#it can have wifi in its labyrinth why not

[sameboot]

Oh no, he's hot

[ao3bronte]

when chaos reigns [the sirens come to play]

A Merman AU. (Rated T with some suggestive language.) Now on AO3!

[Prologue]

Covid-19 and covert relationships don’t exactly go hand-in-hand these days, but you really shouldn’t be touching anyone’s hands right now anyway.

…that is, unless you don’t belong to the same species.

Can Merpeople catch Covid-19? That’s debatable, but news doesn’t exactly flow freely from the depths of the South China Sea. Though we know very little about Merpeople and their ways of life, we do know that they rarely interact with humans, preferring to tear down their ships and rip apart their dams and levies in revenge for poisoning the oceans and seas with their human fossil fuels. 

But this isn’t a story about environmental politics, or Covid-19 for that matter. This is a story about love and about putting aside differences. In this tale, Marinette discovers that the term ‘scalie’ (ou écailleux, car nous sommes en France) doesn’t always refer to the commonly known adjective to describe fish skin. And Adrien, bless his heart, really does need to put on clothes when he’s not rocking a fish tail despite the fact that he’d much rather be naked (much to Marinette’s mortification). Anyway you slice it, Merpeople and humans simply aren’t supposed to be together — they’ve always been sworn enemies through and through — but no matter what alternate universe we find ourselves in, these two idiots in love will always find each other.

This is, undoubtedly, their story.

[Part 1]

It’s the beginning of March and Tom and Sabine aren’t taking any chances with this whole virus situation. Marinette seems to catch everything — illnesses, hands, the whole nine yards — and they’d already been talking about sending her down to the Cote d’Azur to spend the summer with her grandmother Gina Dupain in order to get away from Paris for a little while. The constant schoolyard bullying from Chloé Bourgeois has dragged Marinette down so many pegs that Sabine is almost relieved to see Macron call off school for the foreseeable future and books both her daughter and her husband a trip to Marseille before the entire country shuts down for good.

Marinette isn’t happy, of course, but what teen would be? Her friends are in Paris! The fashion is in Paris! She doesn’t want to stay in some sleepy little Mediterranean village where nothing ever happens! Do they even have Wi-Fi there?

It’s a valid question. Tom doesn’t actually know, but he chatters enough for the two of them as the high speed train takes them down the rails to the south of France. Marinette’s sulk lightens a little as he pulls pastry after pastry out of his luggage in the hopes of making his daughter smile just a little before dropping her off with his mother — he knows that their relationship is a little strange after Gina’s last visit to Paris but there’s nothing a little quality time together can’t fix. 

Petite Befana is one of those places you find on a postcard. Situated just on the edge of France and Italy, the fishing village’s brightly coloured houses gleam in the sunlight, peppered with lemon trees and winding alleys that seem to almost spill out into the sea. The beaches are craggy and feature small grottos and coves of underground caves that glimmer with seaglass when the sun hits them just right, hiding a pocket sized oasis here and there for the adventurous who like to explore at low tide. Gina likes it here because of the Place du Marché, but Tom often wonders as to the real reason why she’s settled in the quaint harbour after years of Eat, Pray, Loving around the entire planet after divorcing his father.

She’s certainly made friends with every woman in town by the looks of it. Along with her veritable swarm of bar-hopping friends, Tom keeps seeing a woman with pointed features and deep black hair with a violent red streak in it pop up on her Facebook page. They always seem to be in the same jazz club, not that Tom is really paying attention; if his mother wants to spend her golden years drinking negronis and dancing with her girlfriends, that’s up to her.

They disembark the train in Marseilles and take a bus to Toulon, then another bus to Petite Befana. Marinette is passed out and drooling on his shoulder by the end of it so Tom does as he always does and hauls her up like a sack of flour through the thick and winding labyrinths of cobblestone streets towards his mother’s apartment. Gina greets them once he eventually finds the place and, after tucking Marinette into the daybed in the guest bedroom, happily guzzles down the proffered beer on the terrasse overlooking the sea.

“I’ll try to come down as often as I can,” Tom assures Gina, not knowing just how bad of a clusterfuck 2020 was about to become. “I’m sure Marinette will come to appreciate all that Petite Befana has to offer.”

“I’ll take her down to the market tomorrow morning,” Gina assures him, patting her son’s beefy forearms. “There’s an older woman who sells the most beautiful fabrics and I already dusted off my old sewing machine. That should keep her busy.”

“Marinette’s never happier when there’s a project to complete,” Tom responds with relief, downing the rest of his Kronenbourg. “I bet she’ll have an entire closet full of clothes by the time the month is out.”

“And it should only take a month or two for this to blow over.” Gina jabs her thumb towards the television as the news of Covid-19 murmurs in the background amid the waves of the Med on the shore. “And then we’ll be back to normal before you know it!”

(...and we all know how that turned out.)

[Part 2]

Covid-19 affects a lot of people in a lot of different ways. Some feel stir crazy. Others enjoy the alone time. But Marinette? Well, she’s been trapped in the harbours of Petit Befana for three weeks now and our aforementioned heroine is already bored out of her skull. She’s made three dresses, four satchels and twenty two scrunchies with the leftover fabric because what else is there to do down here? Luckily, Covid-19 hasn’t quite affected Petite Befana like it has the other regions of France and Marinette is able to go outside at least...not that she wants to. 

There are more artisanal bakeries and charcuterie shops in Petite Befana than there are nightclubs and high end boutiques, which is odd for a village so beautifully situated on the coast of southeast France. Gina proudly boasts that her new home is often bypassed by the glitz and glam of Monaco; lavish superyachts and the seemingly endless stream of paparazzi prefer the glamour and uberwealth just west of their little village, leaving its sleepy inhabitants mostly alone to sell their goods to the tourists that stop by for a night on their bicycles and scooters. Marked with the Italian influences of its neighbour, Petit Befana truly is the little-known last stop on the famous Cote d’Azur which makes it an inspiring landscape for Marinette to discover…

...for all of four days. 

She’s already so over Covid-19 and, like any teenager, she’s getting more and more annoyed by the day that she can’t hang out with her friends! Why did Maman and Papa send her down here?! All she wants to do is get back to Paris and design! It’s not like there’s anything fun to do here anyway, besides play video games all day in her bedroom; the only places that offer free WiFi are closed and she can only play Animal Crossing for so long before her grandmother insists on making her get some fresh air. 

Ugh! 

Grumbling under her breath, Marinette pulls on her raincoat and stomps down the laneway from the terrasse towards the sidestreet where her grandmother’s 1920’s bastide-style home resides. From the cobbled alley, Marinette watches the colourful array of fishing boats land their day’s catch right up on the harbourfront and heads down despite the storm clouds brewing on the horizon.

“Bonjour!” A group of older men wave as she makes her way down the ancient steps, the pathway shaded by thick palms and cacti. She pauses just long enough to ask who’s winning their game of socially distanced pétanque before continuing her way through the pines towards the gravel and sand beaches that line the shore. 

The seafront is mostly boarded up, much to both Gina’s and Marinette’s disdain. Her grandmother used to spend most of her evenings at the jazz bar La Sirena with her friends, not that Marinette got to meet any of them. The lockdown shuttered pretty much everything the day after she kissed Papa goodbye and settled into her new life for the next month, but with three weeks already stretching into four, Marinette dejectedly wonders if she’ll ever see Paris again.

Passing the last brasserie on the boardwalk, Marinette leaves civilization for the long stretches of barren coastline. There’s all sorts of little inlets and grottos here and there, especially as she gets closer and closer to the Italian border. Unfortunately, it’s only April, which means it’s rainy, generally unpleasant and completely and utterly empty on the beach.

“No one to talk to, nothing to do…” Marinette sighs and tries to kick a piece of driftwood, only to miss it with her foot in true Marinette style. The faux pas — quite literally — sends her screaming and flailing her arms like an octopus on a ceiling fan as she dramatically plummets face first onto the wet, slimy gravel.

She groans and pushes herself up on her hands and knees, wincing as sea-weathered stones dig into her palms and kneecaps. Marinette is, above all, a walking disaster in every sense of the word — sometimes she wonders if the powers that be seek out to deliberately punish her with embarrassing things like this on purpose for their own amusement. 

(ಸ_ಸ … *cough* Zag *cough*)

Marinette whimpers as she wipes chunks of seaweed and brownish foam off her cheeks and chin. At least no one was around to see her fall over — thank god — but she’ll still have to do the laundry when she gets home. She’s covered in muck and little bits of oily slime that are sure to stain if she doesn’t wash it out soon. Marinette grimaces as she tries to shake it off of her hands; humans really have done a number on the seas and oceans...like, why is her front so sticky? She glances at some of the garbage on the shore as she sits on her haunches and wonders if the news has it all wrong. Maybe the merpeople taking potshots at rich people on yachts with old cans and plastic sea trash really do have the moral upper hand…

Marinette, being Marinette, would have continued to stare dazed and confused into space well into the afternoon had it not been for the impossibly shiny something or other sparkling in the grotto straight ahead.

[NEXT PART...]

[machiiatto]

micro hc prompt from @csokii Alec’s relationship with tech. does he love it? hate it? advanced use or can he do what’s required of him and nothing else when it comes to using tech? ( headcanon will be a mix of canon & headcanon previously established on this blog ) word count: 614.

     Shadowhunters don’t traditionally use a lot of technology. most of it - guns, car engines - can’t bear runes, or is otherwise incompatible with their general lifestyle. Shadowhunters in Idris itself largely reject it because the warding interferes significantly. Runes were invented before more modern technology & were never intended to function alongside it, therefore it generally isn’t a highly compatible mix. Traditional Shadowhunters believe, most rightly so, that anything that messes with runes is dangerous & undermines the Nephilim mandate, but some take this further & additionally consider it immoral. Their own resources are typically superior for their needs, especially in terms of gathering information given they have the Institute libraries, he Silent City, the Spiral Labyrinth ( accessible only to Centurions ), & various other libraries across the world. They have little need for mundane resources in terms of every day life.

     That being said, technology has become necessary in terms of interfacing in large scale urban settings, such as the area severed by the Institute of New York. New York City encompasses over 300sq. miles ( 783.8 km² ). surveilling this area without the aid of technology, especially as the city grows & expands, is quite difficult, so integrating some level of surveillance technology became integral, but first there was one issue to overcome - the fact that technology, given it cannot typically bear runes, has no protection from demonic interference. after the expansion of the angelic cores & their abilities by Shadowhunters in Tokyo, this enabled protections to be put in place that both enabled protection against demonic interference & allowed for protection against interference from an Institute’s wards. several larger scale Institutes serving large scale urban populations were quick to implement this, thus upgrading their reach & surveillance abilities significantly.

     While the Institutes may implement this system, it is not designed to take away from the very, very crucial core of their libraries - the library maps, tracking runes, & encyclopedias CANNOT be replaced by google maps, GPS tracking, or anything found in a search engine, & these surveillance systems run the very real risk of not working if electricity & wifi aren’t reliable, meaning that old fashioned methods are still far superior, & should be the cornerstone of every Institute - though they do admittedly make things easier. Knowing all of this as background, it’s easy to see why technology within this world is considered a double edge sword & why many older, traditional Nephilim are against its use. in a world where cars offer no protection but a carriage does, it does perhaps put aesthetic into perspective.

     As head of the New York Institute, Alec is tasked with overseeing the maintenance & implementation of said technological upgrades. he additionally oversees many Shadowhunters in the Northern reaches of the Western Hemisphere coming to NY to be trained on this technology as needed. He has a significant love/hate relationship with it, par for the course of his family being a touch on the traditional side. He recognizes both its usefulness but also the steep dangers it can potentially pose, & he is unforgiving in terms of pushing the more traditional paths as a priority with use of the Op Center restricted to being a backup & not a primary method so that the most reliable method doesn’t fall out of favor & become an Achilles heel that haunts them at a decisive moment. At the same time, he holds himself to a strict level of accountability & he knows the tech in the op center inside & out so that if something does go wrong, he can be the first in line to get it back up & running.

[girlcalledtasha]

Something weird happened this morning.

I’m not sure if this is gonna go through. There’s no signal down here so have to use the weird open wifi network.

Things have escalated. I dozed off during the night and early this morning a frantic knocking on my front door woke me up. It was Rosalind.

“We have to go. We have to go now,” she told me. “Get dressed. We’re going.”

“What happened? Didn’t you get the ritual?”

She shook her head. “And Dante knows Virgil is nearby. He’s figured out some kind of tracking spell. No time to explain.”

I had already started getting dressed. “Shouldn’t we take Virgil?”

“Screw Virgil! We’ve gotta go!”

I grabbed my bag and nodded that I was ready. Before we got to the door, there was a gentle knocking from the other side. *tap *tap *tap We stopped in our tracks.

“Rosalinnnd,” came the voice from the other side of the door. “We know you’re in there.”

“Fuck,” Rosalind whispered.

“Rosalinnnnnd. Why would you be hiding Virgil from me?”

Rosalind put a finger to her lips, telling me to stay quiet.

*BANG *BANG *BANG

“ROSALIND! You can’t hide from us!”

We stayed perfectly silent.

“Break the door,” we heard from outside.

Rosalind looked around panicking for a way to escape, but this is a basement flat. There are no windows. No other doors. No other doors except…

“We’re out of options,” I told Rosalind and pulled her towards the creepy doorway.

She struggled against my grip, shaking her head in protest. “Down there is no better than what’s out there! And they’ll follow us!”

I grabbed Virgil from my bedside table. “We have something they don’t.”

“That’s the thing they’re following!” she hissed.

Something rammed hard against the front door, nearly taking it off the frame. Rosalind grabbed my hand. She grit her teeth and looked towards the creepy doorway.

“Let’s go.”

We began descending the damp stairs, holding onto the walls to balance ourselves. The racket continued from above us. It wasn’t a strong door so it was only a matter of time before they would break through.

After thousands of steps, we reached the bottom. We entered a dark chamber and on the other side was another doorway, leading to a corridor similar to the staircase; damp and mouldy. We stood outside this new doorway. Virgil’s eye widened in excitement and beckoned us to go through.

“The Labyrinth,” Rosalind told me, still holding my hand.

“Where does it go?” I asked.

“Nowhere good. And there are things in the Labyrinth that don’t want us there.” She let go of my hand and looked up the staircase, listening for any movement.

“Do you hear anything?” I asked her.

“Shh.” Her brow furrowed. I could tell she could hear something. I thought I could hear something too. Not footsteps though. More like screaming. And it was getting louder! We backed up towards the entrance to the Labyrinth. The screaming got louder and it was accompanied by crashing noises. A second later, a beat up occultist tumbled head over heals into the chamber, covered in lacerations from falling down all of those steps. Their arm looked broken.

“They’re following,” said Rosalind.

“Is he dead?”

The body on the floor groaned, and tried to get up. It looked up at us and snarled. From far off up the staircase we heard a voice echoing.

“Rosaliiiinnnnnd.”

The battered occultist managed to stand up and glared at us.

“We are so fucked,” Rosalind whimpered. She grabbed my hand again and ran into the Labyrinth. “Follow Virgil! He’ll guide us through.” she told me.

“To where?!” I asked her. She didn’t reply.

We ran through the maze of wide corridors, following whatever direction Virgil was looking. We could hear the battered cultist limping not far behind us.

We hit a dead end! We both looked to Virgil, and he looked straight back up at us, not giving any indication of where to go. Rosalind grabbed the coffee mug Virgil sat in and shook it.

“Which way?!” she demanded, but Virgil gave us nothing. The limping of the cultist was getting closer. We pressed our backs against the wall.

“There’s two of us,” I said, “and one of him. And he’s pretty beaten up. We can take him.”

“Shhh,” Rosalind quieted me. “He might not find us if we stay quiet.” Virgil nodded.

But the limping was still getting closer. And closer. A bloodied hand emerged from around the corner, followed by the bloody occultist. He was a mess and leaned against the wall to support himself.

“Found you!”

Then in the blink of an eye, an enormous black beast hurtled out of a side passage, crashed into the side of him and pinned him against the stone wall. The occultist’s scream curdled the air. The beast had three heads and all three drooled down upon the occultist. The central head widened its jaws.

“No! No!” screamed the occultist, who fell suddenly silent as the black beast’s jaws wrapped around his head and plucked it from his body, like a cherry from a stem. His body fell limp in its grasp. The jaws closed and crunched like celery. Rosalind and I held each other in the corner of our dead end, watching silently. The beast dragged the body off down another passage and it was quiet again.

The silence was broken by the echoing call of “Rosalllinnnnnd,” from somewhere deep in the Labyrinth.

We’re still wandering the Labyrinth, following Virgil’s gaze and praying he leads to a way out.

#somethingweirdhappenedtoday

[takeseffort]

micro hc prompt from @xkatarite​: Alec's relationship with tech. does he love it? hate it? advanced use or can he do what's required of him and nothing else when it comes to using tech? ( headcanon will be a mix of canon & headcanon previously established on this blog ) word count: 614.

      Shadowhunters don’t traditionally use a lot of technology. most of it - guns, car engines - can’t bear runes, or is otherwise incompatible with their general lifestyle. Shadowhunters in Idris itself largely reject it because the warding interferes significantly. Runes were invented before more modern technology & were never intended to function alongside it, therefore it generally isn’t a highly compatible mix. Traditional Shadowhunters believe, most rightly so, that anything that messes with runes is dangerous & undermines the Nephilim mandate, but some take this further & additionally consider it immoral. Their own resources are typically superior for their needs, especially in terms of gathering information given they have the Institute libraries, he Silent City, the Spiral Labyrinth ( accessible only to Centurions ), & various other libraries across the world. They have little need for mundane resources in terms of every day life.

      That being said, technology has become necessary in terms of interfacing in large scale urban settings, such as the area severed by the Institute of New York. New York City encompasses over 300sq. miles ( 783.8 km² ). surveilling this area without the aid of technology, especially as the city grows & expands, is quite difficult, so integrating some level of surveillance technology became integral, but first there was one issue to overcome - the fact that technology, given it cannot typically bear runes, has no protection from demonic interference. after the expansion of the angelic cores & their abilities by Shadowhunters in Tokyo, this enabled protections to be put in place that both enabled protection against demonic interference & allowed for protection against interference from an Institute’s wards. several larger scale Institutes serving large scale urban populations were quick to implement this, thus upgrading their reach & surveillance abilities significantly.

      While the Institutes may implement this system, it is not designed to take away from the very, very crucial core of their libraries - the library maps, tracking runes, & encyclopedias CANNOT be replaced by google maps, GPS tracking, or anything found in a search engine, & these surveillance systems run the very real risk of not working if electricity & wifi aren’t reliable, meaning that old fashioned methods are still far superior, & should be the cornerstone of every Institute - though they do admittedly make things easier. Knowing all of this as background, it’s easy to see why technology within this world is considered a double edge sword & why many older, traditional Nephilim are against its use. in a world where cars offer no protection but a carriage does, it does perhaps put aesthetic into perspective.

      As head of the New York Institute, Alec is tasked with overseeing the maintenance & implementation of said technological upgrades. he additionally oversees many Shadowhunters in the Northern reaches of the Western Hemisphere coming to NY to be trained on this technology as needed. He has a significant love/hate relationship with it, par for the course of his family being a touch on the traditional side. He recognizes both its usefulness but also the steep dangers it can potentially pose, & he is unforgiving in terms of pushing the more traditional paths as a priority with use of the Op Center restricted to being a backup & not a primary method so that the most reliable method doesn’t fall out of favor & become an Achilles heel that haunts them at a decisive moment. At the same time, he holds himself to a strict level of accountability & he knows the tech in the op center inside & out so that if something does go wrong, he can be the first in line to get it back up & running. 

[skekiss]

Chapter One: Changes

Silvia, soon-to-be-sixteen, is reluctant to stay at Grandma's cottage in the country for the summer. Though this is something she's done for every year of her life thus far, nothing could possibly prepare Silvia for what she quickly discovers about Grandma's plans, to leave them behind, about the fairies at the end of the garden, a great change -- a conjunction -- a shard of crystal and the planet of Thra.

The Dark Crystal fan-fiction, wherein a human girl is transported to the world of Thra. Labyrinth / Alice in Wonderland vibes.

Chapter One under the cut or over on Ao3

'I wish you'd stop sulking.'

The city was long behind them, having travelled through hours of endless hazy green, through a soft and vibrant landscape, smoggy skyscrapers and cramped streets turned into long and lonely highways and those too, had transformed into rolling hills and tiny cottages, nestled into colourful, breezy countryside.

All the while Silvia had watched the world change from the passenger window, mostly silent, and fiddling occasionally with the reception on the radio - - white noise, talking, white noise, vague and crackling music - - sitting alongside Mama whose hands twitched at the wheel. They were on their way to visit Grandma, like they did every summer. As was their family tradition. Silvia would then stay throughout the whole holiday until the leaves turned red and dropped from their branches. Mama had insisted on staying this year, more than ever before.

'You're really far too old to be acting like this.'

Silvia sighed. So, she was too old to be sulking but too young to spend her days back home alone while Mama worked throughout the school holiday? Her light brows hitched, her dark eyes glanced across the dashboard. A flash of anger. Lips pursed. Well, which is it? Was she too old or too young?

Silvia knew she sat awkwardly at the in between.

'This might be the very last summer you get to spend at the cottage,' Mama was saying, a reproachful tone, a well-manicured hand waving absently in the air. 'I told you Grandma was thinking of selling didn't I? It's sounding more likely than ever, since they're really after that land of hers. And I don’t think they’re going to drop it. They’re offering her a lot of --'  

'You told me.’' Silvia said.

She had heard the story enough times already. It had been the perfect way for Mama to get her to agree to spend the summer - - and her upcoming birthday - - away in the country with Grandma, away from all of her friends, away from reception and WiFi, away from civilisation. It didn't mean she was happy about it, Silvia hadn't agreed to pretend that was true. Grandma might lose her scenic cottage in the country, her quaint little hand built home the family had treasured for generations. And so, the growing guilt had determined that Silva was going to spend the last summer with Grandma, whether she really wanted to or not. 

'Well, then. Make the most of it while you can! Look, Silvie, it's beautiful. You'll miss this when it's gone.' Mama trailed off. 'I know I do.'

Silvia went back to silence, switched the radio off and turned back to staring out at the green dips and curves, at the fluffy grass and swaying flowers. She didn't hate staying at Grandma's. That wasn't why she was… sulking. It had been her favourite time of the year growing up, for as long as she remembered. Running in the woodland, dipping her bare feet in the stream, eating crunchy apples from the garden, catching bugs with a net and bucket banging at her thigh. But this year, she had wanted something different. Something a little more grown up.

The first week spent with Grandma would fall on her birthday, just as it had fallen on her birthday every year for the last fifteen of them. Only, this one was supposed to be special -- or so her friends had said. Turning sweet sixteen, finally, Sylvia had hoped she was old enough to spend the day back home in the city, hop on the underground and enjoy bustling central London, go to the cinema, sneak snacks into their backpacks, have a sleepover, tell secrets and gorge on a Netflix series. Instead of how she always spent her birthdays, for as far back as her memory allowed, alone with Grandma in the stifling cottage, sipping hot tea and listening to fantasy stories. Watching the treeline at dusk and listening to Grandma count the fairies out loud.

It had been a long time since Silvia had squinted to try and spot them.

She was growing up, after all.

There weren’t any fairies in the garden.

Mama’s and Silvia’s arguments had centred around staying at the cottage since the first light of spring and they hadn’t stopped since. They hadn’t stopped as the date on the calendar -- circled in blue permanent marker in the shape of a cartoon flower -- had gotten steadily closer, with each day, then month, as they were torn away. They hadn’t stopped as Silvia angrily and dishearteningly packed her bags defeated, deflated, and watched as Mama had thrown them all askew into the back of the trunk. They hadn’t even stopped on the way to Grandma. Not really. Although the silent treatment was certainly preferable to the shouting. Silvia knew she was sulking and she didn’t intend to stop, no matter what Mama said about it.

‘Here we are,’ came Mama’s sing-song announcement as the car turned into the crunchy pebble driveway, bumping and bouncing them about in their oversized seats.

‘Finally,’ Silvia groaned, lifting her big round specs and rubbing at her eyes.

Grandma’s cottage was framed by the windshield, like a worn photograph beyond the glass. Half imbedded into the hilly soil, only half of the dark wood stuck out from the grassy mound, stained by rain and splintered with age. With a messy thatched roof, as sunbleached, blanched and tattered as Silvia’s own hair. The cottage was surrounded entirely by flowers, terracotta pots, trellises entangled with roses and ivy, a wild meadow all of its own. Grandma’s little house was claimed entirely by nature, thick roots of a nearby oak had lifted it from the foundations, crooked and overgrown. It was far from the clean white brick and meticulously pruned rose bushes of their townhouse back in the city. It was far from anything at all, really.

Grandma must have heard the engine huffing, the jeep crawling inch by careful inch into the tightest space, for the gnarled front door swung on its hinges and she emerged from the darkness inside, out into the sunny afternoon blinking and beaming. This lifted Silvia’s spirits, if only a little. Grandma hopped from the stone front steps and onto the overgrown flower beds, her wrinkly feet pale and bare in the dirt. Grandma had always been small. Hunched over, hobbling, a bundle of floral dress, frills and apron, long white hair worn in a plait draped limply over her shoulder. She appeared even tinier this time around, Silvia was sure. With a crooked spine, and tiny limbs, like a little imp, Grandma hobbled over to greet them, arms wide open.

Mama hopped from the car, black heels sinking into the pebbled earth she swayed unsteady, almost falling into Grandma’s frail welcome arms and yet, despite appearances, Grandma had strength enough for both of them.

‘Mildews!’ Grandma crowed, kissing Mama. Each cheek smothered with equal enthusiasm. Grandma bellowed their family name proudly, as though it were a powerful incantation she was sending to the skies. 

Silvia slipped from the jeep and hovered at the side-mirror. She’d always thought her last name was ugly and had always disliked when she was referred by it at school, on the register, on the worst day of the year -- sports day. Mildew. But it always sounded less so when Grandma said it. Grandma could make anything, no matter how ugly, sound magical.

Just as she could make things sound better, she could make things seem better too. Grandma’s deep, dark eyes -- just like Silvia’s -- turned to her, and though dulled by age, were warm and welcome and wholly inviting. When Grandma looked at Silvia, she felt, for a moment, as though she were the only girl in the world. She was seen for all that she was, and all that she was capable of, even if she was too old for some things and yet still too young for others.

‘My, my, Silvie Mildew! C’mere you.’

In an instant, she was crushed into the many ruffled frills of Grandma’s collar and greeted by the familiar, strong scent of earth, wood and smoke. Silvia relaxed into Grandma’s spiny arms, though she shied away from Grandma’s insistent kisses and cooing. It drew a smile from all of her sulking nonetheless.

‘I’ve missed you so much! Look how you’ve grown!’

Since this subject had been such a cause for contention between Silvia and Mama, neither said anything in response to Grandma’s statement. Grandma shrugged, running a twisted hand against Silvia’s cheek. ‘And look at your hair!’

That too, had grown. Long and silvery blonde, like Mama’s. Only loose, always messy and not quite as grey and untameable as Grandma’s, a least not just yet. A signature feature inherited from the Mildew line, it’s moonlight colour matched her milky skin, with eyes as dark and rich as soil.

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Silvia lied, a little sullenly.

‘It’s so good to see you Mum. I’ll get the kettle on, we’ve got a lot to talk about,’ Mama said with a smile.

‘That we have,’ Grandma agreed, watching as Mama pulled her heels up from the grass, taking long-legged strides towards the cottage, holding her billowing trouser legs up at her knees.

‘Silvia, go grab your things from the boot and bring them inside.’ 

Mama tossed the jangling keys Silvia’s way and though she reached for them, arcing in the air, she missed them by mere inches. It was Grandma who caught them a foot from the ground, clasped in her little hand, deceptively fast for a tiny old lady, hunched and crooked, she heaved herself back into standing, beaming.

Silvia blinked. 

‘C’mon,’ Grandma said, huffing playfully. ‘Hurry up. You look like you need a good brew.’ With a light slap against Silvia’s shoulders, Grandma hobbled off after Mama and into her home. 

With the boot of the jeep open, Silvia’s case was as it had been when Mama had thrown it carelessly into the back. It was so old and worn, brown and scuffed and covered in stamps from Mama’s travels-- long before Silvia came along -- she was surprised and somewhat relieved to find it hadn’t completely busted open on impact, though sleeves and tassels had burst from the broken clasps, hung loose and crumpled, little else was strewn in the boot, save for one open book and her laptop. Not that she needed it. Grandma didn’t have the internet.

Silvia sighed.

Snapping the clasps tight and heaving her case from the boot, Silvia tucked her useless laptop under her arm, dragged the case across the garden, bumping over rocks, sliding through grass and forcing it through the hedgerow, she finally made it to the open door and heard the kettle whistle enticing her inside. A low rumbling. Dust in the wind. It was then Silvia spotted the yellow metal on the far hillside. Bulldozers sitting idol on the open grassland. A large sign posted in the distance read: Woodland Haven Luxury Homes coming soon in big green cursive letters, as the metal tore, chewed and churned at the empty farmland neighbouring Grandma’s old cottage.

Silvia’s jaw tightened. It was true then. Not that she’d thought Mama a liar, but had hoped she was just being dramatic, pulling on Silvia’s heart-strings to get her to stay another summer at Grandma’s as though it was an urgent thing. It may be the last time, she’d said. Silvia didn’t think they’d actually already started building on the land near the cottage. Her heart sank down into her stomach. Distracted and stumbling on the porch step, Silvia dropped her case at the door and hurried down the corridor and into the steamy kitchen.

‘Everything alright, Silvie?’ Mama’s head tilted, sitting at the small breakfast table tucked into the corner, a hot tea in hand.

Grandma hovered at the stove waving her tea towel wildly in all directions. Silvia ducked away from an accidental whipping. Everything was as it always was, every summer. A hot kitchen, a hot mug of tea, thrift cutlery and plates, all mismatched, chipped and worn, always set and ready for mealtime -- and with places set out for more than one. Grandma, after wafting for another minute, flustered and rosy cheeked, handed Silvia a mug of her own.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Mama continued, taking a sip.

Silvia opened her mouth to blurt something about bulldozers but Grandma shrugged and said, ‘maybe she did!’

Neither Silvia or Mama responded.

‘Round these parts, it was more likely to be the fae-folk, don’t know much about ghosts, but I’ve got fairies comin’ out of my ear ‘oles here.’ Grandma chuckled to herself, pulling the teabag from her petite floral cup and saucer -- very well brewed to tar black. ‘Nothin’ to be frightened of Silvie, not the likes of you anyway. Pay no mind, they’re gettin’ ready… and restless.’

As it was with Grandma, she’d forever spoken of fairies. To Mama when she was growing up in the cottage and to Silvia who spent every summer with her, as casually as she discussed the weather, or what was for dinner, or what she planned to bake in batches, what vegetable she was going to grow next in her garden…

Every visit, without fail, Grandma spoke of the fairies from another world. So much so that Mama and Silvia thought very little of their mention anymore. They were so familiar with the tales of the fae that lived in the woodland behind Grandma’s house -- they could simply move on to other conversation, without a single questioning glance or moment of consideration.

‘And what about you?’ Mama said, peering up from the rim of her cup, stained and shapely eyebrows rising with concern. ‘Have the builders come to see you again since we last spoke about it on the phone?’

Silvia’s stomach churned. Suddenly the fantastical subject of Grandma’s make-believe fairies was preferable. The bulldozers were far closer than she’d imagined.

‘They have,’ Grandma replied with a hmph. Apparently, she too, was a tad disgruntled at the topic change. ‘And I think it’s time I sell.’

Mama, for a moment, lost all composure and choked into the china. ‘What?’

Silvia was equally shocked to hear this, her mouth fell open, eyes wide. ‘Seriously?’

‘But the cottage!’ Mama nearly spilled her tea all over the patchwork tablecloth.

‘I’ll leave you money instead,’ Grandma sighed -- as though she’d gone over this a hundred times and was already bored with it. ‘I’ve thought it all out -- you and Silvie will be well taken care of when I --’

Mama’s shock sharpened into rage. ‘Money?! We don’t need that! What about your home? Our home? The cottage, it’s history -- Mum, you love this place!’ She was flabbergasted. Gaping like a fish in disbelief.

It was entirely true. They didn’t need any money at all. After all, Mama had already inherited Grandma’s incredible green fingers, she’d just taken them from the countryside and messy allotments and into the city, the place that prized minimal green space like natural shrines, filled with floral jewels. She was a well-renowned garden designer, who landscaped tiny penthouse deckings and flower beds along the Thames, to the gardens of stately homes, famous city parks and even the occasional design and upkeep of the royal gardens. It afforded them their white-washed townhouse on a cobblestone street, central London. Mama had said she’d found a real use for Grandma’s old skills.

Grandma, on the other hand, said Mama had always missed the point.

Silvia -- for once -- was on Mama’s side this time. ‘Don’t sell the cottage!’ She burst, lip wavering. All the tension and arguing all over springtime had been building to something like this.

Grandma’s severe features softened, as her defiant gaze fell upon Silvia’s face. ‘Oh, Silvie, you’ve got to understand. It’s the fairies --’ 

‘Enough with the bloody fairies!’ Mama slammed her teacup onto the table, everything shook. Silvia jumped. `I can’t even believe you’re considering this! I was hoping we could at least discuss this together, as a family! What about Papa? Did you ever think of that? His ashes are scattered right outside!’

Grandma hmph’d again, folding her arms across her chest. Grandpa had passed away before Silvia had been born -- though she knew where he’d been scattered. A little stone with his name carved into it had always been embedded in one of many flowerbeds in Grandma’s garden. It did feel very wrong to think of selling the cottage. 

‘Mother,’ Mama’s tone was scolding, furious -- as though talking to Silvia of fifteen and not a Grandmother. ‘I can get legal advice! I can help! You always told me that money is of no real importance --’

‘It isn’t,’ Grandma snapped. ‘Not where I’m going. I was thinking of you two!’

Mama’s eyes narrowed to mere slits, full of suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’ Mama eyed Grandma. ‘Are you hiding something? Are you... ill?’ A flash of worry, she bit her lip. ‘You’re not, are you? You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Where are you going, Grandma?’ Silvia swallowed. Dread inched up her spine at their spiteful snapping back-and-forth. But it was more than that. 

‘The Great Conjunction is upon us. Soon there will be a time safe to go back. Like the prophecy stated. We’ve been preparing for this for a while. And they said I can join them when they go. A great shift is coming! A time of change!’

Grandma might as well have been speaking an entirely different language for all Silvia understood of that.

‘It’s not the time for games,’’ Mama stressed, a finely manicured hand running through her trimmed blonde bob, unusually ruffled. ‘You’re really considering giving this place up?’ She shook her head. Silvia had never seen Mama look defeated before. Not once. Not ever.

‘Not considering,’ Grandma said. ‘It’s already signed.’

***

The argument exploded from there on out -- shouting and yelling that continued for hours between Mama and Grandma. Mama pressing Grandma to get herself a lawyer, and Grandma snapping that her decision was final, and would make things easier on everyone. It’s lucky the cottage was so secluded, Silvia thought, her head aching and threatening to flourish into a full blown migraine. She hurried to the spare bedroom without excusing herself -- not that they’d notice -- and didn’t complain once about having to drag her suitcase up the tiny, winding staircase. She tossed herself onto the little bed, wanting to drown out all of their anger.

Words were tossed into the flurry. Swears and insults. Some of which Silvia had never heard in all her life. Grandma had said she was ‘going to Thra.’ Mama had said she was ‘going insane, more like!’ After some time, and shed tears from Mama, -- Silvia could hear her angry sobbing -- the fierceness over the cottage, dulled to little more than weak retorts.

This wasn’t how she wanted to spend the week of her sixteenth birthday! Silvia huffed. She was angry. She was hurt. It was suddenly all too important to stay even if she really didn’t want to. Screaming once into a particularly plump pillow, Silvia star fished on the musty quilt -- falling in and out of headachey half-sleep. 

‘I’m sorry Silvie but I’m not staying for supper. I need to get back on the road.’ 

Lips lightly pressed against Silvia’s cheek, rousing her from a cottony dreamlessness. Blinking back sleep, Mama’s face rippled in and out of blurry focus. 

‘Here,’ Mama said. ‘Your glasses.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry about earlier --’ 

Mama sat herself at the edge of the bed, tired and pale, her collar askew, her cheeks red and raw. Shoulders slack and sighing. The sun was setting, pouring oranges and pinks through the tiny window and into the bedroom that had been Mama’s once upon a time. But she didn’t turn to face the memorabilia, she turned to Silvia instead, sadness filmed her deep eyes.

‘Grandma and I, we’ve always had our differences,’ she started. ‘And even though we argue and we often disagree, I love her. Just like I love you. Very much. And Grandma, she loves you too, more than anything in the whole universe!’ Mama gave a watery smile, taking Silvia’s hand in her own.

Silvia avoided eye contact best she could. Guilt clogged her throat. Blinking back the threat of tears, she kept a firm mask of teenage indifference. Disagreeing and shouting and arguing is all that her and Mama had been doing. Now it was Mama and Grandma’s turn. She didn’t want to be here, witnessing all of this. It would have been better to have stayed in the city, just like she’d actually wanted.

‘But this will be the last time you will get to stay here,’ Mama concluded. ‘Grandma’s decided that’s what she wants.’ Mama looked like she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. ‘So make the most of it, will you Silvie?’ She squeezed her fingers tight. ‘Make the most of being young and free.’

A beat passed, Silvia chewed on the inside of her cheek.

‘I offered for Grandma to come and live with us for a bit -- when it’s time to move. There’s still a couple of months left before she’s got to go. Maybe we can all take a holiday together when it’s all sorted. That would be nice, don’t you think?’

Mama had travelled abroad for a lot of her early life, they’d never been on holiday together, ever. Silvia had rarely ever surpassed the city with Mama, only when the time came each summer to migrate up to the country. This was really happening. With her free hand, Silvia clung to the bedsheets, palms clammy.

‘Maybe Grandma is right --’ Mama suggested, a quiet thought in the glowering silence. ‘Maybe this is the time for change.’

‘Sure, Ma. That’ll be great.’ To Silvia’s surprise the idea of change suddenly frightened her, far more than it thrilled her.

They’d hugged and said their goodbyes -- as was the natural order of things. Silvia’s head still throbbed, her eyes tired and swollen, stomach rumbling, lunch, dinner and supper skipped, wanting to retreat to bed as soon as Mama hopped into her jeep and made the journey back to London alone. Grandma and Mama were noticeably subdued with each other but kissed and bid each other goodbye at the door just the same.

‘Be good for Grandma please,’ Mama said, taking Silvia’s cheek in her hand and squishing with her thumb and forefinger. ‘Remember what I said? Make the most of it!’ She was smiling but it was lopsided, if not a little sad.

‘I will, Ma.’

‘I’ll see you both in a few weeks,’ she said. ‘Try and stay out of trouble.’

‘Off with you,’ Grandma shooed her from the steps playfully, Mama’s and Grandma’s eyes meeting. Embracing one last time.

‘Alright -- alright --’ Mama chuckled, juggling her keys before turning to the jeep. The engine hummed against the white noise of crickets. The moon already cresting through the clouds, dusk brought both darkness and stars with it to see Mama off on her journey. ‘Love you,’ she called. Blowing a kiss from the window, wound down.

‘Safe journey Ma,’ Silvia shouted, an unfamiliar weight settling in her chest.

She’d been sick of the same old story, and now, that’s what she wanted. If only for a second. This was the last time she’d say goodbye to Mama like this, wave from the porch of the little old cottage door. Feel the sticky warmth of the summer air.

‘Love you,’ Grandma said. Bony fingers at thin and twisted lips, she blew a kiss as Mama pulled from the driveway, out onto the weaving road. Her headlights beamed. Her horn honked loudly, indicator flashing. Then she was gone.

‘Whew! What a day! Let’s get some food in you Silvie before you waste away!’ 

Silvia hung at the doorway for just a little longer than Grandma. As though trying to cling to the moment of goodbyes for one final time. Her head was splitting, tummy rumbling and squinting through the darkness, she tried to spot Mama’s jeep tail-lights in moonlight haze. But instead of the road -- something glittery caught her eye, off beyond the trees that surrounded Grandma’s home grounds. A shimmering, a iridescence in the blackness of the trees. It hurt to focus. Really hurt.

Silvia gasped. First with shock, stumbling. And then with pain.

The migraine rolled in like an angry storm across her tired mind, like charging soldiers at war within her skull. And so, Silvia was forced, eyes dotted with colour and almost blinded, to go back inside. To go eat and get some actual sleep.

For the briefest of moments -- there at the woodland edge, Silvia had thought she’d seen one of them.

Wings that glittered in the ambient light. 

A fairy.

[booksandcafesblog]

Cafe Review: Jitters Cafe

Name: Jitters Cafe Inc Address: 12 Main Street, Oak Grove Village, Melrose, MA 02176 Hours: Mon - Fri 7am-7pm  | Sat & Sun 7am-5pm Website: Jitters Coffee: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Food: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Atmosphere: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Service: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Overall: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Overall Rating: 5 out of 5 stars 

You know, I’ve always been the type of person who opts for a few really close, loyal friends instead of a deep bench of casual acquaintances. If you make the cut, congratulations, I did not make the decision lightly. Similarly, I have a handful of restaurants from which I never deviate, and I usually order the same thing at each place. Not to brag, but I currently have a breakfast place where I can just order “the usual” and they know what I mean. If I didn’t giggle each time after I said it, it would come across as pretty cool. However, when it comes to coffee (something I rank way higher than both human interaction and food), I’m the town Casanova, ping-ponging from cafe to cafe, drink to drink… racking up a concerning number of meaningless encounters in my daily quest to avoid a headache from lack of caffeine. 

“What’s the name of this place again? Ah, never mind, it doesn’t matter, I’ll have a large black coffee.”

“Thank you, sir. Please come again.”

“Stop smothering me. I feel like we’re married.”

While it’s fun to go wherever, whenever to order whatever, is that really the kind of person I aspire to be? Do cafes gossip? Will my questionable reputation amongst these cafes affect potential future decisions like running for president or finally getting that library card? About a year ago, I figured it was time to settle down, and so it was with long-term commitment in mind that I decided to try Jitters.

Jitters has a nice, typical coffee-shop feel. The lights are dim, soft, and pleasant. A comforting fresh-baked-cookie aroma permeates the air. The decor consists of an assortment of seating options—booths, stools, and “comfy” chairs—accompanying tables, and people working on their laptops. (I assume these are actually just mannequins arranged for atmosphere.) In addition to drinks, the menu includes breakfast sandwiches, paninis, soups, salads, and cookies. Upon my first visit, I decided to take things slow and begin the relationship by ordering a large cold brew, which was excellent. The large is also pretty big, which gave me plenty of time to claim a high table for one, and scope out what had the potential to be my forever cafe. 

Looking around, the first thing I noticed was the WiFi password written out in chalk. I forget the exact words, but it was something like “don’t hog the booths.” Taking a long drag from my cold brew, I decided I didn’t care for that, as it was kind of negative and implied a lot of baggage. Worse still, after performing the degrading act of typing this scold into my phone, I couldn’t even seem to connect. I’m happy to report Jitters has since changed to a more normal password, and I’ve had no trouble logging on since that first time, but you only get one first impression!

Regardless, as I finished my drink, I knew Jitters was a cafe I’d be interested in seeing again. That is, until I heard a loud crash outside. Like everyone else in the cafe, I looked out the window to see what had happened. To my surprise, a car accident had occurred right outside the establishment. While nobody was hurt, and it looked to be relatively minor, I began to wonder through my vibrating caffeine buzz what this meant for me and Jitters. Was it an ominous message from beyond that Jitters was not the cafe for me? Was it an act of aggression by one of the many jilted cafes from my sordid past? Or was it just a funny story Jitters and I would someday tell our kids? Whatever it was, it was definitely all about me, and I decided to tread lightly in my courtship of Jitters. 

"I have also fallen prey to the wonderful, delightful cookie smell I mentioned earlier, and I am not sorry for it. The cookies are so good..."

Over this past year, I have cautiously continued to frequent Jitters, learning of its many endearing quirks and ordering different items on the menu. I’ll start with the quirks:

The bathroom situation: I could say Jitters has a bathroom, but I think a more accurate statement would be that Jitters has access to a bathroom. The exact location of said bathroom? I have no idea! You start in Jitters, proceed down a disorienting labyrinth of hallways that seems to defy time and space, and if you’re lucky, end up in a bathroom. More than once, I’ve almost walked into the kitchen of a whole other restaurant. I assume it is the kitchen of Bobby C’s, the restaurant right next to Jitters, but it could also be the kitchen of a cruise ship off the coast in France in the 1950s, as again, this hallway is a portal to another dimension. 

Ordering food: When a customer orders food at Jitters, they get a number that they are supposed to place on their table. Once their order is ready, a Jitters employee looks for that number and delivers the food. Simple, right? Apparently not, as a trip to Jitters wouldn’t be complete without watching an employee holding a plate and aimlessly wandering around the cafe like a lost child at the mall. The only discernible difference is that, instead of fearfully crying, “Mom?…Mom?” the employees at Jitters are shakily calling out, “Sausage, egg, and cheese? Sausage, egg, and cheese?”

Speaking of sausage, egg, and cheese - that’s what I get! It is a solid breakfast sandwich, and when you order it with two eggs instead of one, it is stacked English muffin/egg/sausage/egg/English muffin, palindrome-style, which is neat!

I have also fallen prey to the wonderful, delightful cookie smell I mentioned earlier, and I am not sorry for it. The cookies are so good, and somehow consistently maintained at the perfect temperature. I would definitely recommend the chocolate chip, but I’m sure they’re all fantastic. 

Finally, when I’m not ordering a cold brew or a black coffee, I’ve found that I truly enjoy Jitters’ hot apple cider. Even during the summer! On one particularly hot day, the person taking my order questioned my decision to order it, repeating, “Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?” so many times that I still don’t know if she was kidding or legitimately concerned. I kind of felt like I was getting cut off at a bar. She eventually let me order a piping hot apple cider on a 90 degree day, and despite a little bit of embarrassment, I appreciated that she cared, because when someone doesn’t care, it hurts…

Photos from Jitters' Facebook

On my most recent visit to Jitters, the person who took my order greeted me with a, “What will it be, my man?” which I liked, because it showed he knew I was chill. When I ordered a large cold brew, he responded, “All right, that’ll be five flat,” and my jaw almost hit the floor. That is such a cool way of saying five dollars even! I’m still waiting for an opportunity to use that phrase in my own life!

Quick side note: I have been witness to a lot of cool things lately. Just this week, I saw a guy on the train fold his hooded sweatshirt in a way that allowed for the whole thing to fit inside the hood, and he used the drawstring as a strap to hold it like a little gift-wrapped purse. If that wasn’t cool enough, he then popped in his earbuds, began grooving to whatever he was listening to, produced a food container from somewhere, and then just started knocking back grapes for the rest of the train ride. Wow!

Anyway, once I finished ordering, I stepped aside and let the two kids behind me step up to order. That’s when I heard it:

“What will it be, my man?”

My heart sank. Why would he greet them the same way he greeted me? Does he say that to everybody? He must! To add insult to injury, once my cold brew was prepared, he instructed another employee to bring it to “the guy wearing glasses.”

“I thought I was special…” I lamented to myself, sipping my cold brew and hogging a booth out of spite. “I thought I was special…”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. That employee and I weren’t all that different. The way I felt in that moment… unremarkable, passed over, sad… that’s how those past cafes must have felt because of me… because of my noncommittal, infrequent visiting habits. I deserved that pain. I was a monster.

Jitters didn’t become my one and only, as I think I’ll always be a sort of coffee-philanderer, but Jitters isn’t just a notch on my belt either. We have a special relationship, and I am a changed person for having visited. How many stars does one assign to a cafe that taught them so much about themselves?

Five flat… five flat…

[hoardinghostage]

Losing my damn mind

It's like that scene from Labyrinth; the girl is being buried by the garbage crone with the things that represent memories, just as the garbage crone is covered in her "precious memories, too good to give up our guide away" (or something like that). That's what my life has become. I've bought things that I have no use for, because in the moment of buying and the first few days after, it brought me happiness. I have mountains of clothes that I almost never wear because I rarely leave the house at this point. The things have overtaken my life, and with half the house unusable due to the remains of the raw sewage back up, I can't figure out how to get it under control. There's no escape here and I have no energy to be anywhere else except when absolutely necessary. If I were being truly honest, if not for the need to take care of my Mom and help her figure out what had caused her aphasia and then get the hell out of this pit, I wouldn't have anything left to live for. My job is not even 10 hours a week, of strictly online, remote work. I get so little material to work with that it's nothing but a constant frustration. My degree is worthless and apparently so is my wifi experience because I can't get more than an automated response from job applications. I live off of Dramamine because no amount of other medications can stop the constant nausea and the only drug that ever worked before has been banned in my country for literally no reason. And I do mean no reason; the FDA even acknowledged than there were no reports of adverse affects that prompted its removal and that thousands of people depended on it, but a synthetic medication was now available, so that's what everyone will just have to accept. Just like that. And I'm a barely functioning zombie whose always just one quick head turn away from throwing up whatever food I've managed to choke down. I know the house is full of various types of mold, and I'm sure that's contributing. Migraines, nightmares, inability to think straight or organize thoughts, inability to sequence things, loss of time from "spacing out", sleep disturbances, mood swings, depression, constant fatigue, constant intestinal distress, and the list goes on. Short of burning this fucker to the ground, I don't think it can be dealt with. I've scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed till the skin on my hands cracked and bled, till so much baking soda and pumice and other scrubbing material was so far up my nails that my nail beds were pulling away from the nail and bleeding. It doesn't do a damn thing. No amount of bleach and vinegar and baking soda and scrubbing bubbles and Mr. Clean and soap of every kind will clean any of this. It all needs to burn and we need to walk away. But that won't happen. Good things don't happen here. Second chances are fairytales at best, flat out lies at worst. Real people don't get second chances. They may get to keep living and try to not repeat their mistakes, but only the bright and shiny celebrity gets the mythical "second chance". Get hooked on drugs, break into homes, steal, sleep with an underage girl, beat on a girlfriend... all acceptable, forgivable acts of done by a celebrity. But for those of us in the real world, whether trapped in The Middle or not, an unforgivable sin here is getting a college degree without having worked two jobs while completing it and heaven forbid it take you longer than four years! You're "lazy and selfish" if you don't have four years exclusive when you get a bachelor degree, and you still had better not expect anything better than $1.50/hr for a 40/wk, but that may include rodent infested "company housing", so be fucking grateful you're getting paid anything for your entry level job, even though you made more after four years in to a big box retail store. Oh, and you won't actually work 40 hours a week of you're getting paid less than $5/hr, you'll be working more line 80 to 90 hours. Of course, the lucky few out there can get as much as $10/hr after a few years, but you won't be working 40 hours then either. Nope. You'll be lucky to get 12 hours at that job. So you'll juggle two or three, and sometimes up to five jobs, until you get sick, which you will. Then you go into medical debt that you will never climb out from under, and if you actually have health insurance at the time, you'll likely have your SSID stolen and fraudulent charges paid out by your insurance, the balance of you will be deemed responsible for because unless the insurance company declares it fraud, then you can't fight the charges. Even if you're a young female and the charges are for a 50+ year old man getting a prostate screening and you were halfway across the country for a goddamn conference trying to get a fucking job, they're still going to hold you responsible, because the hospital you went to for a broken hand can fuck anyone in any way they want and no one can legally do anything about it because the law gives the that power. So years of fighting fraudulent debt, illness that no one seems to be able to effectively treat for more than a few months because, oh yeah, they want $600 out of pocket that no insurance will reimburse for because the doctors who will treat refuse to work with insurance, and you barely work and end up feeling worthless and stupid for ever thinking a so called "education" could possibly be your "Golden Ticket" out of the small town and house of hoard you got sucked into in your teens. At this point, while not being a whale or hideous, you're not striking anyone's fancy enough to go the "Mrs.-Ticket" as a way out, and frankly even working a street corner isn't an option because your knees have been eastern away by disease so you can't stand very long anyhow. And that leads to right fucking now: completely losing my fucking mind. Right to the point of taking about myself as someone else, because apparently I'm disassociating that much right now... There's work to be done, a meal to be eaten since all I could eat so far today was a handful of lunch meat and a hard boiled egg, but I really don't want to eat. I want to take another two Ativan and go to bed. I don't really care if I don't get up at this point. Except, I do care, because them there would be no one to take Mom to her CT scan tomorrow and they need to figure out why she can barely talk. She deserves better than this; better than anything I'll likely ever be able to give her short of winning the damn lottery. I don't even know where to start fixing anything. Therapy can help on the surface at first, but it doesn't solve any of the practical problems in front of me: I need a medication to stop my constant nausea and something to help the endless fatigue, I need a job that offers 40/hrs/wk and a pay rate that I can cover bills and save to get out of here, and I need to do whatever is necessary to get my Mom out of this. No amount of therapy can help with any of that! It didn't help you get a job, it doesn't help you get medicine when your doctors either brush you off as "crazy-hormonal-female" or just seem to be sucking you dry with tests that go no where and medicine that costs a fortune but doesn't really fix anything. Therapy helps if your life doesn't really sick, but you're just bummed it's not as perfect as you think you deserve. It helps if you need to realize that no one deserves to be abused and it's not your fault someone you loved decided to be a horrible spey excuse for a human. Therapy doesn't do a damn thing for real, practical problems, and I wish to hell people would recognize that what we need is not just more psychiatrists who will admit that there is no absolute proof that medication does anything more than talk therapy can; we need practical problem solvers and the money to help people with things like cleaning and purging and maintaining a reasonable home. Practical problems need practical answers and actual help initiating those answers: not just "recognize the problem, think it through, and then *just do it*" cheering. I think I need at least 1/2 an Ativan now... it's been a long fucking life so far. 😧