and unable to do so. I listen for any snoring and discover none. I wait and listen to each sound around us, the steady cadence of breath in the night as we attempt to find sleep. I shift to my other side, with my back to him and stare towards the window. The drapes drift on the breeze, revealing brief hints of moonlight.

I cough once and then he moves. His warmth approaches me and even in darkness, I can feel him watching me.

“Is there something you want, madame?” I swear I hear laughter in his voice, but do not care as I reach behind me, feeling through the sheets for his hand. Once I have it, I wrap his arm around me until he moves closer, close enough for us to settle in an intimate embrace. “Better?”

“Quite,” I say. “Now hush so I may sleep, husband.”

“Yes, wife,” he murmurs, but his lips brush the back of my neck as he does and I cannot stop the delight that simmers inside my heart as I find sleep.

**************************

To be continued���look for chapter thirteen on the blog of @justajjfan

[adelatur]

In which I am an idiot who doesn’t notice obvious things.

WARNING, BABES, THIS GETS SPICY.

On Saturday, I attended a housewarming at the new share house of my friend FRIEND. I have known FRIEND since second year, when we were the token women on the mechanical engineering touch football team. FRIEND was a lot better at things like running and scoring tries, I was a lot better at things like shoulder charging the dickheads from Mining. Fun times.

This is irrelevant to the story. What is relevant is the fact that in 2016 I ruined one of my ankles while playing American Football, and three weeks ago, I had my fourth surgery on the Kafkaesque farce formerly known as my left leg (side note, if they had amputated then, I would already be killing it at para sports, because I’d be 2 years into rehab - I’m only slightly bitter), which meant that I was attending this housewarming in a moon boot and on crutches. In addition to this, my right hand is in a brace because I lost one of the ligaments in my thumb during my football career, and it flares up when I do a lot of weight bearing with my hands, like, say, when I’m on crutches and also training upper body four days a week, because all of my powerlifting time is now dedicated to bench press, the one lift I’m still able to do at this juncture. I am currently, to quote one of my work colleages, damaged goods. 

Given that I am damaged goods, I went to this housewarming with the single goal of having some bitchen ‘80s makeup (the theme was ‘80s glam), and letting the boobs be free in a low cut romper. 

I was not, for example, trawling for dick. Because when you’re damaged goods, as I currently am, you are not exactly feeling yourself. #CanILive

So anyway, while I was helping FRIEND prepare for the evening, she mentioned that one of her friends was getting to the party late because he was doing THINGS in LOCATION, because in the grand tradition of engineering summer jobs, this friend was DOING THINGS for AN ORGANISATION as a contractor while finishing off university.

Cut to: three hours into the party, when said friend, REDACTED, arrived. We had previously met at a soiree organised by FRIEND.

Now this is the extent to which I though the evening would progress. At the house party of a friend from university, I would run into mutual acquaintances from university. I am reasonably sure that the title of this post has implied that this is not the point at which the evening stopped progressing.

At a number of occasions during the evening, there were what I now recognise to have been indicators of the direction wherein the evening was progressing. A hand resting on one shoulder would migrate to the other, with a detour via the cutout back of the romper. Or a hand on the waist (side note, why would a hand be on my waist? These are the real questions. Why did I not twig to that earlier?) would then MIGRATE DOWNWARDS to REST on my BACKSIDE. I DID NOT FIND THIS SUSPICIOUS, IT APPEARS.

I can only assume that part of the reason why I was not suspicious was the fact that there were also moments which I had just interpreted as ‘mates being mates’. For example, when I was at the top of the stairs leading to the backyard, and REDACTED ascended the stairs, stopping two steps beneath me, commenting that he was still almost my height with the disadvantage of a decent distance (mathematically this was not a surprise, as he was 11 inches taller than me). In retrospect, I can see that he was, perhaps, at this time, standing what could be described as ‘danger close’, especially when he moved up one step. I did not twig to this at the time.

Now before you say ‘But Adela, you were at a house party. Presumably you had been drinking’, I would have to remind you that I was on crutches. You do not get to surgery number four on an injury and still think that dumb shit like drinking while on crutches is a good idea. I had, over the course of the night, a total of six standard drinks. That’s six drinks over an eight hour period. I was not drunk. I was just oblivious.

Now FRIEND is not a sizeable lady. She is what I would charitably describe as ‘tiny’. In addition to this, unlike me, FRIEND was going hard. So by somewhere between 11 pm and midnight, she reached a level of ratfucked where she was vomiting a lot, and she had someone supervising in order to ensure she didn’t do something unfortunate like aspirate vomit and die. This person was initially PERSON, a friend from uni, for whom FRIEND had performed such a service a number of times. By about 1.30, however, PERSON was heading home. Also however, by 1.30, FRIEND was not in a position to be left unattended. So I, sober, and by that time in possession of a pretty sore foot, volunteered to babysit. It would put me in a quiet, dark room, where I could scroll Tumblr on my phone, and keep an eye on FRIEND. I had always planned on staying over after the party, so this wasn’t a huge change of plans.

What was a mild surprise was that REDACTED elected to keep me company. And so we found ourselves, in a darkened room, sitting at the foot of my friend’s bed. I was leaning against the bed frame, and REDACTED was facing me, leaning on one arm so that our heads were roughly level. When he rested his head on my shoulder, I did not think much of it. When his head found its way downwards so that his head was resting on my chest, I still didn’t consider that perhaps the evening was about to take a turn for the spicy. It was only when he had one hand up the leg of the romper IN CONJUCTION WITH him kissing my chest that I started to think that maybe things were going in a direction I hadn’t thought of the evening going.

What the fuck.

At this point, the adrenaline kicked in, as you might expect. This was not a turn of events I had considered, let alone expected. A fun side effect of adrenaline dissipating is involuntary shaking. My dudes, I was shaking like a leaf. This gave young (23) REDACTED cause to pause. He checked in on my consent. This happened a number of times during the evening. Onya, mate. Consent is sexy, and all that.

It should be noted at this juncture that as can be seen in the photo above, I was wearing bright green lipstick. At a point early in the canoodling, REDACTED leaned in and said that he had been thinking about kissing me all night. I did not say what I was thinking (i.e. mate, I was an available woman with whom you were lightly acquainted, this isn’t ~special~) and instead commented that the lipstick would go everywhere and that I should probably remove it first. He was not about that life. It went everywhere, as I had predicted. He then returned to the expanse of chest revealed by my outfit, and I removed the lipstick. It began to appear that REDACTED was a bit of a boob man. I did not have complaints on this front.

At a point during the canoodling (this is going to be the narrative form for a while here, so just go with it), he commented that with his head where it was, he was able to hear my heart rate speed up. I was not in the mood to dignify this with a response, so I just gave him a lightly disparaging look. He then bit my neck. I did not have complaints on this front. He then paused, leaned back, regarded me, and coolly asked ‘Were you into Twilight as a kid? Because I could tell that you enjoyed that’. To which I could respond in no way other than ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck Yooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuu’. Because yes, I had been into twilight in my #WastedYouth, but that did not inform what my kinks happened to be. He also checked to see if hickeys were on the table. They were, provided they were in areas which could be covered up for work. And so it was.

I will take this interlude to comment on the fact that making out with someone who has a moustache is a weird experience. The moustache is always just ~there~. You’re always aware of its presence. Now back to the story.

At a point during the canoodling, he posited that he thought that I would be in to choking. This was indeed an accurate position. Consent was sought and obtained. I had no complaints on this front. On occasion a hand would insinuate itself into the leg opening of my romper and go exploring. REDACTED then commented that I was “so wet”. Which, honestly, ugh. But also, as I pointed out to him at that point, given what had been transpiring, it would be a concern if I wasn’t.

Now at a point in the evening (early morning by now), REDACTED left the room in order to break the seal, as it were. This left me free to send off some panic messages to friends. Because while I was definitely on board the train, I was still slightly confused as to why I had even been on the station in the first place. I also took the opportunity to stretch out my shit leg, which had been in a moon boot all day. It was during this stretching time that REDACTED reappeared, insinuating himself about my person. I turned to face him, and found my face in line with his chest. Because he was 11 inches taller than me, which I had conveniently forgotten while we were both located on the floor. There was something faintly comical about the level of contortion he had to undergo in order to kiss me at this point. It was like an adult bird regurgitating into the mouth of its young. It was deeply impractical, considering that I was not far enough into post-surgical recovery to be standing on my toes.

We returned to the floor, where the height difference was less of an encumbrance. At this point, REDACTED was able to undo my bra one handed. This was impressive, because as an E-F cup, my bras have a minimum of three hooks at the back. He was in luck, because this one had the minimum. He later proceeded to struggle when it came to getting the romper off. That’s because they’re not particularly designed to be easy to remove. I ended up needing to help him with the zipper at the back, which I’m sure couldn’t have been good for his ego. That is, of course, his problem.

Earlier in the evening, I had removed his t-shirt (chest hair yassss), but at this point, with me fully naked (with the exception of an almost complete face of makeup, lookin fly), I decided it was time to equalise. After a mild struggle with the belt (I make no excuses for my failings, but equally, mama didn’t raise no quitter). His jeans were lowered, and his phallus freed. There was significant dick, in the state commonly referred to by the youth of the day as a ‘semi’. At this point I engaged in a bit of a blow job, which was well received. I forebore mentioning that all of my skills in this arena were gained from reading smutty slashfic. I figured that this was one of the times when the self-deprecating truth was unneeded.

As REDACTED prepared to enter my garden of earthly delights, he enquired as to whether I would be amenable to anal. I told him in no uncertain terms that there was not enough lube (insofar as there was none). I’ve read enough smutty fanfiction to know not to try it dry. Especially when there’s that much dick involved. Consummation occurred, and then REDACTED said the phrase that I hate above all others, especially when another person is at that point within my body, “You’re so wet”. This was uttered a number of times as the carnality continued, and each time I died slightly inside. Of COURSE I was wet. The foreplay had been EXCELLENT. I was not unattracted to the lad (he was less strapping than I usually like my chaps, but was, nonetheless, becoming enough), and I was a willing partner. The fact that I was, as he said, ‘so wet’ was no reflection on him. It was just a fact. But that’s a rant for another day.

The dicking was excellent, but he was definitely #BadDick. Currently at uni full time, doing year 3 of 4 for Electrical (ugh) engineering because he had deferred for two years to work for industry; and a 23 year old guy. I am not in a place in my life where that is viable or desirable. This was going to be a one and done event. The sex was, I can very much say, the best I have had to date (the lad wouldn’t finish his doings until I had orgasmed. What a sweet lad).

Then it turned out that he was a cuddler. This wasn’t a problem, in theory. I enjoy being the little spoon. What was a problem was the fact that he was 6’4, and that meant that there were knees E V E R Y W H E R E.

The next morning, I informed FRIEND of my questionable choices via snapchat. She approved heartily. REDACTED did not know that FRIEND knew of the dalliance, which was an issue for FRIEND when he left, having thanked her for “an absolute banger of a party”, a comment at which FRIEND could not burst into laughter until he had left. Much hilarity was had. Especially at the fact that he had some not inconsiderable makeup transfer on, among other places, his forehead.

Later on Sunday, and progressing into Monday, I had delayed onset muscle soreness the likes of which I had not experienced in a while. This was, nonetheless explainable. What was not was a pain in my right shoulder, which was in my deltoid, but was nonetheless a trauma pain rather than a muscle soreness pain. There were, however, no signs of trauma. Until this afternoon, when I was getting changed out of my work clothes at the gym. I looked at my shoulder, and saw a faint bruised outline of a bite mark. Which rather explained that.

The thing I still cannot get over is how I didn’t twig to anything happening until things were already happening. This, I am willing to assume, is why we can’t have nice things.

It also raises the deeply trenchant question of ‘what else did I miss because I was too blind to notice’. 

*flips table*

*leaves*

[ourhealthyfoodblog-blog]

New Post has been published on Healthy Food and Remedies

New Post has been published on http://healthyfoodandremedies.com/2017/04/13/namaste-bitches-10-ways-yoga-changed-life-year/

Namaste, Bitches: 10 Ways Yoga Changed My Life In A Year

Upon the first week of moving to LA, I wrote an organic yoga rap parody, “Namaste, Bitches,” to make light of the yoga world in which I found myself. By the end of my five months in LA, my friends joked that I had become my own parody because, in an unexpected turn of events, I fell in love with yoga after writing the rap. Now, yoga is a vital part of my daily routine.

My mind always runs in 100 different directions. I tend to either dwell on past moments and wonder what could have been, or have so many ideas for the future that the ideas paralyze me and I don’t end up getting anything done. I moved to LA after graduating from college and ending a relationship. I had lost a bit of myself and was reeling from the feeling of amputating someone out of my life.

I needed to escape my pangs of inadequacy and emptiness, which manifested into dark shadows over my spirit every morning. I went to my first yoga class in hopes of stilling my mind a bit. I viewed it as something to do once every month or two as a sort of physical and mental detox. During the first class, I was a little impatient as I kept falling out of postures while everyone stood fierce and focused around me. Even so, I left the class feeling more energized than when I walked in. I was hooked. I realized that yoga, while sometimes having a stigma as an obnoxious, main-streamed way of trying to be spiritual is, at its core, a very powerful tool that allows us to tap into our inner spiritual and physical potential. At my first yoga class,

I was given a yoga towel to roll over my mat. The words, “Every day, in every way, I am stronger,” were embroidered at the top of the towel. I now think of that phrase every morning when I wake up. Although the original yoga sutras were developed 2,000 years ago, many people don’t realize that, until 100 years ago, yoga was mainly about focusing on breath and meditation to escape worldly sensations and move closer to connecting one’s individual consciousness with the consciousness of the world, to move closer to nirvana.

The postures developed in yoga in recent centuries (the “asana” or physical practice of yoga is only one of the eight limbs of yoga) were designed to prepare the body to be able to sit in stillness for extended periods of time in meditation. Even as yoga has, in many places, morphed into a type of physical activity, I found that it has influenced my perspective of the type of person I want to be and how I live my life.

I recently got my 200-hour yoga teacher certification, not only to be able to share my love of yoga with others, but also to have a deeper understanding of the spiritual aspects and roots of yoga. I love the idea that in yoga, all the strength you need, you find within yourself. All the flexibility and space you create in each posture is also found within yourself. The more you open your heart (literally and figuratively), the more open you are to receiving and giving love and energy to those around you. Here are some of my biggest takeaways from yoga, thus far:

1. Release to receive In yoga postures, you often breathe into the pain or tension of a pose. While this can initially cause discomfort, the more you lean into the pose head on, the easier the pose becomes in the long run. It creates more space, it releases tension in that area of the body, and it makes you feel as if you let something go. In life, sometimes we are unable to love to our fullest because we hold on to something that no longer serves us or brings us happiness. While it is hard to let this person or thing go, once we do, we realize that in doing so, we become able to receive more love and energy from other aspects of our lives. A quote I often associate with this is, “The shell must break before the bird can fly.”

2. You have to love yourself if you expect others to love you As my yoga teacher said to us, “We are all the connections and completions to our own existence.” We are often hard on ourselves, placing so many mental and physical demands on our bodies and then beating ourselves up for not eating well or not being productive enough or saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. Yoga helped me see that the only life over which I have direct control is my own. The person I spend the most time with is myself. I should be kind to myself and love myself in order to be able to love other people to the best of my ability. Similarly, I will never know if what I do impresses other people. I should first aim to impress myself by pushing myself to places I didn’t think I could go. When you feel confident in how you spend your time and how you treat yourself, your relationships with other people will fall into place, too.

3. All the space, flexibility and strength you need is inside of you, waiting to be used When making excuses about why they could never do yoga, people often say “I’m not flexible enough” or “I could never do a headstand, I would be the worst person in the class.” Six months ago, I could also barely touch my toes, and now, I have my splits. Even if that wasn’t the case, yoga isn’t about being “good enough” or naturally flexible or mastering the awesome-looking poses; it is just about being committed to showing up every day and challenging your body to the best of YOUR ability.

4. Trust your intuition In the past, I used to go against my gut feeling and instead do what I thought I should do or what I thought others wanted me to do. The more I did yoga, the more I started to see how to better harmonize what I felt in my gut with my thoughts and actions. Usually, in the yogic sense, trusting my intuition would mean knowing that I would feel better if I got out of bed and did yoga rather than lay there, letting old memories seep into my new morning. In a broader sense, trusting my intuition now means letting someone go if he or she makes me unhappy or being completely honest with someone in a difficult situation.

5. Disconnect to reconnect We can often get lost on the screens, constantly checking our phones for updates with a subconscious desire to feel needed by and connected with others. Having at least one hour a day when I turn my phone off and focus on the physical reminds me that life is what we feel, not emails or Facebook statuses suspended in an intangible cyber-space.

6. Live life’s transitions gracefully so you’re not knocked off your center-point In learning a new balancing pose or in being thrown into a completely new environment, it is natural to want to hold back or not fully commit as to not risk falling or being rejected. Doing balancing poses reminds me that I can’t just shoot to the “full expression” of the pose on day one, but it will come gradually if I slowly and gracefully push myself each day. It also reminds me that sometimes, the only way to learn how to hold a posture comes after countless times of falling from trying to commit fully. Falling out of a posture is only a problem if you don’t try to get back into it again. What I love most of all about balancing poses, however, is the hyper-focus one must have to succeed. This intense focus permits no stray thought to enter the mind, which is a welcome time of stillness for a place where lingering memories and new ideas are usually frantically swirling.

7. If someone gives you negative vibes, it’s because s/he takes energy from you This goes back to loving yourself in point two. If you know your self-worth, you won’t let in negative vibes from someone else because you will be too consumed with putting out and receiving positive vibes that are appreciated and multiplied by others around you.

8. Enjoy the physical body to the fullest, diving into the ocean of consciousness Little things, like focusing on deep breaths throughout class reminds me that I often take for granted the fact that I have a functioning body with functioning senses that allow me to do physical activities and experience physical sensations.

9. You find your strength in being vulnerable When learning a new pose, it is natural to fall or feel uncomfortable. Some of the most vulnerable poses, such as hip and heart openers, like wheel or half pigeon, allow us to feel more open than ever before. Similarly, being vulnerable with what you want — ie: not being afraid of someone’s rejection or not being afraid of failing — allows you the maximum potential for success. Also, in the sentiment of love, you should never regret being vulnerable and letting people know that you care about them. Even if they don’t return the feeling, you’ll never wonder “what if?” Feeling vulnerable in yoga and in life should be viewed as a strength, not a weakness.

10. We are all bound to each other by energetic threads The energy we put out not only affects us, but also those around us. It is important to think about how our actions and vibes can alter those of others. I often find that when I am around someone who has great energy, it rubs off on me. I also find that if I am thinking about someone I love, I will get a message from him or her or something will pop up that reminds me of him or her. Who knows if it is just coincidence, but it never hurts to think good thoughts and send good energy. You might have heard of the expression said at the end of yoga classes, “Namaste.” In Sanskrit, it roughly means, “I bow to the divine in you.” The idea is that the goodness that is in me is also somewhere within you. Rather than seeing each other’s flaws, we should strive to find the connecting thread of goodness and of humanity that ties all of us together.

As I moved from LA to England to start graduate school, everything from the weather to my friend group, to what I focus on has changed. One thing that keeps me grounded, aligned in what I believe to be my truest sense of self, is yoga. I do it in the morning, every day, before I check my phone and before I leave my room. Not only has yoga brought me closer to my new friends (as I now hold classes for my course mates!), but it helps me figure out how the person

I am inside can be best projected to the outside to connect with other people. It also reminds me to slow down and experience every sensation, with all of my senses. Most importantly, it helps me strip away my ego (a constant work in progress), need for approval and fear of missing out (FOMO!). It also helps me feel more connected to myself and those around me in a world where it is often too easy to feel alone in the bustle and stress of our daily lives.