#if you don't know man of medan I recommend just watching a lets play without commentary

[kiruuuuu]

Oneshot in which Conrad deals with the aftermaths of surviving the Ourang Medan. ...more or less successfully. (Rating T, angsty rambling, ~2.3k words) - written for @wintergirlsoilder2​! You requested a Conrad-centric piece and I hope you enjoy it :)

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“I don’t think it’s a good idea”, says Julia with this expression on her face she gets whenever she’s about to rain on his parade.

“Are you kidding?” He’s about to scoff but stops himself – she’s worried, he can tell, and he knows better than to make light of any part of their relationship. Julia’s accompanied him his entire life. “Halloween is my favourite holiday, I’m not gonna let some lame ghost ship – which we survived, by the way, hello – ruin it for me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Connie, your birthday is your favourite holiday. It’s the Fourth of July, so you can double-drink yourself into a coma.”

Well. She’s not wrong. She never is where he’s concerned, and it’s one of the reasons he wants to get away from her, just for an evening. Just for a night, he wants to be whatever he chooses to be instead of being Julia’s brother. “It’s gonna be great, Jules. Keep worrying like that and it’ll show on your face.”

She’s silent. She could bring up the times he’s woken up screaming, his tic of brushing over his ear with his thumb, the one really bad day when he stopped breathing for a long while and then puked his heart out. She doesn’t. And the fact that she doesn’t explains why they’re still rooming together, despite all.

“I don’t think Alex wants to marry a worry-wart”, he keeps going, unprompted, just can’t stop running his mouth, “he wants to live together with the free-spirited, reckless, adventurous Julia who doesn’t mind her brother attending a Halloween party without her playing chaperone.”

It hits the mark. Like having touched open fire, she recoils and drops the subject and he almost, almost feels bad. They’re going through a rough patch right now, following the time during which they were attached at the hip right after coming home. It’s nothing they won’t overcome, Conrad can tell they’re too committed to each other, but it’s a sore spot nonetheless. And he just twisted the knife. So to speak.

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He wouldn’t say he’s friends with the guy organising the party, but he knows a few people here and there – not enough to have earned a reputation, enough to feel invited. Bringing booze is an automatic ticket to being welcome anyway, and the greeting at the door seems heartfelt. After a few semi-awkward moments (and those have been common lately, he sometimes doesn’t notice the morbidity of his own jokes until shocked expressions drag him back to the real world), he’s found his social legs again and strikes up casual conversations here and there, drops one-liners which are met either with eyerolls and groans or half-hidden giggles and hearty laughs, and if he’s honest he doesn’t mind either. He’s always preferred being memorable over being modest.

Some people are in costume, most aren’t, but the home décor screams tackiness: spray-on cobwebs, badly carved pumpkins with half the candles out already, a mat under the carpet which lets out a witch’s cackle when anyone steps on it. Apart from that, the house is gorgeous, a large pool, a sunroom and even a tiny home cinema stuffed into the three-storey family home – family not included, apparently, all of them gone except for the son taking advantage of their absence.

Somewhere between the second and third beer, he considers texting Fliss. Asking her whether she celebrates Halloween, maybe, though it’d set her off again. Thinking of her causes his stomach to drop with the guilt of dragging her into the whole thing, the guilt of never again bringing up that investment he genuinely considered back then. She told them to never contact her again and keep their mouths shut. They have, for the most part.

The most part meaning everyone but Conrad.

“Do you want to know how I lost part of my ear?”, he addresses a small group of cute freshmen who were struggling to un-stack some chairs until he arrived and gallantly lent his aid. “It’s a long one, though, I must warn you. And not for the faint of heart – but you ladies look like you can take it.” He wiggles his eyebrows and they’re captivated, expecting a ghost story and a ghost story they shall get.

He fucking loves recounting the whole thing.

When Julia caught him the first time, she was livid for days, had a few one-sided screaming matches and tried to get Alex to talk sense into him, but Conrad laughed it off. No one’s gonna believe me, he said cheerfully. What, they’re gonna fly over and check? Launch an investigation? Tell their lawyer daddies?

Brad says it’s his way of coping with the trauma: by turning it into a spiel, he diminishes its significance, reduces its impact on him. Or tries to anyway. Brad also says it’s not a very effective coping mechanism. But Brad says a lot and Conrad doesn’t listen most of the time.

He’s too busy being the hero of his own story.

This night, he embellishes, dramatises, acts out what he usually glosses over, sugarcoats nothing. It’s Halloween and they expect a thrilling, gory tale, so he allows them the full experience – several times, he has to interrupt himself and give a brief thus far because of all the newcomers gathering around him like a bloodthirsty audience at an execution. God, it feels fucking good.

How their eyes go wide the moment he mentions the pirates. How their lips part subconsciously when he ditches escaping on the boat, alone, in favour of saving his friends. How none of them dares moving as he describes the military ship in great detail. In this moment, they’re living through it by his side; they’ve been transported to the ship themselves, feeling the clammy air, the cold, unforgiving metal under their bare soles. Wrapped around his little finger, he builds and builds and builds for them until they almost forget to breathe, and finally, inevitably, he releases them with a happy ending. It looks like a cathartic experience, and slowly, they return to the present, shaking their heads a little like a dog getting rid of raindrops, glancing at each other to gauge whether they were the only ones so tightly in Conrad’s grip. He’s convinced them all he’s a hero, a martyr, a protagonist.

All of them except for himself.

“That’s a fantastic story”, someone says appreciatively. “Do you have any others?”

And this is where his carefully erected self-importance crumbles. Because he lived it. He fucking lived it, you asshole, he’s got the scars to prove it and the memories so he’ll never forget, and still this dimwit beams at him like he’s the new Spielberg or King, fudging narratives out of thin air to please the crowd. “Sorry, dude”, he replies with as much venom as he can muster, “I only had the one horribly traumatic experience in my life. I understand that might not be enough for you, so my apologies. Maybe I can set out to almost get murdered next time – oh wait, that already happened.”

The atmosphere tilts together with him. People seem confused – is he method acting? Getting pissed because they’re not giving his well-spun yarn the credit it deserves? He should stop. He really should.

“If you want more thrill in your life, why not come and fight a guy who’s got nothing to lose, huh? Certainly beats doing the same meaningless shit over and over and over again.”

“Dude, chill, I didn’t mean to -”

“Yeah fuck you. Fuck off.” He’s washed into the kitchen by a wave of concerned partygoers and appeased with a few sips of the badly-hidden whiskey belonging to the head of the family, and after no time at all he’s back to his good-natured self.

Largely. He feels sharper ever since he survived that stupid ship, more cutting. Less forgiving. As if the world owed him after what he’s gone through, and he lets those around him feel it. Remarks hit where it hurts and he realises with increasing worry that he doesn’t care. They will never experience the same gut-clenching terror he did, so what’s a snide comment here or there?

There are moments in which he resents Julia. They frighten him, yet staving them off is impossible. It’s not her fault she’s found her happy ever after, he can’t blame her for having Alex anchor her. Alex is perfect and he should share their happiness, at the very least leech off it so his empty everyday life isn’t as bleak anymore, but instead he watches them with jealousy he frantically conceals from everyone.

He knows he’s spoiled. But he can’t help the pangs of contempt whenever they laugh about something, or Alex plucks something out of her hair, or she falls asleep in his arms during a muted commercial break. She always got over things more quickly, even if it never seemed that way. Conrad carries a lot around with him, most of which he refuses to acknowledge.

And then someone suggests going to a haunted house.

“Sure, man.” He laughs, and it sounds as easy as he intended. “Nothing can be scarier than what I’ve been through.”

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The door’s locked.

He fucking knows the door’s locked.

In between deep breaths, he turns around and checks again, slides the deadbolt shut two more times, rattles the handle, turns the key as far as it will go. It’s locked. It’s secured tightly, and no one will be able to get in.

He has to force himself to walk away and though his legs carry him, he’s unsure where to go. He could go shower, that way no one will hear his quiet sobs, or he can be a fucking man and not cry like a baby over something that wasn’t even fucking real.

Having once read that eating counteracts anxiety as it tricks the body into thinking it’s not in danger, he sneaks to the kitchen and stuffs himself on fruits until he’s vaguely nauseous.

He’s such a fucking idiot. An idiot and a failure, a good-for-nothing, someone who can’t even figure out what he wants to do later in life. Who he wants to be. Certainly not Conrad the crybaby, Conrad the expert storyteller who nearly pissed his pants in a shitty haunted house.

He double checks the shutters, then turns to leave. Checks them again.

God, he’s pathetic.

For the first time in his entire life, he sends a u up? text to a guy. It doesn’t make him feel any less sorry for himself, but he couldn’t stomach Julia’s concern right now. The worst thing would be the compassion in her eyes instead of the triumphant I-told-you-so attitude. He’d welcome a smug grin more than a hug right now.

I am now, comes Brad’s response. Yikes.

sry, Conrad writes back, and then he’s stumped. Why did he contact him in the first place?

A few half-typed and then deleted additions later, Brad apparently gets impatient and sends another message: How’s your Halloween been?

Alright, he can work with that. apropriately spooky, he replies, went to a haunted house. disapointing tho, no beer anywere

Brad is silent for so long Conrad considers whether he’s fallen asleep. Are you trying to prove to yourself that you’re over it?

He can practically hear Brad utter the question in his head – no irony anywhere, no intent to attack or accuse. Mere curiosity. Maybe this is why he texted him, because he certainly approaches most everything analytically, whereas Julia can’t help but make it personal. wat do u mean?

We’re all suffering from significant trauma, yet none of us are seeking thrills the way you are.

Conrad stares at the words for a long time. It’s been barely a week since Julia begged him not to pick any more fights.

A haunted house does not sound like an advisable place to go in your condition. Are you alright?

He deflates, sinks onto his bed and kicks off his shoes onto the pile of clothes in the corner. He doesn’t bother to switch off the light. He sleeps with it on anyway. yeah, he claims, and then: not realy actualy. i was more afected than i thought i would be. Flashbacks are a bitch. It didn’t help that some guy thought his distress hilarious, given his chilling story before – as if he’d be immune from any scares, forever. It turned out to be the opposite. Conrad used to love haunted houses.

Don’t dwell on it. Finding the right way to cope is difficult.

No judgement. Somehow, speaking to Brad is soothing his frazzled nerves. wat do u do?

I research. Mostly real accounts of people who have gone through comparable experiences, but also on the history surrounding the ship.

To Conrad, that doesn’t scream ‘moving on’. doesnt sound that helpful ether tbh

It helps rationalise and normalise what happened. Knowing what others went through, I feel less isolated now. This will not define who we are in the future, even if it might right now.

He re-reads the last sentence a few times. Thinks of the night terrors which rarely let him sleep. Of how he considered getting a dog despite none of them having the time to care for a pet, just so there’d be an additional line of defence, in a way.

He wants so bad to move past all this.

alright, profesor, lets hear it, he types and gets more comfortable on the bed. hit me with the sob stories.

It’s not like he’d be sleeping any time soon anyway.