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gold-from-straw · 5 years ago

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Backstage of the Universe - Ch8

Charles and Erik wake up together and discuss their relationship. But their new peace is short-lived when Bart turns up covered in blood, triggering some horrible memories for Erik...

TW for blood and gore and memories of the concentration camps.

Read from the beginning on AO3 if you like!

Charles woke with his head pillowed on warm skin, the steady thump of Erik’s heart, the rise and fall of his chest, and the murmur of his sleeping thoughts wrapping around him, an ocean of comfort. He wanted to stay in that limbo forever, that uncomplicated place where Erik was here, but nobody was questioning it. Least of all Erik.

Charles had known since he first laid eyes on Erik that he would take anything, anything Erik was willing to give him, and he wouldn’t ask for more. He couldn’t; the rest of the world would put enough pressure on them to pull apart, and if Charles pushed for any more, he would only push Erik away.

So instead he lay awake and committed every breath, every texture under his fingertips, every play of light on Erik’s skin to memory.

“You’re projecting, Charles,” said Erik, his voice rough with sleep.

“Sorry,” murmured Charles, shoring up his defences and resting his hand flat on Erik’s chest.

Erik rubbed his eyes and glanced towards the door, and Charles tried hard to hold his melancholy inside himself, stop it from seeping out around the edges of his mind. “You don’t have to be sorry,” said Erik, yawning. “I was just wondering what it was about this morning that had you so sad.”

“I’m not sad,” said Charles fiercely, because maybe if he said it enough, it would make it true. “How can I be sad, when I have you here by my side?”

Erik hesitated, then ran his fingers through Charles’ hair. Charles leaned into the touch, and Erik did it again, carding through, easing out the tangles and curling the long strands around his jaw, his fingers tracing down to Charles’ chin. Charles closed his eyes.

“What are we doing here?” Erik asked, his voice a whisper.

Charles sighed and pressed his face into Erik’s shoulder, hiding from the world as best as he could and breathing Erik in while he still had the chance. “Whatever you want, my friend,” he said.

“But what do you want, Charles?”

“It doesn’t--”

“Don’t say it doesn’t matter,” Erik said, tugging his hair just a little.

Charles tried not to freeze too obviously. He was so, so tempted just to dip into Erik’s mind, find out what he wanted to hear and give it to him, but that was cheating. People hated it - they wanted him to know what they wanted without knowing, and when it came to most people, he could get away with peeking.

But the people who mattered… the ones who’d been around long enough to matter, they’d all asked him to stay out. Even Hank, stuttering through the request and apologising, saying he didn’t want to worry that Charles was going to see all his dumb moments, his petty meanness, or worse, the porn he stashed under his bed.

So the people who mattered the most, the ones he wanted to make happy more than anyone else, the ones he wanted to please, were the hardest to please.

Erik rolled over onto his side, shifting their legs under the blankets so they lay facing each other, and tucked one finger under his chin. “When we leave this room, I need to know where I stand,” he said. “This… this whole thing… it’s a bad idea. It’s illegal, it’s… your friends, your sister, I don’t want to alienate them - I would completely understand if--”

“Erik,” Charles breathed, hope rising in him in warm waves. He searched the sharp, serious face, feeling like he was about to step of a precipice. “I will take every moment, every scrap you wish to give me. If this is all I get with you, I’ll have it stored in my heart forever, but if… if you still want--”

“I said I want you by my side,” Erik said, and there it was, that old ferocity all levelled at him like the sun. “I still… I will always want that, Charles, don’t you see? I would take what little scraps you see fit for me, anything you’re willing to give.”

Charles laughed breathlessly as Erik leaned over him, pressing kisses to his face, his lips, his neck. “Let’s feast on scraps, then, my friend,” he said, pulling him closer. “I want you with me, no matter what - I’ve wanted that so long.”

Erik pressed his face into Charles’ neck. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice muffled further by the way he was burying it. “God, I… I do.”

Charles clutched at him, holding him closer. “I love you too,” he said, his eyes welling up with hot tears, a smile stretching at his face, almost unbearably. He knew it wasn’t that simple - they still had very different views on the world, very different ways of working, and yet right now it didn’t matter - he couldn’t let it matter, because Erik was pressed close to him along the entire line of his body, clinging to him as if he’d never let him go, and Charles was clutching him back just as tightly, and maybe, perhaps, if they were lucky, this would be enough to tip the balance.

If Erik had been afraid of Hank and Raven’s reaction to the two of them leaving Charles’ room around ten in the morning (hours after Erik’s usual morning routine), he was to be disappointed. Raven simply held out her hand and Hank, with a roll of his eyes, slapped five dollars into it.

“He said you had more sense than to let Erik back into your bed,” she grinned. “I said you’ve never been sensible a day in your life, it’s all pretend.”

“What do you mean, back in my bed?” Charles blinked.

“Oh, come on, Professor,” Hank shrugged. “We all knew chess was a euphemism.”

Erik and Charles shared glances. “No… we were actually playing chess,” Erik said.

“Not that I wasn’t trying,” Charles admitted.

“You were?”

“Wait, so you guys weren’t shacked up?” Raven gaped at Charles.

“You didn’t notice I was flirting with you?” Charles gaped at Erik.

Erik shrugged. “I was somewhat preoccupied back then,” he mumbled into his coffee. And then, like a knock at the door, Charles heard although if I’d realised my interest was returned I might have been less enthusiastic for early morning runs.

Charles stared at him, his eyes tearing up, as Erik’s tentative thought beckoned to him. Erik looked up at him, twitching a very tiny smile, and ducked his head back down over his cereal bowl. Come on in, Charles, he said, very clearly.

Charles swallowed hard, cleared his throat and focused on toasting a couple of pieces of bread, all the while his mind was rushing into Erik’s, actually invited, settling into his thoughts like a warm embrace.

Erik huffed behind him. It feels different, he said, and Charles glanced over to see Hank and Raven peering suspiciously at Erik, who was smiling at nothing they could hear. I thought having you in my mind would be like having memories brought up at random, or something.

Only if that’s what I’m aiming for, Charles replied silently. I just… I just want to be near you.

Erik looked up at Charles, his eyes sad, and Charles felt his remorse swirling around their connection. Raven frowned, then suddenly her eyes widened, and she stared from one to the other. “C’mon, Hank,” she said sharply. “We gotta do that thing.”

“Huh? But I’m--”

“Now, come on, we’re late, we said we’d check on coma guy.”

“Dirk said he was called Francis, we should really--”

“Yeah, Francis, whatever, c’mon.”

Erik frowned after the two of them. “What was that?”

“I think Raven just recognised we were having a mental conversation,” Charles admitted, poking at his slightly burned toast. “She’d recognise them, she was the last person who let me in like that. When we were children.”

Erik looked down. “So… what, it bothers her?”

Charles wheeled himself next to Erik. “No… I think she just realised how serious this is.”

Erik glanced up at him. His face was hard, his jaw set and his eyes sharp as diamond. But across their connection, he could feel the uncertainty that Erik hid under an impenetrable shell, is this OK, is this serious to you, is this too much, is this enough.

Charles slipped his fingers between Erik’s, and they turned back to their breakfast in silence, a glow curling between them from one mind to the other.

***

Things were going so beautifully. Of course that’s when it had to all go to shit.

Charles was reading to Cross, Dirk and Mona, while Erik explained the point of times tables to a surly Martin, and why it was expected that he learn them. Charles listened in with half an ear and tried not to smile too much when Erik told him the most important thing would be to learn the four times table so he would know exactly how much his groceries would cost when he had to look after the rest of the Rowdies.

When Raven’s wave of horror hit Charles, he dropped the book. Erik’s head snapped up when he felt it through their connection, wide eyes meeting Charles’, and both of them immediately turned to make for the entrance hall, Raven’s voice now starting to make its way up.

“Raven, what’s going on?” Charles asked sharply, letting Erik levitate him down the stairs rather than taking the elevator.

Raven turned, and Charles saw Bart behind her, knife in hand, drenched head to toe in blood. “Dear God, Bart, are you OK? Don’t move, dear, it’s alright, we’ll fix you up in no time.”

“Oh, that’s OK Mr Charles, ain’t my blood,” she shrugged, holding up her arms. Something slipped off her sleeve and fell with a sickening splat to the floor.

The temperature in the room dropped. Charles was sure he could hear everyone’s heartbeat in the silence. “What do you… whose blood is it?” Charles asked carefully. But he didn’t need to. As he spoke, Bart’s barrier on their powers started to fade away, and Charles could see everything. The man turning in his office chair. The creepy smile when he saw the small girl in front of him. The way that smile turned to shock, and then to nothing, the knife, and all the blood.

Charles covered his mouth with one hand, his mind reeling. “What… Bart, why?”

Bart shrugged again. “I dunno, the Universe just wanted me to.” She cocked her head on one side. “Did you see it in my mind? Did I do well?”

Charles couldn’t answer, his mind spinning with shock and horror. Erik stumbled closer to her, bending down in front of her and levitating the knife away from her hand. She smiled up at it, and Charles felt tears make their way out of his eye as he saw her wondering little face, streaked with blood. “Why did you do this?” Erik asked. “Did he… was he Blackwing? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. “No, I told you--”

“Then why? Why, Bart? You went out to find someone, you didn’t even know them… I don’t understand!”

Bart’s forehead crinkled up in confusion, and Charles, still sick, heard her confusion, why aren’t you proud, didn’t I do well, and he swallowed hard.

“You can’t just… just kill people,” Erik said, his own distress vibrating along the connection, straight to Charles’ mind. “You… why, Bart?”

“I can kill, though,” she said, her voice rising high, so childish. “I kill really well, why aren’t you proud of me? I did real well, I did just what I’m s’posed to… Mr Priest always took me out for ice cream when I did well, why are you being so mean?”

Dirk froze up beside Charles, his hand clutching on Charles’ arm, and Martin and Cross hissed, fear and rage flaring up in Charles’ perception as the children thought of Mr Priest, all except for Bart, and oh, dear God, what had they done to Bart? What had they missed? Why had they not asked earlier?

“Listen to me,” Erik said sharply, holding Bart by the upper arms. “You are a child, not an assassin--”

“I am!” she yelled. “I’m a holistic assassin, I do what the Universe tells me!”

“No, Bart--”

“I hate you! I hate you all, I thought you were nice because you didn’t make us do tests, but you’re all stupid!” With one sharp movement she ripped away from Erik’s grasp and ran up the stairs.

Erik stayed on his knee, staring at his hands, blood from Bart’s clothes smeared across them, horror and a small, childish fear humming through their connection. “Erik,” Charles said, wheeling closer, reaching out a hand.

Erik stood suddenly, almost standing to attention, his hands clenched into fists by his side. “We have to send her away,” he said. “We can’t have her around the other children.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Charles said, his jaw dropping.

Raven looked between them. “Hey, kids, c’mon, let’s get you ready for lunch, OK?”

“Wait, Raven,” Erik said, and pointed at Martin. “Who’s this Mr Priest she was talking about? Did he make you all kill for him? Did he die in Blackwing?”

Martin glanced at Cross. “Uh, Priest’s… he’s the one who punished us if we did bad. He wasn’t there that day, when you came to get us.”

“He’s a monster,” said Dirk, his fingers clenching in Charles’ sleeve. “He’s… he made them...”

“He made them scare you,” Charles said softly. “Oh, boys… he gave them more outside time if they made Dirk cry.”

Martin and Cross nodded. “And we got to eat too,” Cross added.

Erik nodded, once, sharply, and Charles could hear the crawling horror in his mind. “And he… liked Bart?”

Dirk nodded.

“Right. She needs to go. She can’t be around you.”

“Erik, you can’t be serious,” Charles said, as the older boys exchanged nervous glances, and Dirk put his hands over his face. Raven walked quickly over to him and bent down in front of him, anger and confusion prickling off her.

“Of course I am! She’s obviously been warped by this Priest man, she’s dangerous - what if she decides we’re too far away from other people and turns this… this bloodlust on the others? What if she kills Mona? Vogel?”

Mona shifted out of her jacket form. “Oh, don’t worry, she can’t kill us, we’re holistic too,” she said cheerfully.

“Erik, we are not sending anyone away,” Charles said, setting his jaw.

“Kids, I mean it,” Raven said, standing up again with Dirk’s hand in hers. Her scales were almost vibrating with tension. “Let’s go, you don’t need to be here for this.”

“We must!” Erik snapped, his eyes fixed on Charles as Raven hustled the children out. “Look how she behaved, she expects us to be proud of her for killing someone for no reason, she expects praise for this… this psychopathy! She’s been taught to harm others for their entertainment, and she’s internalised it! She can’t be allowed to be around the others, it’s not safe, Charles, don’t you see? She’ll hurt them!”

And then it became clear. The memories swirling around Erik’s mind like a whirlpool coalesced into scene after scene, the camps, the guards and their brutality, and the favoured prisoners. The way the SS could stand back and watch victim turning on victim. The men with both the Judenstern on their chest and the white band on their arm, taught to side with their abusers, kill their own people in exchange for a little bit more food and a little bit less beating.

“No,” Charles said, as firm as he could over the top of this well of rage he held just for Erik and for all he’d been through. “No, we won’t let that happen. Never.”

“Get out of my head, Charles,” Erik snapped, and it felt like an elastic band recoiling in his face as Charles’ mental connection to Erik broke once more.

He should have known. Should have realised it was only temporary - wasn’t it always? He’d been a fool to think this was a long-term permission. He turned, his wheels suddenly very heavy.

“Charles--” Erik said behind him.

“We need to talk to the children,” Charles said, and was proud at how steady his voice was. “We need to find out more about this holistic, universe thing. Should have done it much sooner, really - never mind.”

“Charles, I’m--”

“We are not sending Bart away,” said Charles firmly, glaring up at Erik. “We aren’t. We’ll integrate her.”

Erik closed his eyes. “You can’t fix everyone, Charles.”

“Perhaps not,” Charles said. “But that’s no reason to give up.” Not on Bart, and not on you.

Please go easy on Erik here! He’s seriously triggered, and he will learn that his treatment of Bart is completely unfair and a bit hypocritical - he just wants to keep all the kids safe and he thinks he’s doing the best for them. We will deal with this, but it’s going to be rough for these guys for a bit...

Tagging everyone who interacted with the last chapter - thank you guys! @thewritersspeaking aaaaahh thank you!! <3 @cerespinku @auri-moon, @stuckinlight, @iwillshipyouman, @ikeracity, @akasanata, @lyhr, @luckyfestivallamphoagie, @lhowletts, @shadow-wolf76, @threecheer, @oreos-for-life, @slytherclaw134689, @nyawie

#Lyn's Writing #Backstage of the Universe #cherik #Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency #x-men: days of future past #emotional hurt/comfort #kid fic #child abuse #blood #gore #concentration camps #traumatic memories

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diveronarpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, CHARLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of GONERIL. Admin Jen: You have no idea how happy we are that you’ll be bringing us Verona’s favorite firebrand, Charlie! Like you pointed out, it’s easy to write Grace off as just that -- a whirlwind of chaos and spite with nothing more to her other than that, but you’ve definitely succeeded in bringing her out of the shadow of that impression and exploring everything else that makes her shine. There is so much more to her than meets the eye, and your diligence and care when it comes to portraying that left us completely thrilled to have her flourish in your hands. We’re so glad to have you back, and we can’t wait to see what more you have in store for Grace! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Charlie

Age | 22

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | 5-6/10. I’m a law student and working 20 hours per week. So it’s safe to say that my rl can be pretty stressful. In addition, I like to take my time with my replies so that I can actually be satisfied with how they turned out. I’ve found in the past that it’s the easiest and most efficient for me to do replies as inspiration strikes and queue them to post every 2-3 days which I plan to do as well. However, I’m available every day almost all day long on Tumblr and Discord to chat and plot.

Timezone | CET

How did you find the rp? | Originally, through Jen, but this time because I’ve been a part of the group before.

Current/Past RP Accounts | may I introduce you to https://ofbellos.tumblr.com/ and https://ofdupont.tumblr.com/

IN CHARACTER

Character | Grace Daly aka Goneril.

What drew you to this character? | Goneril is a character I’ve been intrigued by ever since I first stumbled across the rp. Back then, she was still a taken character so I’ve never really bothered thinking about whether I’d apply for her or not and when she was reopened, I had my fair share of characters that were keeping me busy.

Somehow this fascination I have with her has never fully gone away, though. There’s something about her, her passion, her fierceness, how unwilling she is to be anybody but herself (and to hell with everybody who has a problem with that, quite literally, you'll probably end up dead if you insult her) that just really intrigues me. I feel like it’s easy to assume that Grace is downright crazy or doesn’t think at all about the consequences her actions might have, that she might not even have the mental capability of doing so. But while she’s definitely lead by her emotions and doesn’t fully know how to control her temper (and mostly doesn’t even want to), she doesn’t act without thinking about the consequences beforehand, very often, she acts a certain way despite having thought about it before. The ‘problem’ is that, in most cases, she simply doesn’t give a damn. She lives to provoke, to toy with the line of right and wrong and to run right through the wall that exists on that line for most people simply because she enjoys it. A part of her is eager to see just how far she can go simply because the search excites her. It’s most of the time not really about the other person (except for the times somebody managed to piss her off, which, admittedly, is not the hardest thing to do) but mostly about herself and what she wants to do. Everything else is secondary. And quite frankly, there’s nothing that she hates more than being bored. She lives for the thrill, be it the thrill caused by a good old bar fight, killing somebody with your bare hands, a steaming hot fuck or a simple argument. And the power of winning the things listed before. In some way, everything’s a fight for her and the big thrill of life is in that fight and winning it. After all, Grace Daly is nothing if not a winner. Losing isn’t an option. However, despite what you might think at the first (or even second) glance, she’s not just all fun and games. There’s this blazing hot desire burning inside her to conquer and rule her own kingdom. I’m gonna stop right here because I’m gonna be exploring this aspect further in the future plot section. However, I definitely see these various facets Grace has to offer that are so unique to her in my eyes and I really want to explore those in greater detail. Grace is bold, loud, unapologetic, reckless and untamable all wrapped up in one fiery ball of chaos and she’s definitely a force to be reckoned with, not just despite but because of how unpredictable she is. It might have not gotten her where she wants to go so far, but that certainly doesn’t mean that there isn’t a certain kind of power in it.

She’s so unlike any other character I’ve ever truly played before and that’s one of the many reasons why I actually thought long and hard about whether to apply for her or not. She’ll be quite the challenge for me, I’m not ashamed to admit that, but part of the reason why I’m still so into rping after all these years is the desire to challenge myself and hopefully become a better writer in the end. Grace Daly will without a hint of a doubt be a challenge for me, but I’m so ready for that. Also, her uniqueness compared to other characters I’ve played - even characters I’ve already written here in DV - makes it possible for me to explore other plots, connections, and interactions I haven’t gotten to explore before which really excited me as well.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

I’ve added some future plot points that are more ideas than already thought out plots which I’ve called ‘ideas’ instead of ‘plots’. For a better understanding and cohesiveness, I’ve mixed them together so that they fit contentwise, I hope it isn’t too confusing. If it is, I want to apologize in advance.

PLOT 01

The Daly Sisters own a huge space of my heart when it comes to this rp. There dynamic is so unlike any other in the rp and, quite frankly, I cannot wait to sink my claws into that. I’d really love a family face-off, especially between Regina and Grace. After all, one of the reasons why Grace joined the Montagues in the first place - even if she’d never admit it out loud - is the fact that little, boring Regina got promoted to Captain by Cosimo after spending only a blink of an eye with the Capulets. She never earned her name the way Grace did, she did nothing to deserve it. And you can be dead sure that once word got out that Regina has been promoted to the position of a hitman - and sooner or later Grace would have found out, nothing stays secret in Verona forever -, she’d have been fuming. It’s just another promotion she doesn’t deserve. And here Grace is working her ass off - Grace Daly style, obviously - and has nothing to see for it. Actually, fuming would be a nice word. So yeah, I feel like a sisterly confrontation is overdue in Grace’s eyes. If you can’t ignore an annoying bug, you have to squash it to finally get rid of it. And Regina Daly is a bug Grace has been dying to step on for quite some while now. She tried to ignore her when she was younger, forget all about her existence in the first place, but apparently, that’s not an option anymore. So yes, I can totally see a sisterly face-off happen in the near future because sneaky scheming and planning to get rid of somebody isn’t really Grace’s style. She tends to rely on sheer brutality and cruelty and wouldn’t it be quite poetic to have one last fight to finally set an end to this argument (idk if you can even call it that cause I’m pretty sure Regina doesn’t give a damn about Grace)? Grace at least would love the poetry of it.

IDEA 01

This idea is related to the first plot in some way. It’s pretty established in her bio that Grace has never been willing to give her two younger sisters the time of day and would like to forget that she’s ever shared a home, not to mention blood ties with them. However, I want to explore just how deep this disinterest goes. I know for a fact that she wouldn’t shy away from killing Regina in cold blood. However, what about Catherine? Is there some small inkling in the dark hole that is her heart that does care for her? I’m not sure, but I want to find out. At the same time, I also want to explore if there’s actually a person (apart from herself) that she cares for or rather cares enough about enough to sacrifice? I don’t know if there’s a positive answer to that question, even though Grace is only human, after all, and it’s in the human nature to want to be connected to other people, but I just want to explore this question further.

IDEA 02

If I cannot bend Heaven, I’ll raise Hell. Even though you wouldn’t necessarily suspect it, Grace is ambitious as they come. Blame it on her parents for always treasuring her like grace from God, telling her she can everything she sets her dark eyes on, but she’s always known that she’ll be a queen an empress one day. And she won’t stop at anything to get her way. So far, she’s had very little success, though. After all, despite having been involved with the mob for years now, she’s still nothing more than a soldier, a little pawn in the game of others. While I’m not sure if she’d make a good ruler (in fact, I know the opposite is the case), she’s definitely a conqueror. Or has the potential to be once she figures out how to make the best use of the anger, passion, and fire that runs through her veins. She’s smart enough to figure it out. After all, as it’s already said in her bio “Every move she made was calculated, every strike meticulously aimed”. She definitely has the mental capacities for it. I think her biggest problem is that she needs to learn how to control her emotions and not have them influence her moves and the goal of her plans as they do now. However, learning is hard (read: almost impossible) when you’re as self-conceited as Grace is. I want to explore that struggle further, this dissonance of ambition & desire and her temper & boisterousness.

PLOT 02 a

This plot is related to the second idea.

If you can’t learn how to balance out your own strengths, you either need to accept that you might never reach your goal or team up with somebody who can provide what you’re lacking. The first one is clearly no option and the second one is not exactly the first thing that comes to your mind considering we’re talking about Grace either. After all, Grace isn’t really much of a team player either for she’s too selfish for that, not to mention too unpredictable, unreliable and many other things. However, I want her to seak out a partnership nonetheless. This is not to say that she’ll suddenly turn into a team-player or people person all of a sudden - hell no. No, it’d be a play really. It’d mostly be an idea born out of an alcoholic haze, nothing that serious at first. It’d be with somebody, who’s about just as desperate as she is to get to the top, and a partnership that is already doomed for a start because she plans to get rid of them as soon as the situation improves for her. She sure as hell doesn’t plan for one second to share the spotlight, they’ll just be a tool in some way. Not because she’d be manipulating them into thinking that she sees it as a real partnership, she’s no schemer, after all. No, they’d get into this with both eyes open and be ambitious enough to do it nonetheless, probably even thinking to cut her loose the first chance they get as well.

PLOT 02 b

As it’s kind of a second part of the second plot, I wanted to split those up.

I could totally see the previously mentioned partnership turn into something of a cat and mouse kinda game. It’d actually be quite intriguing to see somebody to challenge her directly and on a personal level for a change because while the whole thing would still be somewhat mob-related, it’d be more focused on the power they’ve gathered together and that both of them wants the biggest piece of. Or rather the only piece without having to share it with the other person. It’d need to be somebody who’d be her equal, who could handle themselves around her, but then again, if they couldn’t, this partnership would have never seen the light of day in the first place. I want Grace to face a challenge/challenger she can’t get rid of that easily. I want her having to face them again and again, simply because they’re both too stubborn to die and to give up what they’ve earned.

PLOT 03

This plot goes a little hand in hand with the previous plot, but I felt it still deserved a plot point on it’s own as it’s related to her connection with Ivan Rahal in particular.

Whereas Grace is chaos come to live and craves power above all, Ivan is a master chess player who craves chaos and destruction above all. It’s an unlike combination and yet one, that causes fear and terror among Verona’s citizens unlike any other for their united in their darkness and their thirst for blood. I feel like there’s so much Grace could learn from him and his talent for strategy. She wouldn’t ever ask for help nor would she want to change, after all, she’s perfect the way she is. Nonetheless, I want her to observe Ivan more closely, to study the way he thinks and does things, to get a feel for how he operates. I highly doubt she’d be able to employ these tactics for her own goals simply because she’s disciplined enough for that, but I feel like it’d be a valuable lesson for her nonetheless?

PLOT 04

I feel like it’s only a question until her treacherous past truly catches up to her. After all, so far, she’s gotten away with turning her back on the Capulets to join the enemy’s ranks pretty easily. I mean she’s still alive and relatively unharmed which is more than most people could say in the same situation. Of course, she’s under the Montagues’ protection, but even that doesn’t have the same weight in every part of Verona. Knowing Grace’s recklessness and her tendency to live dangerously, she doesn’t shy away from Capulet territory. Probably even provokes them when she feels like it simply because she can (and because it makes her feel powerful). So it’s only a question of time until she gets into a situation where she has to pay for what she’s done. Unlike Grace, I’m not narcissistic enough to assume that she’s the Capulets’ main agenda, however, especially in combination with the connection with Vivianne provided in her bio (so I could def see Vivianne playing a role in that one way or another, maybe even assigning somebody to take care of her? Maybe even Regina which would kind of fit together nicely with Plot 01), I do think that this is still a topic worth exploring. After all, the Capulets won’t just forgive and forget.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes. With her recklessness and ability to piss off the people around her, I feel like it’s only a question of time until Grace is killed, not a question of if.

IN DEPTH.

mentions of graphic violence tw

Carelessly she flicks the cigarette against her chair, her lips curled up into an amused smirk and her long legs draped on the table in front of her. Grace Daly has never been one to give a damn about the rules of properness and she sure as isn’t going to start now just because everybody around her does it. Just because, apparently, there some things you simply “have” to do, especially when being in a lion’s den. Idioti. No, following the rules is something reserved for sheep, people who aren’t bold enough to make decisions for themselves. And Grace Daly is most certainly not a sheep nor is she scared of anything or anybody. Fear? She laughs in the face of fear. It’s not like she’s stupid. Even though it doesn’t look like it, she’s perfectly aware of how dangerous this situation can be for her. How she might not make it out of here alive. The sheer thrill of it causes the adrenalin to rush through her veins, the smirk on her lips to grow just a little more intense. Other people might sit on the edge of their seats, all fidgety and nervous. Not just because of the fact that she’s currently meeting who’s supposed to enemy nr. one, but also because this meeting alone is enough to paint her as a traitor in the eyes of some people. But not Grace. Oh hell no. No, it takes more to get under her skin. Besides, it’s not like she asked for this meeting. No, Damiano Montague reached out to her, invited her. And well, who was she to refuse, even if meeting with him for any other reason to put a bullet between his eyes might be enough reason to some to try put a bullet between her eyes? Turning down the invitation would have been plain stupid. However, not for the reason most people might believe. No, it wasn’t fear that made her accept the invitation, It was sheer ambition. Fuck rules of decency and properness, fuck the rules of the mob if they’re getting in the way of what she wants. After all, when has she ever not taken what she wanted the instant she wanted it, no matter what it takes? Her teeth and ambitions are bared now more than ever, after having her potential ignored in favor of her younger, colorless sister. If it takes a swim to the other side, to change that situation, it’d be stupid to turn down the opportunity.

Her head slightly tilted to the right, her dark eyes are focused on the man in front of her, eying him attentively. It’s quite ironic really how he looks nothing like Cosimo Capulet and exactly like him at the same time. There’s this air of confidence - arrogance really - surrounding him, the charisma of somebody who’s used to getting what he wants, who’s demanding it really. It takes only one look at him to know he doesn’t take well to being turned down. Not that she gives a damn. If he doesn’t offer her a deal she’s interested tonight, Grace won’t feel obligated in any way. Hell, if things don’t go the way she wants (and quite frankly, expects) them to, she might just try to ram or throw the knife she always has with her, hidden in her left boot, into his trachea. If she returns to the other side of the Adige with Damiano Montague’s blood on her hands - literally -, they just have to promote her to Captain at least. Better even, kiss her ass for quite some while. The smirk already gracing her lips grows just a little bit bigger at the thought of his face slowly losing all its color, the desperate death rattle of a dying man, maybe even some pleas for mercy. Somehow this turn of events would be almost just as nice as what she actually came here to do. So whatever is going to happen next, she knows she’ll come out of this little meeting with one sort of advantage in her hands. So much for Grace Daly being incapable of having a plan b.

Without taking her eyes of the mob boss in front of her - direct eye contact is important, after all, to assert dominance and to show that she isn’t the slightest bit afraid of him-, she stubs the cigarette on the wooden table, not giving a damn whether it’d leave a burn mark or not. After all, it’s not her table, is it? “Va bene, vecchio mio, how about you go ahead and make your offer?”, she says, her lips curled into a wolfish grin, “I don’t have all day, after all. Got some disloyal couriers I need to care of.” Oh, the irony talking about disloyalty and treachery while she’s currently committing treason herself. It’s not wasted on her, that’s for sure, quite the opposite, really, it’s highly appreciated. The thought that the Capulets have no idea what might be coming for them, made this little meeting all so sweeter. Would serve them right for ignoring her potential.

___

murder tw

Leaning against the door frame, her arms crossed before her chest, she just stands there for a moment, her eyes focused on Ivan, the corners of her mouth curled up into a lazy half-smirk. “Looks like you have the luck of having the best partner possible today”, she says as she pushes herself away from the frame and heads towards him. From everybody else, these words would have been meant as a joke and yet, even though there’s a slightly amused, teasing intonation to them, she’s dead honest. She might not have been a part of the Capulets for as long as other members, but Grace still knows she’s better than a lot of them. At his slightly amused “and I assume that special one is supposed to be you”, she gives him a little smirk and shrugs her shoulders just slightly. “What can I say? It’s not arrogant if it’s true.” Not that she’d care either way. Caring about what other people think of you is something reserved for pathetic people who aren’t sure of themselves. And she most certainly doesn’t belong in that category. “Sei pronto?” The little smirk still present on her lips, she puts the hand on the gun on her left hip. As a little extra backup, there’s a knife safely stored in the right back pocket of her jeans, hidden by her leather jacket. “Sí.” She’s ready in every possible meaning, eager to, hopefully, get her hands on some real action. Sure, this mission isn’t supposed to turn violent. It’s only planned as some sort of check-up meets interrogation to find out if the rumors are true and they’ve really gone behind their back and are dealing with the enemy. But then again, you could never know how they’d react to this checkup, right? And a girl could still hope, after all.

Slowly but self-assured they head straight towards the building that, their silhouettes one with the shadows of the containers. Every now and signal horns of approaching container ships disturb the silence, but apart from that, there’s complete silence. It’s quite peaceful, actually, she can’t help but notice and at the irony, the hint of a smile sneaks onto her lips. It’s so peaceful that nobody would expect the attack that is going to happen within a few minutes. Which, frankly, makes it even more fun. There’s nothing quite like taking something wholesome and peaceful and turning it upside down. Judging from the information they got, it’s gonna be a relatively easy job from the information they got. Three people top, most likely only lightly armed. They aren’t expecting an interrogation not to mention an attack any time soon, it’ll be like taking candy from a child.

After exchanging another glance with Ivan, she kicks the door open. “Ciao, stronzi.”Charming as ever, she flashes a wolfish grin at them. If they wanted somebody who’s all polite and diplomatic, they wouldn’t have paired Ivan up with her and so she sees no need to be anybody but her usual, charming self. However, for now, she lets Ivan take charge of the conversation. It’s more his style anyway. She prefers to stand there leaning against the door - these fuckers better don’t assume they could get past her - and casually playing with her knife as not that subtle thread while she attentively observes the interaction, ready to jump into action at any howsoever small, wrong movement.

It doesn’t take long, only a few questions to realize that their source was right, these bastardi are trying to cheat them out of their profit. They realize almost as quickly that their cover has blown as Ivan and she do and pull their guns. Too bad it’s only almost. Without thinking about twice, Grace throws her knife, aiming right at the left guy’s forehead. Ivan reacts just as quickly, taking out the other guy with one unerring shot. Everything happened so quickly, that it takes her a moment to fully process what just happened. Completely collected on the outside, she stares at the dead body in front of her with some morbid curiosity. Even though she’s already seen her fair share of dead bodies ever since having joined the Capulets, it’s the first time she’s responsible for one. It’s an intriguing feeling, really. A part of her is well aware of she should feel at least some sort of regret or guilt. And yet, there’s nothing of that crap on her mind. The only thing she feels is excitement and satisfaction. It felt good to bury that knife between his eyes before he could even fully realize what was about to happen, it still does, to be honest. Slowly she steps closer to the corpse and pulls the knife out of it without flinching. She’s never been afraid of blood and she most certainly isn’t going to start that now. If anything there’s something quite satisfying about seeing your work in all its unholy glory. Is this what it feels like to be God? This rush of power of having just ended one life simply because you chose to do so? For a moment longer, her eyes are focused on the body, eying it almost thoughtfully, before she turns back around to Ivan. “Well, this didn’t exactly turn out as planned”, she says, the hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth betraying her words. “Too bad we didn’t get to question them further before blowing their brains out, though. The info whether they decided to cheat on us all of a sudden on their own or were instigated by somebody else wouldn’t have been the worst to have.” It’s not like she particularly cares about the answer, what this answer could have gotten her recognition wise is the much more interesting question. Ah well, what’s done is done. She shrugs slightly as she wipes the blood of the knife on her jeans before putting it back into the back pocket. “Let’s go check out if we can find some more information on what these idiots were up to. Maybe they were stupid enough to store some important documents here that give us a better idea of how far this whole little boycott goes and if other business partners of us are involved.” Eliminating two traitors might be useful and a nice accomplishment, but it’s not enough for her. No, she seeks something more impressive to bring back to the headquarters. After all ‘nice’ accomplishments, didn’t exactly allow you to climb higher on the mob’s hierarchy, won’t get her the recognition she deserves and craves.

___

Everett Craven - Emissary. Easton Craven - Captain. And darling Regina promoted as well. Even hours later, her fingers grab the glass of Scotch in her hands more firmly, the knuckles from the pressure she exerts, the rest of her body just as tense. Honestly, if this was one big fucking joke it wasn’t remotely funny. And despite her rather unique, wicked sense of humor she could usually see a joke for what it is. Although it had to be one - it’d be the only explanation that made some sort of sense -, she knows it’s not. It’s the fucking reality that everybody, who so much as breaths, gets a fucking promotion. Hell, even on the Montague side, promotions are a dime a dozen and everybody gets one. A dry, sarcastic laugh dies in her throat before she can get it out. Everybody but her that is. It seems like no matter what she does, it’s just not good enough. Like she’s nothing but a slightly tamed but rabid dog you can’t fully control but the perfect tool for threatening and intimidating your enemies. The one you send out to do all the dirty, bloody, disgusting work nobody else is willing to get their hands dirty on. She takes a sip of her drink, the burning sensation of the liquor running down her throat is a welcome distraction and yet, it isn’t nearly enough to burn away the frustration. And she does what they want like the good dog she, apparently, is. Does jobs nobody else would want to do if they don’t have a choice, just to prove her worth. Follows orders, even though somebody like Henry Zhang - the thought of her Captain is enough to roll her eyes - really couldn’t handle her under any other circumstances. Plays nice with men like Faron Vasilev just to get in his good graces and have him speak out for her. Even now she can still smell his cologne, the air of arrogance and entitlement surrounding men like him. It tastes sour in the back of her mouth, her. Maybe she should have tried sleeping with him while she still had the chance, seemed to have worked out perfectly for that puta Calina, after all. She even plasters a (more or less) friendly smile she plasters on her face every time Damiano walks past her and keeps her mouth shut, even when they talk bullshit. Her stomach twists and turns. They could drop dead this instant for all she cares and yet, she still plays nice.

And for what? A small part of her mind that is still capable of thinking straight knows that she might just haven’t been a part of the Montagues long enough to earn the position of Captain. Castora has been a Montague for longer than her, it’s true. But Damiano wanted her. With one loud, shrieking noise, a glass breaks into a million shards as Grace throws it against the wall, not giving a damn if its ember content ruins the wall. He invited her personally into the fold and she deigned to accept that invitation. And yet, she’s still left with nothing. Maybe she really should have slit his throat right there during that meeting that promised to be a turning point. Frowning just slightly, her lips curled up into a sneer, the drops of liquor on the wall turning into crimson red bloodstains in her mind. She could have painted the walls red with mighty Damiano’s blood. She should have. That at least ought to have earned her a promotion with the Capulets. And yet, she’d resisted, had believed the stronzo’s golden lies of how they could achieve something great together, of how he could offer her more than Cosimo ever could. She’d known that he couldn’t make her Captain right away, that wasn’t how things worked. Anybody, who’d promoted somebody who’d only just been accepted into the fold (not to mention from the opposing side) was plain stupid, Grace understood that. But hasn’t she waited long enough now? Isn’t it time for her patience and hard work to finally be rewarded? And instead, she simply gets overlooked again.

It’s not the first time she’s been overlooked, she should be used to it by now. She used to be the center of their parents’ universe, until her younger sisters - it’s an insult really, not a term of endearment -, took it away from her. After all, ever since darling Cat came into the world with her blonde locks and angelic nature, their father would choose the younger over her, dote on her instead of always on her like he used to. Memories of a little Cat, innocence come to life, run through her mind and she scowls. Her sweetness tastes like acid on her tongue, always has. And Regina took away the recognition and respect of the Capulets. The thought of her passionless, disinterested attitude alone is enough for her body to tense up and yearn for something else to punch bloody. How can somebody be so bland and yet so successful? Grace has always been fire and action and still, no matter how intense and destructive her fire, Regina’s hollowness seems to swallow it whole. If she ever felt a small flicker of sisterly love it’s long gone, she should have killed both long ago. Should have drowned them both like you did with unwanted puppies and kittens. Being overlooked is certainly nothing new so she really should be used to it by now. And yet, it hurts all the same, the sting of rejection, of not being good enough or enough, really. Whatever she does, she always gets overlooked for somebody else. For somebody who doesn’t want it nearly as much as she does. Who wouldn’t be as a great fit for the position as she would. She knows she can do better than all of them, why won’t anybody see it? Why won’t anybody see her for the potential that she has to offer?

For a time, it seemed like Damiano Montague saw it, saw her. That he would value her like the Capulets never did. And now she knows how wrong she’s been. Red painted lips twist into a sneer as she forgoes the thought of getting another glass and grabs the bottle instead. One sip, then another. She could empty the whole bottle, drink herself into oblivion and the liquor still couldn’t wash away the all-consuming feeling of humiliation cutting through her intestines like a hot burning iron. How utterly stupid she’d been. If she’s completely honest, it hurts almost just as much as the disappointment and rejection that she’s partially to blame for her misery. She should have been smart enough to see through Damiano’s empty promises. Eyes focused on the wall in front of her, she glares a hole. One rapid breath, another, her body tensing with every single one - then she punches it, only barely noticing the dull pain quickly spreading from the via the arm to her shoulder or the sting of the bloody, torn open knuckles. She should have at least thought in greater detail about how her chances at a promotion, at validation, are, if she stayed with the Capulets. After all, if colorless, hollow Regina managed to get two promotions, it should be out of the question that she would have made it to Captain during that time. She needs to believe she would have. Her stomach slumps at the mere prospect of not having made the cut either way. No, everything else is unacceptable. And yet, despite priding herself on her cleverness, she allowed herself to be blinded her own and ambition. It’d felt so good to be seen, to have your potential and talent acknowledged, to be recognized for what difference you could make if you changed the teams, that she’d gladly taken the opportunity offered to her on a silver platter. The Capulets never valued her, so why should she burden herself with them if somebody else could offer her the opportunity to finally rise to the station she knows she deserves? Her eyes fixed on the mess she just created - the shards, her bleeding knuckles, the ruined wall - she can’t hold back cynical laughter any longer. It’s too much of a representation of the rest of her life. After all, as it now turns out, neither do the Montagues really see and value her. She desperately wants to say that it’s their loss, that it’ll be their own ruin. And it probably will be. But if she’s completely honest, right now, it is her loss. She’s the one who has to deal with the humiliation of having switched sides for nothing. To have made a traitor of herself for nothing. To have started again from scratch basically for absolutely nothing.

Extras:

A Mockblog can be found here. Pls ignore the ugliness, I couldn’t be bothered to make it fancy as I’d only use it to reblog stuff from if I should get accepted anyway.

You can find a pinterest board here.

MB Type: ESTP-A - The Entrepreneur

Eneagram Type: Type 8 - The Challenger (81%) Type 3 - The Achiever (61%)

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Evil

The Four Temperaments: Choleric

Archetypes: Rebel (56%) - The Wild Woman, The Criminal & The Rebel Explorer (22%) - The Adventurer & The Explorer Royal (22%) - The Excecutive, The Bully & The Greenvy

#accepted: goneril #accepted

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vergen · 6 years ago

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Your room was square I once noticed from there In your bed, as you slept, And I held my breath Everything had its own place And I wondered what space would I take In the order you kept I tried to eat like your girlfriend Just tea in the night, I’d end up Too hungry to sleep So lying awake, I would follow the aching inside, I would find It’s for you won’t be mine I tried my hardest, for I’d never learned God’s very simple and love shouldn’t burn And I would’ve offered you all that you yearned for But I was still waiting for something to earn What is that quiet of snow in the night? The dark rings with white noise As you stand and drown Maybe it’s all of these snowflakes, screaming A choir of mute As they brace for the ground Well that’s my ride Hope you had a good night You know, you made me happy Here shake my hand You make such a good man Never once did you know me I tried my hardest, for I’d never learned God’s very simple and love doesn’t burn And maybe you offered me all that I yearned for But I was still waiting for something to earn Silly me, waiting.

#mitski

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forestecho · 3 years ago

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In The Eye Of The Beholder - Prologue

A/N: Here's the Prologue of a story I'm writing, hope y'all like it. I made sure to do research on different types of albinism, as I didn't want to portray anything wrong or accidentally offend anyone. :)

I lay awake in my bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. It’s pitch black in my room, but I can see well enough to make out the faint outlines of the furniture. My mind races as I take in the familiar lay out of my room, ruling out any possibility of sleep. You see, I was born with OCA1a, or, if we’re being technical, Oculocutaneous Albinism type one, sub-type 1. Long story short, that means my body can’t produce any melanin, the pigment that gives people their color, at all. Instead of looking normal like the rest of my family, I was born with pure white skin, snow-white hair, and very pale blue eyes. No melanin, no color.

I sigh softly, turning onto my side and dangling my arm over the side of the bed. Being the youngest of four, I’ve never lacked encouragement or reassurance, but being so different from other people is always hard. My parent’s decision tonight was only going to make things harder. I replay the memory, my eidetic memory only making it more vivid. I can still see the soft, yet unyielding determination in their eyes as they tell me that, after being homeschooled my whole life, I will be attending my Sophomore year at Timberview High School in town. I protested, of course, and had tried my hardest to change their minds, but I knew that look and had soon stopped trying.

How can I make them understand what is surely in store for me there? All I can think of are the reactions I receive when I go into town with the rest of my family. I can still feel the stares when we walk through town, burning into my back like red-hot coals, still feel the sharp words and barbed comments digging into my skin, only to be re-lived later.

“Was she in an accident? Is that why she looks . . . strange?”

“Is . . . she adopted?”

“Why does she look so freakish?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to remember that it doesn’t matter what others think. My family loves me, God loves me. That’s enough . . . right? I chide myself after that thought comes to mind. After all, I’ve never done anything to prevent it, never stood up for or defended myself. Instead, I’ve always stayed quiet, allowing someone else to handle it. Not that I don’t want to stand up for myself, in fact, I’d love to do that more than anything. However . . . the thought of turning to look someone in the eyes, which would probably be showing disdain or some form of disgust, and saying something absolutely terrifies me.

I look down at the floor sullenly. Maybe mom and dad were right. If this is my frame of mind when thinking about other people, maybe I should try to learn how to interact with others properly. Just then I hear something that sends chills down my spine. I can hear a wolf howling in the distance, probably somewhere in the back of our property. We live on the outskirts of town, in a log cabin, and our fifty acres of woods are only marked by a simple wooden fence. Still, wolves aren’t unheard of here, and several have been spotted on the back acres of our property. Something about the howl makes me uneasy. It sounds desperate, shrill, unlike any other I’ve heard.

Just then a gunshot shatters the otherwise silent night, silencing the howl before it can end. No . . . it couldn’t be. Was someone hunting the wolves? I shoot upright in my bed, eyes wide in horror, clutching my blanket. Several more gunshots ring out, and I leap from my bed.

“NO!”

#Ongoing #Writing #Coming of age #Story #Animals #Prologue #new

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oho-indeed-indeed-indeed · 4 years ago

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ok but mitskis songs are so fucking poetic and beautiful i cant?

like in a singular album (retired from sad new career in business) and not even counting her other incredible songs we get lines like:

”There’s some kind of burning inside me/It’s kept me from falling apart/And I’m sure that you’ve seen what it’s done to my heart but it’s kept me from falling apart”

“I broke what you gave me/But you kept giving more/And I’m sorry for taking”

“You told me once/You were happy to have me/But I never gave me away”

“I would give you my heart, I think/But it's up in a branch of a tree/It was only to tease when he climbed up the tree/Put my heart where I couldn't reach

I didn't mind, I adored him, so/We forgot, and we left for home/And that was so long ago, now the tree it has grown”

“I tried my hardest, for I'd never learned/God's very simple and love shouldn't burn”

and then at the end of the song

“I tried my hardest, for how do you learn?/God's very simple and love doesn’t burn”

Asksdfjlajgjslagjlkkshjakksgka i am literally Incoherent with how much I adore it and then every single song is so fucking good??? brb i am Crying

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unholyoffspringofcereal · 8 years ago

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Gravity of Souls

So today I was sitting in physics, listening to the last review we would get before the AP exam in about two hours, and Dr. Castor’s just going on, got his little review out on the smartboard, doing his best. Love that guy, great teacher. Anyway, we get to about the third chapter and my brain decides you know what? Let’s think about some things.

There is an attraction between all things. But nobody knows why! A simple statement, to be sure, and one I’d heard probably thirty times in the last few months. The force of gravity is simple, a very tiny constant G directly related to the masses of the two objects you want to measure, and inversely related to the square of the distance. G(Mm)/(d*d). And yet. I just kinda sunk into that little room in my head like, what?

So I’m off in my head like, imagining the universe, the planets pulling each other together (never apart), and then another random thought just kinda wandered by, because we had been talking about electrons, too. The force of electricity is like that of gravity in almost every way, except that gravity cannot repel, only attract. Mass cannot be negative, right? According to Gabe, who has been rambling about negative mass for the last six weeks, not quite.

He brought it up as a joke because Doc Castor is really cool and isn’t a grouch, all like, yeah sure do whatever, and I feel bad because we take advantage of that at times, but anyway. The point. Some random neuron connection in my brain was like, FIRE, and the rest were like AAHHHH, and then I was thinking about souls. What are souls? I mean, people have had the concept of souls for as long as humanity has existed probably. That question of why are we different from the beast. Science tells us its all those little squishy gray parts up in our heads, lightning blasting chunks of my beef soup left and right nanometers at a time, eventually creating that thing we call personality. Religion tells us it is some gift from some almighty god, that it is the makeup of our sins and impulses. Logic tells me it’s the ability to reason. Nobody knows who’s right, and I make no claims to veracity.

But sitting there, at the worst possible time to be thinking about something that wasn’t immediately helpful to academics (isn’t it always?), a half-formed thought drifted through, written across a tiny piece of paper. Here then gone, it, I, we asked if souls could be made of negative mass. Now, before I go any further let me elaborate; that wasn’t the first thought. There are many many things in the world that we, as humans, lack the ability to perceive. For instance, our human ears are only built to hear from around 50 to 20000 Hz. Cats can hear much higher, as can dogs. Whales go lower. I had a conversation at lunch the other day about wanting to be a shrimp, because their tiny little eyes catch something like eighteen more colors than ours. I don’t know if that’s primaries or just shades of green, but that’s impressive. There’s a whole light wave spectrum out there we wouldn’t know existed if not for science.

On another small tangent, there were glasses created to allow colorblind people to unravel the veil holding the colors at bay and paint the world bright. If we tried to do that with shrimp, our eyes would be like, no, that’s just blue. Stop that. Do you see where I’m going with this? What if the idea of souls isn’t actually some misguided attempt of humanity to make itself greater than it is, rather something we lack the senses to perceive?

This thought came from my best friend, a people genius. I will readily admit that I wind people around my little finger. I can spend a few minutes around someone and know what makes them tick, grab, and twist on that to make them do what I want. Y’know, within reason. Usually that’s just to stand around and listen to me jabber, like I’m doing to you guys. But I digress. A people genius. I don’t know what it is, maybe a bit too much acid or weed or something, but she has this sixth sense when it comes to people and she can just know things about them. Specific things? No, she can’t meet you and know you have an intense love of beef jerky, you’d have to tell her, but she gets impressions of shit like I can barely explain. She’s friends with everyone because she can’t bear to show she doesn’t like anyone and she likes to have people around her, so she smiles and laughs and if you hadn’t heard her speak the words yourself you’d never know.

But anyway, these ‘feelings’ she gets from people are scary-accurate. I have a friend, slightly more than kind of an asshole but a good friend. From a stable background, parents at least well off, if working class it seems, he’s the picture perfect american boy. Dark hair, blue-eyed whip-smart, friendly with everybody. Polite and respectful to the teachers, just enough snark to his friends to be normal, one of the few people I consider a close friend. She basically went off on him in the hallway, words into seeds of strangle vines, growing wrapping around his throat and a voice like a scalpel, so sharp you don’t feel it at first but then god it burns, surgically placed to do the most damage. From a passerby’s point of view it wasn’t much, just her being kinda snippy because he barely reacted to her, but to anyone who had ever heard her before it was a mauling.

She confided in me later she had one of the worst feelings she had ever felt in her life from him, and I can’t blame her. As much as I love the guy, he’s at least slightly unhinged and away from reality at the best of times. That week, I’m pretty sure the school barely survived a mass shooting, and only that because it was too tame for him, not enough pain. “Mother always taught me to share, and if I took that the wrong way well it couldn’t be helped, could it?” Not him, but I think it describes what I was trying to say pretty well.

Anyway, the point of that was it’s like she has an extra sense to feel people, so why couldn’t there be a way to sense the soul? I think people may even already be capable of it, even if they don’t understand it. That is to say, it’s the parts and pieces of your brain, those primitive, primeval that tell us to run away when faced with danger, that tell us yes, reproduce with that person, become a gibbering wreck in their very presence because that’s just a great idea, those bits. There’s actually a debate in psychology over that, if it’s the brain that runs the human body by sheer need and instinct, or if the human consciousness, the comparatively very small piece of us that we bestow with our own name, our everyday life, the one who sat and typed this thing you’re reading (I think).

Anyway, what I was saying was that people already act in strange and inexplicable ways, for seemingly no reason. You see it the most in kids. Kids notice things, whether because they haven’t been trained to ignore that stuff because it’s etiquette, don’cha know, or they have less in their memory banks and so rely more on the ancient parts of themselves, the beast that clawed its way through the depths of the primordial muck of the universe, and so they see things. Simply put, our brains analyze huge amounts of information at all times, and we learn to block it out from childhood because it’s too much and it hurts. (On a side note, I’ve noticed the smartest people are the ones who pay the most attention to the small details, the ones who kept trying to remember everything at a glance and built it up little by little, inch by inch, devoted themselves to it above all else, because they had a burning need and they couldn’t do it without. The hardest ones to catch relaxed are the ones that never relax, as obvious as that sounds.)

So when your brain is sifting through all that information, it encounters things that it knows, things written deep into the genetic bones, the movement of predators, the eyes of the helpless, the bright smile pasted on top of the bloody wound, and sometimes it’s nothing more than a half-formed thought, barely paid attention to because you’re busy, or a strange reaction to a smiling face (KILLER MURDERER DEFILER OF BONES KIN SLAYER WRONG BAD BAD WRONG WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG-).

What if part of that was the soul? Something our brain couldn’t identify into right/wrong yes/no red/blue/green but still something anyway that couldn’t be quantified but was still there? An instinct, from a bygone era, created for whatever reason?

Anyway, not all of this makes total sense, or even reliable physical (hey, physics, just realized that) sense, but it was an idea. My truth, my belief, my adamant pillar holding up the sky, my religion of thought. I know I talked way too much to convey such a simple concept, and that I danced around everything until the end, but I wanted to explain why, the evidence, the intensity of the emotion behind all of these stringed together concepts so that anyone reading it wouldn’t just think I was blowing smoke up out of my ass trying to be #deep. Anyway.

Tl;dr? Souls are cool. So are brains. Go read it, you might enjoy it more than you think.

#stuff #brains #physics #souls

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