#like medical leave or prison or having to move out of town/state on very short notice

[tampon-on-the-sidewalk]

A word to anyone considering leaving their job for whatever reason:

Give two weeks notice AND work the last of your scheduled shifts.

Not only does it make you look better to other potential job offers (you see things through to the end as opposed to dropping prior obligation, ie previously scheduled shifts)

But it makes it so much better for your coworkers, who otherwise would have to work themselves to the bone just to make it through the day.

Sure, fuck corporate. Fuck your managers. Fuck your customers, even, if they ain’t treating you right. But please respect the others who absolutely can’t handle being a person short when hours are already spread so thin.

[summahsunlight]

Worth the Risk, Part 12

Rating: Mature(18+only)

Word Count: 1707

Pairing: Army Pilot!Poe Dameron x Nurse!Reader (1940s AU)

Summary: It’s the 1940s, Army pilot and Captain Poe Dameron is flying on missions for the United States Army in Europe.  After being shot down off the coast of France, Poe wakes up in an Army hospital in England, to find you, a nurse, taking care of him. Throughout the process of his recovery, Poe finds himself falling for you, and even though you, for the most part, maintain a professional relationship with him–you’re falling for him as well. Both of you know the risks of falling in love during a war, but then again, both of you have never cared much for being cautious.

Warnings: Angst, Holocaust imagery (not graphic)

Start from the beginning!

Taglist: @fanfic-addict-98​, @thescarletknight2014​, @blushingwueen​, @americasassromanoff, @ginger-swag-rapunzel​, @spider-starry​, @totelpoedameron, @captain-america5, @liadamerondjarin​, @m1rkw00dpr1ncess​, @paintballkid711​, @justanotherblonde23​, @castiel-barnes​, @itspdameronthings​

Hello readers, I am so sorry that this part took this long. I hope you enjoy reading it! Remember the taglist is open, just comment here or send me an ask/message if you would like to be added!🥰 As I mentioned in the warnings there is some mention of the Holocaust, however it is not graphic imagery but I wanted to warn readers. 

August, 1944

It was quiet now. Earlier that day the streets of Paris had been lined with citizens cheering the Allied Forces as they rode into the city. Poe had collected so many roses from the adoring crowds that he had enough to give you two dozen.  You’d found a glass jar and they were now sitting on the small table besides your cot, the sweet smell permeating the air. 

Currently your head was resting on Poe’s bare chest, listening to his heart beat, as well as the drunk Frenchman singing outside your window.  In a few days he’d be moving out of Paris with his unit, while you would be staying behind and treating the wounded. You knew that this was coming at some point--the Army was going to station your unit in a more permanent place--and Poe would be on the move. Because of this you clung a bit more tightly to one another tonight.

“I’m gonna miss Paris.”

“Why? Because all those random girls wanted to kiss you?”

Poe chuckled and pressed his lips to your temple. “It did give a whole new meaning to French kiss.”

You playfully hit him on the shoulder and laughed. Someday, you would get to lounge in bed like this, without a care in the world--without the war right outside your window. “You’re an idiot.”

“Arana says I’m a lovable idiot.”

“True. And you’re my lovable idiot.”

His finger ghosted over your cheek, his brown eyes softening as he gazed at you with so much love in them. “Do you know for the first time since this war began I actually feel hope that we might win this? That I might actually walk away and be able to go home to the ranch and build a life with you.”

It was so easy to feel hopeful when he talked like that, you realized. Softly you played with his hair. “What’s the ranch like?”

Poe smiled, softly. “Hot.”

You returned his smile. “Hotter than the South of France in August?”

“Much hotter.”

“Can you see for miles?”

“Miles and miles of blue skies and rolling hills.”

“Are there horses?”

“Lots of horses.”

Closing your eyes you tried to imagine the ranch where Poe had grown up. You’d grown up in the city--there had been no wide open spaces or horses--other than the ones pulling carriages or police officers rode. “I always wanted my own horse when I was a little girl.”

Poe ran his fingers through your hair, heart softening at the thought of you as a child wishing for a pony.. “Do you know how to ride? I could always teach you.” 

Even thought you had not been able to have a pony when you were growing up, your parents did provide you with riding lessons. “I know how to ride but it’s been a few years--I might need a refresher course.” 

“Something to look forward too then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I know the perfect spot on the ranch to ride out to.”

Placing a kiss on his shoulder, you smiled. Tomorrow morning both of you would be back in the thick of the war, but for now, it was just the two of you, dreaming about the future. 

Poe wrapped you tightly into his arms and kissed your temple. He was dreading having to say good-bye to you tomorrow morning but he would at least have peace of mind knowing that you were safe in Paris while he pressed on with the Army deeper into Europe.  Since taking back France there was a new sense of hope resonating with the boys--they were going to see this through to the end--they were going to win.

You fingers brushed his hair back. He’d gone back to trimming his curls since he’d left the hospital in England, but you still loved how incredibly soft his hair was. “What are you thinking about?”

A gentle smile spread across his face as he looked at you. “Just feeling incredibly hopeful.”

“Me too.”

“A year from now we’ll be on the ranch--you’ll see--it will be over, finally.”

--------

September, 1944

It wasn’t often in the last few weeks that you got to leave Paris. There was still heavy concern about Nazi troops inciting guerrilla warfare in the forests and along the country roads that led to towns and villages outside of the city. You had already been injured thanks to one sniper before--you didn’t want to go through that experience again.

However, a few volunteers had been asked to assist with the medical needs of some prisoners that had recently been freed from a Nazi camp. 

There was far less destruction out here in the countryside, although there was still evidence of war, of the Allies heavy bombing runs. Poe couldn’t talk about those, at least not with you and you weren’t sure if it was because he was sworn to secrecy or if the very idea that he could kill innocent people rendered him speechless. You surmised it was both. 

His letters that last few weeks had been short, upbeat; he would let her know if Arana was fine--still a pain in my ass, but I love him--Poe had written. 

“Lieutenant,” the driver said, pulling your attention away from daydreaming. “Did the Army give you any forewarning about what you’re going to see?”

“No,” you said with a shake of your head, suddenly feeling a pit forming in your stomach. “Is it that bad?”

“Treated them worse than animals,” the driver mumbled as pulled down a long, narrow drive that led to a stone farmhouse. “And they’re not soldiers ma’am--civilians, French civilians. The French Red Cross has been caring for them, but with the war still going on, it’s overwhelming. They asked for some help.”

Something inside of you sparked, the conversations you’d heard your father have with other men in the neighborhood when he thought you were not within earshot.  What had you agreed to expose your nurses too? Already they had seen so much--too much. 

The jeep came to a stop in front of the farmhouse. You glanced at it for a moment, a picture of the French countryside at the onset, but you knew inside.... it was a much different story. Stealing yourself, you took a deep breath and got out of the jeep. With your medical bag in hand, you headed inside to find the doctor in charge. 

It was eerily quiet. Beds lined walls with far too thin men, women, and children.  A French nurse handed you a mask, told you to put it on because they were dealing with an outbreak of influenza. Judging by the condition of the patients, this came as no surprise to you; they had no immune systems to combat even a cold. 

Slipping the mask on you, you buried your emotions and got to work. Later, when you sat down to write a letter to Poe, you’d let them all out. But for now, you had work to do.

------

Eight hours later, you found yourself hugging a toilet bowl. In all your lifetime, you had never seen people so sick, so frail, or so thin. Not even when you and your mother had traveled to rural parts of New York to help people in need during the Depression had you seen such horrendous conditions.

The Army private that had driven you to the farmhouse had been right--these people had been treated worse than animals. 

“Lieutenant?” Jess called from the other side of the door. “You okay?”

“No,” you answered, truthfully before vomiting again.

“Can I come in?”

“Enter at your own risk.”

Slowly, the. door to the bathroom opened and Jess stepped inside. She closed it behind her before speaking. “I know this probably means nothing to you--but the way you held it together today, it really helped all the girls. I don’t know how you did it.”

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you answered her, honestly, “I’m not sure how I did it, either. My parents helped several families get out of Germany before the war began, they told us stories but I never...I never thought it would have been like this.”

Jess sat down next to you, pressing her back against the vanity. “I don’t think anyone could have imagined it was like this, Lieutenant. How could anyone sane imagine this?”

You had to agree. Dropping back on your feet, you glanced exhausted at your friend. She looked just as drained as you; the pair of you had spent the entire day helping treat patients and listen to the ones that could communicate with you what they had been through--ripped away from their families, losing everything they owned. None of them were sure if members of their families were even alive--they had been sent away to other countries--you had heard the word Auschwitz a few times. 

“Do you think Captain Dameron is right?”

“About what?”

“The war being almost over.”

“I think he wants it to be almost over.”

“Me and him both.”

Sighing, you swallowed the sour tasting bile in your throat, wishing you could unsee the sick and dying people today. Suddenly you were feeling Poe’s absence harder than ever--you wished he was here so he could pull you into his arms and just tell you that it was going to be okay. 

Jess reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze. “Maybe you should go write to him.”

You glanced at her, incredulously. “How did you know I was even thinking about him?”

“Because if the man I was gonna marry was that good looking--I’d be thinking about him all the time as well,” she said, with a big smile.

“He is pretty cute,” you said, returning her smile. And then you both started laughing. When the laughter had died down, you rested your head on Jess’ shoulder. “Thanks, Jess. I feel better.”

“Anytime, Y/N,” Jess said, softly. “You don’t have to shoulder all this alone, especially if we’re going to be here helping these poor people for a while. We’re going to need each other to lean on.”

[sayedhusaini]

Israeli troops beat the Palestinian teen, shattering his jaw. Then they cuffed him to the hospital bed Soldiers bashed a Palestinian teen with their rifles, breaking his jaw. When finally taken to the hospital, 20 hours later, he was in shackles. His father waited in the hall for three days before he could hug him Gideon Levy, Alex Levac | Dec. 10, 2020 | 9:42 PM |

Mohammed Makbal was in prison this week. He was taken there directly from the hospital, a day after undergoing surgery on his jaw, which Israeli soldiers shattered with their rifle butts while arresting him on the street. In Hadassah University Hospital, Ein Karem, he was shackled to the bed, part of the time by the leg with an iron chain, part of the time with handcuffs. He also emerged from the operating room with his hands and legs shackled.

Makbal is a 16-year-old youth, in 10th grade at the boys’ high school in the Al-Arroub refugee camp; his father, Mounir, is deputy principal. Israeli soldiers thought Mohammed had thrown stones at them, and vented their rage on him. They arrested four other teens along with him, and beat them, too, but less severely. Eyewitnesses say the arrests were random; the soldiers grabbed whomever they could. There were many youngsters on the street to choose from.

The Makbals’ home is located on the eastern, more spacious side of the Al-Arroub camp, which is situated between Bethlehem and Hebron. We were there last week, too, after hearing of the arrest of another Palestinian minor, Basel Badawi, who had been snatched from his home by soldiers in the dead of night between November 15 and 16.

Two weeks later, on November 29, two Israel Defense Forces jeeps entered the main street of the crowded camp in the morning, though for what purpose is still not clear. Perhaps to demonstrate a presence – or just to provoke the schoolchildren, who naturally played their part and started to throw stones at the invading armored vehicles.

Mounir Makbal, 48, was in his office in the school at the time. In his youth Makbal, who today has five other children besides Mohammed, worked at a vegetable stall in Jerusalem’s Mahane Yehuda market and afterward in construction in Israel, until he was appointed the school’s deputy principal. He also studied administration at the university level while working. .

On that same morning Mohammed left the house around 7:20, as he did every day, to accompany his little sister, Lubav, to her primary school, which is some distance away. He then walked back to his school, which is closer to home, on the way stopping to buy falafel at a local place that his father calls “Shlomo’s Falafel,” because it reminds him of a similar eatery near Mahane Yehuda in Jerusalem. Shlomo’s Falafel, or maybe it was Shalom’s, he doesn’t remember.

In any event, as Mohammed went in to get a falafel, he later told his father, he suddenly saw dozens of children running down the street outside, leaving their bookbags behind on the ground so they could run faster: The army was in the camp and was firing tear-gas grenades.

At about 8:30 A.M., a neighbor from the camp called Mounir to say that the army had taken his son. The father rushed to the camp’s entrance gate where he saw three children, two of Mohammed’s age and one younger, standing on the road, handcuffed and blindfolded, soldiers surrounding them. Mounir asked the soldiers where his son was. Another resident, at the scene, told him his son was under arrest in an army jeep inside the camp.

The jeep arrived a quarter of an hour later. Mounir saw two soldiers removing Mohammed from the vehicle. His son could barely stand; they dragged him, bound and blindfolded, a soldier on each side. A blood-stained coronavirus mask covered his face. To his father he looked as though he had been badly beaten.

“I was very worried about my son’s condition,” Mounir told us in the fluent Hebrew he hasn’t spoken in years, when we visited him this week.

Out of the jeep emerged a Shin Bet security service agent known locally as “Captain Karem,” a familiar figure in Al-Arroub, this time wearing an IDF uniform (locals say that when he’s involved in operational activities, he wears a uniform).

“What’s with Mohammed? My son is still a baby, how come you’re taking him?” Mounir recalls asking the captain. “What does he say to me? ‘I will take your son’s pants off and rape him here.’ I said to him, ‘I am sorry to hear the person in charge of security talking like that.’ When I heard those words, the pressure began to build up in me. Captain Karem told me, ‘Beat it, or I’ll take you down with tear gas.’”

Mounir moved away and lost sight of his son. After a short time, the proprietor of the kiosk at the entrance to the camp informed him that the troops had “loaded the children into a jeep.”

The next day, Mounir was in a meeting at the Palestinian Education Ministry in the town of Halhul, near Hebron, when he got a phone call from Hadassah hospital in Jerusalem. He was told that the army had brought his son in during the night and that he should get there quickly, because they were going to operate and needed parental authorization.

When Mounir explained that he did not have an entry permit for Israel, the hospital official promised to send him a letter that he could take to the District Coordination and Liaison Office, which would issue an entry permit. The letter, addressed to Dalia Basa, health coordinator in the Civil Administration, stated: “Person is a minor. Need urgent permit for the father!” The permit arrived within a few hours. Mounir went to checkpoint 300 outside Bethlehem and from there took a taxi to Hadassah.

He was directed to the oral and maxillofacial surgery department, where a physician told him his son had been brought in at 3 A.M. with fractures of the jaw that required surgery. The medical file stated that Mohammed was suffering from a left condylar fracture. “Brought to ER about 20 hours after being bruised during his arrest for throwing stones.” Bruised. But Mounir felt somewhat relieved: It was only the jaw. But then his ordeal began.

Mohammed was in room 217 in the ward, in the bed next to the door. As Mounir entered he was appalled to see his son chained to the bed with two soldiers guarding him. They asked Mounir who he was and when he identified himself, they ordered him to leave. “Get out, you’re not allowed to be here.” Mounir left.

“I couldn’t argue. It’s the IDF,” he says now.

Then the game of cat and mouse began. Mounir, in the corridor, would steal a look at his wounded son through the half-open door, occasionally snapping a photograph of him with his cellphone, sometimes shouting a word of encouragement to him – and the soldiers would chase him away. At some point, the soldiers moved Mohammed to a bed next to the window, making it impossible for Mounir to see him from the hall. Then they made him leave the corridor as well.

Yet another exemplary form of service in the IDF: being warders of a teenager wounded by the blows of one’s comrades and forcefully chasing away his father.

Mounir remained in the hospital, sleeping in a waiting room and looking for opportunities to see his son, even for a brief moment. The photographs he took show Mohammed lying on the bed and shackled to it, or standing up before being taken to prison, handcuffed.

On Wednesday, before he underwent his operation, a remand hearing was held via video conference at the hospital. The presiding judge was Lt. Col. Yair Lahan of the Military Court, Judea. Prosecutor: Lt. Betty Bershadsky; defendant: Mohammed Makbal. Suspicion: throwing stones at military vehicles and hurling a Molotov cocktail.

Mohammed was ordered to remain in custody for six days, a protocol that constitutes authorization for imprisonment. Judge Lahan added: “In view of the prosecution’s consent and because the investigation has concluded, I instruct those supervising the suspect in the hospital to allow the suspect’s father to see him, under the oversight of one of the supervisors, for a reasonable visiting time.” The operation could proceed.

Mounir immediately set off after his son, whose bed had meanwhile been taken down to floor minus 4, the surgery floor. Mounir was allowed to see him as he was being prepared for his operation and, for the first time, was permitted to embrace and kiss the youth. Again he photographed him chained to the bed. Mohammed told him about the events of Sunday morning; how he had escorted his sister, bought a falafel and saw the furor in the street.

Mounir says he’s certain his son doesn’t throw stones. “I know, because I keep him in the house.”

Mohammed related that initially, soldiers had struck him with rifle butts in the camp and then beat him again at Karmei Tzur, a settlement, to which he was taken. He was then moved to the Etzion base for interrogation. It’s not difficult to imagine the scene of the interrogation of a teenager who had never been arrested before and was undoubtedly suffering hellish pain from his fractured jaw.

“That’s the boy’s story,” his father says.

Mounir was appalled to see that the army accompanied his son even into the operating room. “A soldier enters the operating room with my baby!”

Mohammed was bound hand and foot when he emerged from the operation, which had been performed under full anesthesia. The soldiers allowed Mounir to be with him for 40 minutes.

“I remained with him for 40 minutes exactly,” he tells us. “For me it was tremendous. Forty minutes after not being able to go to him for three days. The most painful thing is not being allowed to be by the side of your wounded son. Only I was there, not his mother or his siblings; they were not given a permit. I was there until they got him ready to be transferred to prison, on Thursday.”

Before the soldiers took Mohammed to Megiddo Prison, they emptied his pockets and filmed the procedure in video. Mohammed had 3 shekels (about 90 cents) on him, which had been intended for the purchase of a falafel on that fateful morning. In the last photograph his father was able to take, Mohammed is seen standing in the corridor, hands bound and face covered with a surgical mask that concealed his wound.

The IDF Spokesperson’s Unit made the following statement to Haaretz: “On Sunday, November 29, 2020, a number of suspects threw stones and bottles of paint at Israeli vehicles and buses that were traveling adjacent to the Al-Arroub refugee camp, which is located in the area of the Etzion territorial brigade. As a result of the stone throwing, two passengers were injured and vehicles were damaged.

“An IDF force that arrived on the scene pursued a number of suspects in the area. During the pursuit the suspects threw more stones at the force. At the conclusion of the pursuit, five suspects were arrested and taken in for further interrogation by the security forces.

“During the arrest of the suspects, one tried to escape his arrest... and in response the force was sent into action to prevent his escape, which led to his being injured. His transfer for medical treatment took place after the relevant professional personnel examined the need for this, and subject to the coronavirus restrictions. During his stay in the hospital, the detainee was under supervision in accordance with orders.

“On December 2, 2020, around midday, the above-mentioned underwent surgery. Throughout the operation the soldiers guarding him waited outside the operating room.”

When we saw him this week, Mounir was worried about whether his son was taken from Megiddo to Hadassah for a follow-up examination that was scheduled for Monday of this week. “That is very important and very urgent, and I am very concerned,” he said.

According to the Israel Prison Service, “the hospital’s recommendations for follow-up were followed, but his medical confidentiality precludes our going into the details of his treatment.”

On Thursday, Mohammed Mounir was ordered to remain in custody until his next hearing, scheduled for December 24.

[prorevenge]

Abusive mom is ruined and wanted

It's a rough story to start, so I'll just go chronologically.

The first exmaple of how evil she was my older brother told me. Back when I was really young, my dad was in the Army and managed to score some leave (vacation time) from Desert Storm to surprise my mom for her anniversary. When he knocked on the door, all my mom said was "Why aren't you dead, I need the money." Her new beau then started backing out of the garage in my dad's mustang cobra.

He got revenge, but that's a story for later if you guys want.

The divorce was pretty much what you expect, mom got custody of me. My dad later tricked her with some money and got me for a visit, then filed for custody since my mom had warrants out for her arrest.

A few years later my dad remarried to your typical evil stepmother who doted on her daughters and hates her stepson. For example, for Easter my step sisters got huge baskets of candy and chocolates, a couple toys, etc. I got an old soup can with my name painted on it (poorly) that "I could use for pencils."

This witch managed to talk my dad into sending back to my mom, and here the story begins in earnest.

Where my mom was living was an old two bedroom, one bath house. My sister's shared one room, my mom and stepdad shared the other, my brother got the whole basement, and I got a "room" so small that I could touch fingertip to fingertip each wall, and it was double that long. I had a curtain instead of a door.

I got nothing. I hated life there. I was one of only a few white kids at school, so I got beat up alot for being white, it was low income area in Michigan, so I was the one who always had to shovel, rake, mow, and then my mom would "rent me out" to the neighbors, and they all just paid her. I did all the chores and was "grounded until she felt like ungrounding me." I basically sat on my bed for six years anytime I was not in school, cleaning, or making her money.

I learned this later, but my mom was "extorting" money from my dad. She would demand $3000 for a school photo, and he willingly paid $700 a month in child support, even though there was no need to. (He worked in the oil field business after he retired, on a corporate board). She would make stuff up like "Our car broke, etc" and demand money. My dad had to fork over $12,000 for me to go visit him for a week. He couldn't take me in at the time, he wasn't home enough (lots of travel) and he was single, but I found out he was sending me Christmas and birthday gifts every year, and I later found out from my brother she pawned them all. He bought me a brand new Color Gameboy, which was promptly taken away because "I was grounded." She pawned that too. She would often hit me for stupid reasons, like when I once put the dishes away a bit damp or if I managed to get a chocolate milk from the school cafeteria. Once I got fed up and pushed her, she called he police and he chided me.

In short, it was hell.

Meanwhile my sister's got upgraded to a private school and lots of amazing toys. She took custody of my grandfather who had MS from the waist down and couldn't even use the bathroom by himself. She got power of attorney and took all his money and blew it, as well as taking half his pain meds (like Vicodin) and giving them to my brother to sell. This will be important later, kinda.

Now the revenge part. This is going to be a bit long, so I apologize in advance.

In my junior year of high school, I got to working in the library. My teachers were amazing and supportive, and knew my situation. I got my dad's email, and we started planning. He figured once I finished high school, he would personally come up and get me. Finally when my mom decided to have a "graduation party" for me, complete with inviting all her friends and none of the like, two people I could call a friend, a couple days before my graduation ceremony. About two hours before the party was going start, my dad pulls up. I invite him in, and he looks around, looks confused. He leans in and asks me "Where is she?" I point. She was right in front of him lying on the couch. He screwed up his face, and said he'd wait in the car.

While I was gathering all my stuff in a single garbage bag, my mom finally realized who this stranger was, and lost her shit. She tried everything from bribing me with Nascar tickets (I hate Nascar, she liked it but I knew she didn't have any) to physically obstructing me. She had pulled out all the stops for this party, spending a couple thousand and lots of time cooking, err making me cook. I get outside, throw my stuff in the truck, and we take off.

(Side story. We get halfway down the street and my dad has to pull over. He laughs uncontrollably for awhile. I asked his what's up, and in his Texan accent says "Boy, when I was a kid I always wanted to marry a movie star. I just didn't think it be Jabba the Hutt." Evidently they didn't recognize each other at first, she put on ALOT of weight after they divorced.)

We get to his place, and it starts. I get updates from my sister in law. The party was f*****d. She was humiliated. Since she didn't have me, my dad stopped sending money. They had months worth of unpayable bills. She had to pawn her jewelry, pull my sister's out of the private school and back into public school, sell one of the cars she had. Soon she started calling for money claiming someone stole the mail all the time so they couldn't pay their bills and needed money to replace the mailbox so they wouldn't steal it anymore.

It was refreshing knowing I was free, and I could say no with no repercussions. I was happy to live and let live. I vowed to leave her be and let her sink or swim by her own hand. I was elated to be free, and had no desire to look back at that part of my life.

But she wasn't done with me.

I decided to follow my dad's example and join the service. I decided the Navy was the place for me. My job required a top secret clearance, so they do a very thorough background check, to include a credit check. Turns out I was delinquent in mortgage payments, I was receiving social security, and I owed a power company alot of money among other credit card debts. That b****** stole my identity and ran me into debt since she couldn't get anymore money. I knew about identity theft, it just never occurred to me that a parent has everything they need to do so.

This couldn't stand. After I finished basic training and my technical school, I spoke to my Chief (supervisor). Chief was awesome. She managed to wrangle me a "temporary assignment" to a recruiting station in my old town where my mom lived so the Navy would buy my plane tickets. I spoke to the police and filed a report. One by one I managed to clear most of the debts from me and send all the debt collectors after her.

Then I made a visit to the social security office. I was in uniform at the time, and spoke to a clerk about how I was somehow getting payments when I never got anything. She looks up the account, and boom. My mom was here. She claimed I was permanently mangled and disabled in an accident and I was physically unable to sign, giving her permission to cash my checks. The clerk read that last part out slower as it dawned on her that I was clearly more than able. She opened a case. For the monolithic bureaucracy that was the government, they move pretty fast when someone's stealing money from THEM.

Turns out when they went to investigate, she had already skipped town. They issued warrants for her arrest and she is on the run.

I got cut a check for $20,000, the amount that was garnished from my wages for what she stole from the social security administration, and she now owes that much to Uncle Sam.

So this was ten years ago.

So evidently my brother found out that not only am I doing great, I am very successful. I recently left the service and I am starting an even more exciting job. So he told Mom, and she came crawling out of the woodworks via Facebook for money for a "doctor", but I told her prison gives free medical care, and it felt good. Turns out when my aunts (her sisters who lived in another state) found out about how she treated me, she was cut out of everyone's will, to include my grandmother. Unfortunately we didn't get to my grandfather before she cashed in on him.

So heavily in debt, with no family to turn to, no way to get a job, with fraud on her record as well as selling prescription medication, and warrants out for her arrest, my mother, Jabba the Hutt, is receiving hers.

I got cut a check for $20,000, the amount that was garnished from my wages for what she stole from the social security administration, and she now owes that much to Uncle Sam.

Sorry if this is the wrong sub, but I thought I'd share.

(source) story by (/u/Admiral_Bismarck)

[imagine-loki]

Irked

Title: Irked

Author: lokilover9 Chapter: #21 Rating:Teen Warning: Mention of tragic death.

Loki and Shandi grew steadily uneasy, as the ladies revealed more disturbing things about Tanya. She’d perpetrated torrid affairs with Rachel’s, husband and Judy’s daughter, Dahlias. The two had been close friends since childhood and supported each other, during their divorces. After Rachel’s ex lost almost everything in theirs, Tanya abruptly dumped him and the idiot blamed Rachel for ruining his life. Out of spite, he kidnapped Cassie, then dumped the poor child at her doorstep months later before disappearing again. While Cassie was missing, Tanya verbally threatened to report Rachel had somehow murdered the child in an attempt to blackmail her out of money. According to Judy, Rachel was never able to record the threats, as Tanya had mastered the art of stealth. When the attempts failed however, the police received an anonymous tip and Rachel’s life was flipped upside down. She’d stayed with Dahlia throughout and when about town together, they’d often spot Tanya, eyeing Rachel from a distance with a sly grin. Then one day, Rachel was alone, putting groceries in her hatch, when Tanya strolled by behind her and quietly stated. ‘I warned you, ‘bitch.’’ Knowing Scott wouldn’t believe her, she never reported it.

Judy’s son in law was serving twenty, for fraud at Tanya’s hand and had lost all visitation rights to her grandson, Dylan. Others in town spoke of intimidation attempts, through slapping, shoving, light kicking, insults and name calling. All towards wives, or girlfriends of love interests. Those remained unreported too, as without witnesses, it was pointless. Some with means, had moved distances away. Sold homes, abandoned established lives and jobs to escape her bullshit. Yet Tanya wisely steered clear of ever assaulting, or threatening Dahlia, knowing Judy would go for the throat. At fourteen, Tanya had vandalized her bakery with another kid. Unbeknownst to them, a vacationing prison warden and his parole officer wife, witnessed the incident and called it in. With Tanya’s reputation for other unpunished vandalism, Judy had no qualms pressing charges. This earned Scotts angel a juvenile record and she’d despised Judy ever since.

What was raising serious concerns for Shandi amongst the ladies, involved an incident that occurred a year afterwards. Tanya had had a strong love interest in high school, named Jordan. He’d never reciprocated, yet even as he dated another, she persisted until his and Candace’s parents grew concerned and involved Scott. With the young man’s father being the principal then, Tanya was forced to relent, found another and appeared happy. When news spread Candace was pregnant, Tanya actually wished her well, but soon became depressed and oddly reclusive. Candace had a part time job only a short walking distance from her home, then. A walk she enjoyed, according to family and friends. Three months later, she left after an evening shift and called the father. While she passed through a well traveled, dimly lit parkette, last thing he heard was her skull being fractured. The assailant and weapon remain a mystery and no one was surprised, when Tanya had a perfect alibi.

Loki frowned and Shandi swallowed to conceal the rising lump in her throat. “Did Candace survive?”

“By morning, she’d slipped into a coma.” Said Judy. “Eventually, when pronounced brain dead, the parents kept her alive until the baby was born. After the funeral, they moved away and soon Jordan’s family, followed.”

“Yeah.” Beth sighed. “All except poor old, Gordy.”

“Gordy?” Inquired Loki.

“Jordan’s grandfather. He’s stayed in hopes of seeing Justice. Talks about little Julia every time we see him, too. Candace chose the name. She was a sweet kid.”

The couple were beyond appalled, until Alice divulged one last thing. For six months prior to Tanya’s most recent absence, it was rumored her and Shamus were having an affair. He vehemently denied it, but when she showed up at their door one day while Alice was home alone, claiming to be pregnant, the scandal almost cost the couple a divorce. A restraining order was filed, Tanya abruptly left town and was only permitted back, under the watchful eye of Scott.

Shandi, shook her head. “Has she ever been charged with stalking?”

“Not to our knowledge.” Said Alice. “Suspected of it? Numerous times. Please understand, I hadn’t lied proclaiming this a great place to live. We were hoping Tanya wouldn’t return.”

A timer suddenly rang in the kitchen, reminding the ladies of their impending duties. Beth and Alice politely excused themselves, Judy loaded the couple up with some goodies and they left.

Once inside the car, Loki became serious and gently took hold of Shandis jaw. “From this moment on, you shall not leave mine, nor our partners sights when in public. Not even for a minute. That includes being escorted to all restrooms. Understood?”

Although startled by his slightly authoritative tone, the concern in his eyes, tempted her so desperately to kiss him. “I..I won’t, Loki.” She softly, replied.

With a nod of acknowledgement, he gathered himself and started the engine. Shandi slid into a deep pensiveness, as everything they’d learned began to click and caught Lokis attention with something she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tanya’s a sociopath. Her IQ, must border brilliance.”

“That’s questionable if under the terms of her return, she’d risk such behavior as today’s.”

“No, Loki. I studied psychology indepthly in college. Scotts aid aside, that’s how she’s gotten away with everything for so long. Today, is a perfect example. Think about it. Who’s going to carry bags of duct tape into a bakery, if they can leave them in their car? No one. She must’ve parked extremely close, shoved a roll into her purse, speedily made a note for the bathroom door, then left her car as we entered.”

“Carry on.”

“Judy assumed Tanya saw me go downstairs, through the window. Why?”

“She never saw her inside.”

“Exactly, Nor did Alice. I went down directly after entering when we still hadn’t noticed her, either. Then she slipped by Judy’s customers, undetected. It took her seconds from pulling up to that bakery, to conjure her intentions, orchestrate every move to succeed and time them perfectly. That requires brilliance.”

Loki wasn’t impressed. “It won’t happen happen again.” ***** When Tony heard everything, he too expressed much concern for Shandi, but she promised to oblige Loki’s request. “How’s Pepper?”

“Been better. She’s resting after an ugly hurling session. Cursed me throughout. Maybe it’s a prelude to childbirth. Yikes.”

Shandi chuckled. “Do you think S.H.I.E.L.D could get access to Tanya’s medical records? She must’ve had a psychiatric assessment done, at some point.”

“Yes. I’ll also have them investigate that juvie record, too. Maybe there’s more the ladies aren’t aware of. And Cactus?”

“Don’t worry, Tin Man. I’ll keep her safe.”

After their call ended, Shandi put her phone down and eyed Lokis. “You call to inform Nat and Clint. The story is, mines dead and I’m in the shower.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” She walked off.

“Where are you going?”

“To have a shower.”

An hour later, she saw Loki swimming, put on her headphones and started dusting the main floor. “Might as well do something to keep myself busy.”

He came in, heard her humming and followed it to the entertainment room. She was on her hands and knees, ass perched in the air, reaching beneath a shelf with the duster. ‘Interesting view, Pet.’ She shifted and he moved from her sights. Recognizing the tune as Night and Day, Nat was right. Shandi listened to it over and over, while working about the room.

“Man, this place needs an in depth cleaning.” She commented, finally changing the song. “Oooh. Haven’t heard this one in a while.”

It wasn’t familiar to Loki, but he didn’t care. Shandi got right into it, seductively swaying and grinding her hips, moving her arms about, biting her bottom lip while sliding a hand down her abdomen, the other behind her head. ‘Very nice. I could grow accustomed to this.’

Then she started singing.

…“Handcuffs can ya get freaky..how far would you go to please me..whips and chains girl, are you tied with that…

A salacious grin formed on Loki’s face.

…“Strange places searching for pleasure..I want you to meet me wherever..wearing just an overcoat and hat… …It just feels like..you’re too uptight..girl you’re too conservative..and that ain’t how I wanna live..I want a freaky girl..somebody just like me..a very naughty girl, that’s what I need…

‘Oh my. I wonder how naughty you can actually be?’ He waited until she wasn’t looking, then leaned into the doorway.

With another grind of her hips, Shandi jumped out of her skin, pulling an ear piece out and the duster went flying “LOKI!”

He laughed as her face turned scarlet. “Do you always dance so provocatively? If so, I’ll have to sneak up on you more often.”

‘Oh lord.’ How long have you been watching?”

“Long enough to enjoy it.”

“What?”

“Listen, you owed me. I was subjected to quite an earful from Nat. She threatened my life, if I don’t watch over you better.”

Shandi chuckled. “I knew she’d be frazzled. Thanks for taking the brunt of it. I suppose we’re even.”

“Hang on, that call lasted almost thirty minutes. The pain in my ear, has yet to cease.”

“Oh brother.”

“Therefore, we aren’t even. A bit more of that dancing should do the trick.”

“Uh..hu.” Her arms crossed. “I’ve a trick for ya. Why don’t I stuff that duster up your nose and take your mind off one pain, by creating another?”

Loki gasped, with a hand to his chest. “Such violence thou threatens to bestow my person.”

She passed him for the library. “Consider it payback for feigning nakedness after your last swim, Shakespeare.”

“And here I thought myself being polite, returning your wine to the fridge. You’ve forgotten the duster, I’ll have you know.”

‘Dammit. I wouldn’t be so thoughtless, if you weren’t standing there, half naked.’ She passed him again. “Very funny. You were ‘being,’ a brat.”

Loki waited as she scanned the room, then held it up with an impish grin. “Looking for this?”

“See. Just like now.”

“Eh he he he.” He tossed it to her and walked off. “Interesting words, to that song. They matched your moves, quite well. I’ll be down shortly, to start dinner.” Loki went to relieve an erection skillfully hidden, beneath his towel. Not long after returning, Shandi sauntered into the kitchen. “Hello frightening wielder of domestic weaponry. May I service you?”

‘Damn, is he serious?’ “I uh..wondered if you might want some help.”

He smiled in a way that stole her breath, momentarily. “Certainly.”

She began cutting vegetables and soon asked why Judy had initially dismissed Tanya, from the bakery. As Loki explained, she grew a frown and scoffed. “No wonder Rachel called her Princess Evil.”

“You seem rather palpable in your distaste for her.”

“And you’re not?” She asked. “Even sociopaths know it’s wrong to hit on a married person.”

“True. I did find it rude, she placed her tits on the table.”

Shandi diced into an onion with such force, half rolled onto the floor. “She what?”

Lokis brow arched, in amusement. “My bad. Perhaps it’s unwise you keep wielding domestic weaponry, unless discussing a more appealing topic.”

“Pfft. It’s no biggy. It’s just..like you said. Rude. Very.” She kept dicing. “They never mentioned, Tanya’s mother. I wonder why?”

“I’m certain an opportunity to ask will present itself. Changing the subject, have you ever been on a boat?”

She shot him a curious glance. “I knew a family with a sailboat, once. Why?”

“We’ve a few days before the fair and there’s some excursions nearby. I thought to take one, if you wish.”

“Sounds, like fun. I’ll bet Nat and Clint would join us.”

“Perhaps.” Loki began preparing some meat. Speaking of families, you must miss yours in Canada.”

“Actually, they’re all here.”

“Very nice. Surely, they’re proud you’ve become an Avenger.”

She rinsed the prepared vegetables. “I hope so. The Avengers ‘are’ my family. They’re all I have.”

A pang of sadness shot through Loki. “Shandi, my apologies. I hadn’t a clue.”

“It’s okay. My father died in a motorcycle accident when I was three. I know nothing about him and can only assume my mother didn’t take it well. She wasn’t a happy person. We parted when I was seven and I became a foster child.” Loki appeared confused, so she explained. “It happens when a parent loses or relinquishes parental rights. Their child is put with a family willing to foster until they’re either adopted, or a parent‘s,’ proves themselves acceptable to regain custody. It’s all legally executed through the family courts and I remained fostered.”

“Might I ask why your mother lost her fight?”

“There wasn’t one. She disappeared after… I learned much later, she’d a heroin addiction which hinted towards why.”

The minute hint of sadness in her eyes, where one halts exposing a wound unwise to even recall, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Yet with self assurance in demeanor and tone, Shandi instantly rose above it. What surprised Loki, was how gratifying that felt to witness and how she were orphaned, like him. “How were you never considered for adoption?”

“I almost was, by the family who owned the sailboat. Between the ages of seven and eighteen, I lived with five families in total.”

“Norns Shandi, why? You’re a lovely woman, certainly you were so as a child.”

She blushed at his unexpected compliment. “Thanks, but others didn’t agree. Regardless of only using my telekinesis to defend myself, it deemed me a ‘problem’ child. One with anger and disobedience issues. After the first incident, my social worker advised I keep it secret to better my chances of adoption. Following the second, I was transferred to a completely different city. It was then, I knew I’d never be adopted.”

Loki poured them each a glass of wine. “How so?”

“The second worker thought my ability, monstrous. Called me one, secretly to my face. Threatened should I use it again, I’d be sent to a children’s psychiatric facility for those deemed insane. Luckily she retired before the need arose, but each time it were discovered, I’d be quickly moved along. Anyway, I’m uncertain what possessed me to reveal all this. I must be boring you to death.”

This time her eyes expressed disbelief only, widening Loki’s curiosity of what worse she’d endured, to cause such a profound hurt. Although plagued by his own family dynamics, being repeatedly moved from one to another, seemed unfathomable. How unwanted, alone and frightened she must’ve endlessly felt. Aware the disadvantage of dwelling on painful memories, Loki thwarted any further questioning. “You couldn’t bore me and are certainly not a monster. Obviously, plentiful courage, strength and intelligence were required, to have persevered such hardships. Particularly, as a child. Yet regardless, you excelled. Others opinions aside Shandi, be proud of ‘yourself.’ You’ve earned it.”

Shandi didn’t require validation to appreciate herself. She’d grasped being truly alone a long time ago and miraculously learned to deflect life’s destruction attempts. Still, hearing affirmation of that from Loki, felt strangely amazing. ‘I don’t understand. Who is this person?’ To hide the recurring flush in her cheeks, she approached a window and peaked out the blinds. “Thank you, again. I am proud and love my new life.” Suddenly, a soft gasp escaped her. “Oh, look at them all. They’re adorable.”

“Spotted the hummingbirds, have you?” He could see their tiny shadows moving about.

“Yes. When did you put the feeder out?”

“This morning. There’s two. I bought them, shopping with Clint.”

“I’ve always loved those little Critters.”

Loki didn’t know this, but had recalled her observing some during Tony’s tour of the grounds. “Glad you approve.”

She sighed when they dispersed. “Their little wings flutter thirty to fifty times, per second. It would be amazing to see one up close, watch it land.”

When re approaching the island, Loki gestured behind her. “Like that?”

She turned to see a hummingbird on the table, perched upon the edge of a tiny nest. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“It’s an illusion, but sit and become acquainted.”

Shandi did with the same childlike bliss, when he’d first seen her touch peonies. “This is a ruby-throated, male. Most common, for this geographical zone. I remember from a project, in high school.”

Loki thought of Frigga, then. How she loved her garden and the many birds that frequented it. As a child, he’d cherished the hours they’d secretly spent there, reading and practicing bits of magic. Considering the amount of anguish Shandi had experienced, he found it incredible her heart remained so unmarred. When the tiny bird tilted its head up, Loki slowly lowered his glass, observing Shandis wonder and enlightened smile. ‘Valhalla help me, should I risk loving again.’

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter Five

Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE EARLY JANUARY 1944

Mulder stands frozen in the parlor doorway, the arm holding the knife hanging limp at his side, horror-struck and heartbroken at the scene before him. He feels like a complete and utter fool. He had been certain, completely certain, that Scully cared for him, that it was possible she was even in love with him... but he should have known, he should have realized that there was nothing a woman like Dana Scully could possibly see in a man like him. He feels no anger, only a familiar sense of shame and self-loathing, a sudden remembering that he is not now and never has been deserving of love and kindness. The rug has been pulled out from under him, but he should have seen it coming: all happiness is, for him, fleeting.

He thinks it would probably be best if he were to back out quietly and try to leave without her seeing him, rather than interrupting and creating a scene. But just as he reaches this conclusion, the man on the sofa shifts his gaze to Scully's right, and he catches sight of Mulder. The man's eyes fly wide open in panic, and he tries to sit up. Startled, Scully turns, following the man's gaze, and when she sees Mulder, all color leaves her face, and her eyes fill with terror. Even in his state of absolute and total dejection, Mulder finds the fear radiating off of Scully painful. Could she really think so little of him that she believes herself in danger from him?

"Mulder!" she gasps. "What are you doing back here?" She's speaking English, which seems strange to him under the circumstances. They occasionally speak English together because Scully says she misses speaking it with her childhood friends, but right now hardly seems the time for nostalgia. He supposes she might be trying to keep the man, who is trying valiantly to rise from the sofa in spite of Scully's best efforts to stop him, from understanding them. He doesn't want to make things more difficult for her, and he obliges.

"I forgot my hat," he says, also in English. "I used my key to let myself back in to get it because I didn't want to wake you. I heard a noise... I wanted to make sure you were all right...."

"What's a German officer doing with a key to your flat?" demands the man on the sofa suddenly, having given up trying to stand. He is speaking English, is clearly British, and Mulder realizes he had it backwards: Scully wants the man to understand them. That's why she's not speaking French or German. "What are you trying to pull?" The man looks terrified. "Are you turning me in?" Scully turns back to him.

"No, Mr. Nelson, of course not," she says. "This man is no threat to you. Now will you please sit still before you tear your stitches?" The man obliges, but he continues to look at Mulder with wary distrust. And now, Mulder begins to notice things he overlooked before, in his shock: the needle and thread in a dish on the end table, the basin of bloody water on the floor, the damp cloth in Scully's hand. This man, disguised in ill-fitting civilian clothing, is clearly a British soldier.

The wheels in Mulder's head are turning, gears shifting, puzzle pieces falling slowly into place. The reason Scully pretends, to all but Mulder, that she only speaks limited German. The strange orders placed and picked up at the cafe daily, no money ever changing hands.

"You're with the Resistance," he says. Scully closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Mr. Nelson," she says to the man on the sofa, "I want you to rest here for a bit. Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right? I need to speak with my friend for a moment." She takes Mulder by the elbow and leads him across the parlor, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom. She closes the door and turns to him. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The horror Mulder felt earlier, when he thought that the man out in the parlor was Scully's lover, is nothing compared to what he's feeling now.

"What group are you with?" he asks, finally. "The Gaullists? The SFIO? French Forces of the Interior?" Scully looks ready to argue with him, to refuse to answer, but after a moment, she sighs deeply, all the fight going out of her. She looks down.

"I'm not with any particular group," she says. "I help whichever group comes to me... I assist them in moving people, arranging their transportation and their hiding places. The man out there is a pilot who was sent to me by Dutch-Paris."

"How have I not noticed you've been hiding people in your apartment until now?" asks Mulder. "I'm here every night. Late."

"They only actually come to my apartment if they need medical attention," says Scully. "Most of the time I only make the arrangements and provide information." Another piece of the puzzle slides into place in Mulder's head.

"The pies," he says. "That's how you communicate, isn't it?" She nods.

"The flavor of the pie tells me who needs to be moved- if it's Jews, Allied soldiers, or political refugees. The number of people the pie is for tells me how many people are in the group, and the date the order is due is when they need to be moved by. I make the arrangements and put their instructions inside the box with the pie when the person helping them picks it up." It's an ingenious system, but Mulder is not in the mood to be admiring just now.

"Scully," he says quietly, "what will you do if they catch you?" She says nothing, but really, she doesn't need to. Mulder knows full well what will happen, because he's seen it happen many, many times over the past three years.

If she is caught... they will kill her.

"You can't do this, Scully," he pleads with her. "It's too dangerous. If they find out... if they catch you... I can't protect you then, Scully, I'd never be able to get to you in time. You'll be put to death before I even know you've been arrested."

"I know that, Mulder. I'm not asking you to protect me."

"But why, Scully?" he asks. "Why are you risking this much?"

"I have to. I have no choice."

"Yes, you do," he insists. "You can survive this. If you keep your head down, if you keep yourself safe-"

"At what cost, Mulder?" she asks. "How many people can I help to save who would die if I just kept my head down? People keeping their heads down, minding their own business and keeping themselves safe, that's how men like Hitler win, Mulder. Evil things can only happen if good men- and women- stand by and allow them to happen, and I refuse to do that."

"But why you, Scully?" he asks. "Why do you have to be the one to do it?"

"Because I'm here, and because I can," she says. "I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am." She fixes him with a steely blue gaze. "And I don't think it's who you are, either."

-----------

Mulder does not sleep at all that night. Lying on his cot in his tent amidst the untroubled snores of his tent mates, he replays his argument with Scully in his head over and over. She had told him, at the end of it, that she needed him to leave, that someone would be there early in the morning to escort the British pilot to his next hiding place. She needed the man to relax and sleep, to regain his strength for the coming journey, and he couldn't do that with a German officer a room away.

"If I don't see you here tomorrow, Mulder," she had said as they stood at her door, her voice soft and sad, "I'll understand. But..." She had taken his hand, squeezed it briefly, and let go. "I hope you'll be here."

He didn't know if he would. Not yet.

It wasn't a question of whether he approved of what she was doing or not. He understood- God, he understood- the anger at the injustice, the desire to change it, to fight back. It was her suggestion that perhaps he should be fighting back, possibly at her side, that unnerved him.

Shortly after dawn, when Mulder is thinking to himself that he should really just give up on sleeping and prepare for morning roll call, he hears the sound of boots, many boots, rushing by outside. He sits up and begins to dress. As he's buttoning up his uniform jacket, another soldier from his company rips back the flap of his tent and sticks his head inside. He sees that Mulder is awake, and bellows at the other two men until they, too, are sitting up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

"The night patrol caught a family of Jews on the western edge of town," says the man, excited. "It's too long before the next transport train to send them to a camp, so Oberst Spender is assembling a firing squad. We're all to assemble immediately." Mulder and his tent mates exchange nervous glances as the soldier lets the tent flap fall back into place and departs. The three men splash water on their faces, dress, and lace up their boots, all the while saying nothing. Mulder has met many soldiers who take delight in executions, who clamor for the "honor" of taking part in them... but he has also met many soldiers who are troubled by them.

He has yet to meet any willing to try to put a stop to one.

They receive word that they are to muster outside of the encampment, instead of next to the mess tent, the way they normally would. The men line up by company, and when Mulder has found his place, in the front row of his company, just behind where Hauptmann Skinner stands at attention, counting his men as they assemble, he looks beyond Skinner's shoulder, to the open patch of ground the unit is facing. Three rough graves have been dug at the edge of a field where this farm's previous owner once grew wheat. Mulder is familiar enough with the proceedings: the prisoners will have been made to dig their own graves, and when the firing squad is ready, the condemned will stand facing their executioners, the guns will fire, and the prisoners will fall neatly into the graves they themselves have prepared.

It's all very efficient.

Mulder has time to wonder whether Scully knows the prisoners who are about to be executed, whether or not she has tried and failed to arrange for their safe passage, whether she knows they've been caught. And then they're brought out, clothing torn, hands bound, shivering in the bitter cold, and he doesn't have to wonder anymore. It would appear that Marguerite Scully's Sunday dinner guests were perfectly within their rights to be terrified of Mulder.

Before him stand Albert, Sophie, and Helene Marchand. Only little Christine is missing.

The horrified gasp is half out of Mulder's mouth before he can stifle it, and Skinner turns to look at him, frowning. He stares hard at Mulder with something like warning in his eyes, before turning to face front again. Oberst Spender is standing in front of them now, his son at his side. He congratulates the night watch on their capture, recites the dangers the Jewish people pose to the Fatherland and to good, upstanding people everywhere, and quotes extensively from Hitler. Or, at least, Mulder thinks that's what he does, because that's what he's done at every execution Mulder has seen since the war began. He's not listening, though, because Helene Marchand, whose eyes have been roving over the crowd before her in absolute terror, has recognized him.

Her frightened blue eyes lock on his, beseeching, pleading with him, begging him wordlessly to do something, to stop this, to spirit her away to safety... but he does nothing. There is nothing he can do. The girl sobs, once, a horrible, tearing sound that claws its way deep into him, so that Mulder knows he'll be hearing it in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Then Spender steps back, his son barks out an order, the guns fire, and as the girl's eyes go wide, it's as though ten years haven't passed at all, and it's Samantha's blue eyes he's looking into, Samantha's eyes that are glazing over, closing, closing, as the girl and her parents fall.

There's a silence throughout the assembled men; then, someone whoops, and there's a smattering of nervous laughter. Mulder suddenly feels a hot swoop of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and he knows he needs to get away, immediately, but his feet are frozen in place. Just as he thinks he's going to be sick right here, now, in front of the entire company, he feels a hand at his elbow, forcefully guiding him away.

"Let's go, Mulder," says Skinner's voice in his ear.

"Where?" asks Mulder, moving his mouth as little as possible, not trusting himself to keep from vomiting.

"You know where," says Skinner shortly.

----------

Scully answers Skinner's knock before Mulder thinks to mention that he has a key. She takes one look at Mulder, whose face is an alarming shade of green, and steps back, granting them entrance.

"It's over?" she asks Skinner, and he nods shortly. A look of terrible sadness passes over her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment. Then she takes Mulder's arm, her eyes full of compassion, and leads him back towards the kitchen. "Come on, Mulder," she says. "Let's go upstairs." Mulder nods numbly and follows her up to her apartment, Skinner behind them. She brings him to the sofa, and he sits next to her, just like he has every night for a week. Skinner takes an armchair next to them. The three sit in silence, not looking at one another. Scully holds Mulder's hand, rubbing her thumb gently across his knuckles.

"I thought you said he was your mother's hired hand," Mulder says finally.

"He was," says Scully. "We obtained forged identity papers for the entire family and arranged for them to live on the farm. We don't know how their true identity was discovered."

"Where's the youngest daughter? Christine?" asks Mulder, not sure he wants to know the answer.

"We were able to hide her," says Skinner. "We had very little warning, but we managed that much. She's on her way to safety now." Mulder feels his stomach unclench very slightly, but then the full meaning of Skinner's words settles on him.

"We, Sir?" Skinner nods. And then Mulder remembers something from the very first time he and Scully spoke: Skinner had already known that Scully spoke German, had addressed her as though they had spoken many times before. Which, it turns out, they had. "You're with them." It's a statement, not a question, but Skinner still answers.

"I am."

"Why didn't you stop it today, then?" Mulder asks.

"By that point, Mulder, there was nothing I could do, not without giving myself away. And there are people still in hiding who are counting on me to help them. All I can do is try to keep things from getting as far as they did this morning... but once it gets to that point, it's out of my hands." He looks hard at Mulder. "And out of yours, too. If you and I tried to intervene today, they would have shot us, and then shot that family anyway."

"You don't know that," says Mulder weakly.

"I do," says Skinner, "because I've seen it happen before. It doesn't sound gallant or honorable, I know, but that's how it is. If you want to help, there are ways, but an ill-conceived one-man suicide charge is not one of them." He stands. "I need to get back. Mulder, you're sick and excused from duties today, understand?" Mulder nods, unwilling to fight Skinner on this. The last thing he wants is to spend the day shoulder-to-shoulder with the men that watched that little girl die and then laughed about it.

"I'll see you out," says Scully, standing. She puts a comforting hand on Mulder's shoulder. "I'll be right back, all right?" He nods, and she strokes his cheek and goes downstairs. When she returns, she takes Mulder's hand and pulls him up from the sofa. "I want you to lie down for a bit," she says, leading him to her bedroom and settling him on her bed. He expects her to leave him to rest, but instead, she lies down beside him, cradling his head to her chest. He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

"Mulder," she says finally, stroking his hair, "I know you've seen more than a few executions. Skinner says you've always been stoic before. What happened this time?" He says nothing, but the words are climbing up his throat, constricting it, threatening to choke him. "Is it because you'd met them before? Had dinner with them?" He tries to take a deep breath and discovers he cannot. "Mulder?" He has to speak or he'll drown.

"It was the girl," he says. "Helene. She saw me. She-" His arms around her tighten. "She recognized me. She was looking at me like she was begging me to save her... and I didn't. I just stood there." She holds him tighter. "And... she looked so much like Samantha, Scully. Her eyes... it was like I was looking at Samantha, the moment before-" He cuts himself off. This, he cannot speak of, has never spoken of, but he wants desperately to speak of it to her, to release the horror from where it's been poisoning him for ten years.

"Mulder," says Scully gently, "how did your sister die?" The part of Mulder's mind that has fought to keep this under lock and key for so long is tired, and Scully's presence is so soothing.... She loves him, he is sure of it, it shows through her eyes every time she looks at him, bleeds through her fingers every time she touches him. He is safe in her arms. He doesn't need to have any secrets from her.

He opens his mouth and begins the story.

--------------

It was February 1934, and the sky was clear after three days of snow. Mulder and Samantha had walked to a park down the street from their house to meet Mulder's friend Rolf. He and Mulder had met at school the previous year, when Rolf's family had moved to Berlin, and the two young men had become fast friends. Rolf had also recently, unbeknownst to Mulder's parents, become Samantha's boyfriend, a fact that both annoyed and amused Mulder, depending on the day (and on how disgustingly the two of them were behaving).

Samantha Mulder at fifteen was headstrong and opinionated, passionate about her beliefs, and vocally critical of Hitler and his policies in a way that both embarrassed and frightened their parents. Mulder, ever the rebellious pot-stirrer, had encouraged her endlessly, enjoying his parents' shock whenever Samantha eloquently expressed her views during one of their many dinner parties.

A casual onlooker would have assumed that Samantha said these things just to be contrary, to defy her parents like any normal teenager, but Mulder knew her better than that. Samantha was a deeply empathetic person who could not stand to see people wronged, and was driven to real fury whenever she witnessed any act of deliberate cruelty. She did not buy for one moment that any single ethnic or political group could be blamed for all of Germany's woes, and she was not at all afraid to engage those who did in heated debate. Mulder introduced her to Rolf, who was of like mind and was also frightening his own parents out of their minds with his political ranting. He often joked that if Samantha and Rolf got arrested, at least they'd be together.

The three teenagers walked along the freshly-shoveled paths of the park, occasionally throwing snowballs, but mostly talking. Rolf and Mulder were both deciding where to go to school the following year, and Mulder was leaning towards Oxford, but Samantha hated the idea of him living so far away. She was just launching, for the third time that week, into her well-rehearsed list of reasons why her big brother should go to school closer to home, when a sudden loud crack rent the air, and Rolf crumpled to the ground. Samantha screamed and Mulder's head snapped around, looking for the source, when there was a second crack, and when he turned back, a red flower was blooming across Samantha's chest, and she was falling, her blue eyes locked on her brother's, begging him mutely to do something, anything, to save her.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Mulder's mother found them there shortly after. When her children did not show up for lunch, she followed the sound of approaching sirens to the park, where she discovered her son holding his sister's dead body in his arms, sobbing wildly, while a policeman struggled to pull him away.

Mulder's mother crawled inside a bottle that day and never came out.

Mulder, by contrast, crawled inside himself. He shut out everyone, refusing to so much as say his sister's name, much less discuss her death. He was too much in shock to give a statement to the police that day... not, as it turned out, that they would have done anything anyway.

In the weeks following Samantha's death, it came to light that Rolf had been involved in an underground network of propagandists who were working to discredit Hitler. Rolf had been writing articles for a subversive newspaper, and Samantha, eager to help in any way she could, had been delivering them to secret drop-off points all over town. The double murder was never investigated; it was merely forgotten about, but Mulder was certain, beyond any doubt, that Rolf and his sister had been killed as punishment for speaking out.

Whether because Mulder had always encouraged Samantha's rebellious nature, or because he had introduced her to Rolf, or even simply because the walk in the park that day had been his idea, Mulder's parents, though they never came right out and said it, blamed him for his sister's death. To confirm it would have been to talk about it, which they certainly did not do, but the mute reproach in his mother's eyes, his father's determined avoidance of him, made it perfectly clear that they held him responsible. Mulder still does not understand why his mother wanted him to come home so badly when he finished at Oxford. The best hypothesis he's been able to form, six years later, is that if she could not escape the house of misery in which she was trapped by marriage, then she didn't want him to escape, either. She would rather make sure he was under her thumb, suffering as she felt he should.

And he has suffered. There is no doubt about that.

-----------

When Mulder finishes speaking, Scully is silent. Tears are running down his face, and she must be able to feel them soaking into her shirt, but she says nothing, only holds him. After awhile, she moves down a bit, shifting so that they're lying face to face. She draws his chin up gently with her fingers, making him look her in the eye, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks.

"Mulder," she whispers, "it wasn't your fault. Not today, and not ten years ago. The fault lies with the men who pulled the trigger, with the men who ordered them to do it, with the men who put the idea in their heads."

"I encouraged her, Scully," he argues. "I pushed her to say what she thought. I should have known it was dangerous."

"That's what big brothers do, Mulder," she says. "They push their sister's buttons. They try to get them in trouble with their parents. Believe me, I have an older brother, I know. You never meant to put her in any danger. You introduced her to your friend out of kindness, because you thought they would like each other." She strokes his cheek with infinite tenderness, and the love in her eyes makes him want to cry all over again. "Nothing you did was meant to hurt your sister. Nothing you did should have hurt her, if the men in charge of your country were anything resembling reasonable. It wasn't your fault, Mulder. You couldn't have known." She kisses him, holds him close, strokes his hair. And as he realizes that she means it, that she truly believes what she's saying, that she doesn't think any less of him, he is filled with such a depth of love for her that he can't help but hold her as close as possible. She buries her face in his neck, and he can feel her smiling against him.

"You know, I've been dreaming of having you in my bed for weeks," she says, chuckling. "Just... not quite like this." He can't help but smile at that.

"For weeks, huh?" he says. "I'm that irresistible?"

"You have no idea," she says, and she kisses him again. But after a moment, she grows serious. "I'm going to need to go downstairs and open the cafe soon. I want you to stay up here and rest, all right?"

"I'll be fine," he protests, but she shakes her head.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, I can tell. You look completely exhausted. Stay up here, sleep if you can, and just try and relax if you can't. And... Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

"I want you to think about what Skinner told you, all right?"

"Which part?"

"That if you want to help, there are ways. There are things you could do, Mulder, that could help stop what happened this morning from happening again. I want you to think about it and decide if that's something you're interested in." He flashes back to the conversation with Skinner, the revelation that his captain has been going behind Spender's back, trying to subvert his will at every turn. He thinks of how proud this makes him to know the man, to count him as a friend. And he thinks further back, to what Scully said to him last night.

"I can't stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don't know how to do that. It's just not who I am. And I don't think it's who you are, either."

He's not sure that he really is the man Scully thinks he is, but he does know he'd like very much to be. He has to try. He meets Scully's eye... and at last, he nods.

"Tell me what to do."

Next Chapter  >

[ellanainthetardis]

Today: a typical Capitol night and a test... Will Haymitch pass?

[ff] or [ao3]

Chapter 44 : Mingling

Haymitch downed the two white pills with a gulp of the plastic bottle of water he had found in the car’s mini-bar, hoping the headache would go away soon. He strongly doubted it, not given that they were on their way to a party where the music would probably be loud and atrocious, but he still hoped.

They had recorded several interviews that day that would be aired later in the week – well, Haymitch had recorded several interviews, Effie had mostly remained backstage and made sure everything went without a hitch – and it had left him exhausted. The effort it took to remain cocky and slightly charming when all he wanted was to shout about the Capitol’s stupidity…

Necessary evil, Effie had promised. He knew there would be more of them. There had been enough shows and parties in the last couple of days to make anyone feel dizzy. There were only three victors left in the city now, including him, everyone else had gone home. One of them was staying for medical reasons – and it went to show that they were very short on the victors front that the Gamemakers were willing to invest in an old man’s health – and the other was a twenty-something puppy from Three who had won a few years earlier and who wasn’t hiding his plan to make the most of the sudden power vacuum.

Raye Adams wanted to be the new Finnick Odair. That was his funeral as far as Haymitch was concerned, he would simply have liked it better if the kid had stopped following him around, hoping to be splashed by his sudden rekindled fame. He wasn’t very fond of the young victor. Too much of an ambitious jerk.

Why, the way he had dismissed Effie the other day, asking her to fetch him another drink as if she was a waitress ready to comply to his every wishes and calling her darling as if he had any right to the pet name… Her reaction had almost made it worth it though. Effie had batted her fake eyelashes once, had looked him up and down and had looped her arms around one of Haymitch’s, loudly thanking providence that she had been assigned to a real victor. That had sent the kid into a quiet offended rage. He had taken exactly one threatening step. Haymitch had glared at him and had told him in a calm detached voice to think long and hard about what he was doing. Raye had left, red in the face and not very happy about being chastised. He had been back though. Haymitch’s spotlight was too tempting for him.

A gentle hand on his arm brought him back to Earth and he stopped staring through the window without really seeing what was happening outside to turn to his escort. She was wearing a blue dress that looked like it was made of running water. It rippled and gleamed under the light, the diamonds around her neck and wrists only adding to the effect. The moss green wig on her head was cut in a wavy short bob, a style that suited her enough that he could almost forget the color.

“We are almost there.” she warned.

“Where are we going tonight?” he asked, not having paid attention earlier when she had laid out the outfit he was supposed to wear. They were matching he realized, although it was subtle. The blue embroideries on his waistcoat were the exact same color as her dress.

She pursed her lips, not pleased by his lack of attention probably. “A birthday party. It won’t be a grand affair and I do not expect any camera. It isn’t a Games event and there shouldn’t be many sponsors. It will be a different crowd than the one you are used to.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why are we going, then?”

They were usually kept on a schedule. Effie picked and chose the events they attended – he had to attend, really – but he was certain she was given a list of suggestions to begin with. Although, he supposed that the season was over now and official Games events would become few and far in between. It would all be about bringing the legendary Quell victor to private parties now and to official governmental events to give them a certain… flair.

“Because I have known Celeste since infancy and it would be rude of me not to attend.” Effie answered.

He frowned, understanding suddenly dawning on him. “Oh. They’re your friends, those people.”

She hesitated, briefly twisting the iris shaped ring around her finger in an unconscious nervous gesture. “I suppose that is the term one would employ. I would advise against trusting any of them though.”

“Cause I’m usually such a trusting kind of guy.” he taunted.

Her lips stretched into an amused grin before she could school her expression into a disapproving pout. “There won’t be cameras but it will be all over the city before the end of the night that we were here together… And since there is no real reason for you to attend other than escorting me…”

“Okay.” he shrugged.

They hadn’t made a lot of progress on that front. Questions were raised about their relationship but they eluded them out of habit and weren’t quite certain how to just… come out and say it. Haymitch was sick and tired of the empty Center though. The penthouse felt like a prison and he was ready to move out as soon as Effie judged it wise. People were already asking when he was planning on going back to Twelve… He hadn’t yet made it clear he wasn’t.

“There will be alcohol.” she warned as the car slowed down to a stop. She didn’t make a move to open the car door.

He swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…”

She looked down at the sparkly clutch on her knees. “I am not asking you… I know why you drink, Haymitch. I know why you feel you need it. And I understand that the Quell probably made that worse but… When we are in public…”

“I’m gonna try to keep off the stuff.” he cut her off. His face burned with embarrassment and he rubbed his brow. The headache wasn’t gone and he really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I’m not saying I’m gonna make it… Don’t know how long I can make it… But…”

It was too dangerous.  He had come to that conclusion after his stupid stunt with the sleeping pills. When he was drunk, he wasn’t in control and he needed to be in control, all the more so if he was supposed to live in the den amongst the wolves. The sharp memories of withdrawals weren’t an incentive for him to pick a bottle again either. He was only too aware how much of a liability booze was. What if he got addicted again only for Snow to cut his supplies once more? He would die this time around. He was sure of it. And while that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in his book, it would leave Effie and the boy without protection. He was at the point where the thirst was something he could sometimes forget about. He wished for a drink more out of habit than out of need. It wasn’t easy, particularly when nightmares plagued him… But he thought he could hold on some more. And he hoped that, at some point, holding on wouldn’t be so hard anymore.

“I’m gonna try, yeah?” he awkwardly muttered. There was pride in her eyes and it made him even more embarrassed. “We’re gonna be late.”

An amused smile played on her lips. “Well, we wouldn’t be if you would do the gentlemanly thing and run around to open my door.”

He rolled his eyes. “Never gonna happen.”

She let out a theatrical annoyed sigh and opened the door herself. “You are insufferable.”

It was more fond than irritated.

It was refreshing to get out of a car and not be assaulted by flashes, calls of his name and pleas for his signature or his picture. The street was calm, it was a classy residential area where rows of respectable houses were lined up with obsessive preciseness… The house in front of them was full of light, music was drifting out as well as laughter and the occasional happy shriek.

He followed Effie to the front door, feeling out of place.

She didn’t bother ringing the doorbell or knocking – and it was probably wise because he was sure that nobody would have heard it – she made her way inside, holding out the door for him, lifting her eyebrows as it sudden obvious reluctance.

She had said it wasn’t the crowd he was used to… She was right. He was used to fancy expensive Capitol parties, this looked more like what he would have found at one of the clubs in town. People weren’t quite as stiff, the waiters and waitresses in dark uniforms weren’t Avoxes, and while looking just as ridiculous as Capitols always did, those people seemed a little less eager to impress.

He figured out without having to ask Effie that this party wasn’t exactly upper class. At least, not the upper class they were used to. They were certainly rich but they didn’t have the pedigree that went with it.

“Effie! I wasn’t sure you would make it!” a woman with a vivid orange wig screamed. His escort was briefly swallowed by a gaggle of Capitols and he watched, staying a step behind, as they exchanged air kisses and small talk about everyone’s good health. Eventually, orange wig’s eyes fell on him and she stopped mid-sentence to gape, making him even more uncomfortable. He buried his hands in his pockets and winced when the woman stared. “Oh, my goodness!”

Effie was back at his side in a flash, fishing one of his hands directly from his pocket, with a  sheepish smile. “I hope you do not mind, Celeste… I know I RSVP as alone but…”

“You brought Haymitch Abernathy to my birthday party.” Celeste stated bluntly, as if in shock. “I couldn’t even get tickets to the Crowning, it’s almost impossible to get close enough at red carpets and you brought him to my birthday party.”

The three other women who had jumped on Effie seemed equally impressed with his presence and Haymitch didn’t know if he ought to be amused or…

“Haymitch, this is my good friend Celeste Astworth.” Effie introduced them without further ado. “Celeste… I am assuming introductions aren’t necessary.”

Haymitch outstretched the hand Effie wasn’t holding. The woman shook it for far longer than was normal.

He had dealt with that kind of bemused fans before. Most of them were harmless. It wasn’t his favorite thing but he indulged her, hoping not everyone in that house would react the same way. He flashed her a smirk. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Celeste giggled, still shaking his hand.

He glanced at Effie for help but she seemed to find the situation hilarious.

“You will make her party the place to be tonight.” she explained with a grin. “That should warrant quite a few articles in the newspapers. Happy birthday.”

Celeste looked over the moon.

Haymitch thought it was the cheapest birthday present he had ever seen. Trust Effie…

“You mind if I get my hand back?” he joked.

The woman seemed to remember herself and let go of his fingers, flushing a bright shade of red. “My apologies! Oh, Effie, I ought to chide you! If I had known I would have… This was supposed to be a night between friends, you understand...” Those words were directed at Haymitch. “If I had known to expect more distinguished guests…”

“I’m sure everything’s fine, sweetheart.” he told her.

She almost swooned at being called by that pet name.

Effie’s grip became a tad firmer on his hand and she introduced him to the other women without waiting for Celeste to answer. They were a little more composed fortunately.

For a party between friends the house was crowded with people. Effie knew everyone, it seemed, but he quickly lost track of names and faces. He identified a couple of people as regular sponsors but they were in the minority.

Effie’s friends were crazy people but he wasn’t really surprised.

It wasn’t his scene at all and he hung back most of the time, sipping from the alcohol free cocktail Celeste had only been too happy to fetch for him, trying and failing to pretend he belonged in that sea of bright colors and idiotic people. Most people Effie stopped to talk to were in the fashion industry and he was bored out of his mind. She must have realized because she steered him toward a group of men who looked less flamboyant than the others.

She was welcomed with appreciative looks and predatory smiles that made him let go of her hand to place an arm around her shoulders in an instinctive claim. She automatically melt against his chest, not even batting an eyelash at the public display.

She greeted each of them by name far too ridiculous for him to remember them but her attention remained on the one with curly bleached blond hair. “Aspecus, may I entrust Haymitch to you? I am afraid talks of frills and lace bore him.”

Alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with those people, Haymitch tried to protest but she was already gone with a peck on the corner of his lips.

“Who wouldn’t be bored.” the man with purple hair on his left complained before downing his glass. “I swear, Pec, your wife always only invites stylists and models.”

Aspecus – Pec for short, it seemed – gave a helpless shrug. “Her party, her rules. So, not a fan of fashion, Haymitch?”

“Can’t say I care much for it, no.” he snorted.

“I’m surprised you would come to this kind of party…” the third man commented carefully. “It is a far cry from the City Circle. No offense, Pec.”

That one, Haymitch recognized. Maneo, he thought. The name was Gellert Maneo or something like that… He did sponsor sometimes although not every year.

“I guess I’m Effie’s present to the birthday girl.” he admitted.

“Are you?” Pec laughed. “Celeste will certainly be happy with that. She is a great fan of the Games.”

Haymitch tried not to cringe.

“I see.” Maneo said quietly at the same time.

And Haymitch thought maybe he did see, which made him cringe even further. “Not like that.”

“Like what?” purple hair asked, clearly confused by the long look Haymitch and the sponsor were exchanging.

Maneo took a sip of what Haymitch suspected to be whiskey. “So, Sal, what were you saying about the pearl market?”

As it turned out, the men were businessmen. There were plenty of those amongst the sponsors but Haymitch had never really had an opportunity to talk about… business before and it was more interesting than he would have cared to admit. They were still shallow people – he didn’t think he would ever find anyone in the city who wasn’t shallow – but they were more pragmatic than most. They weren’t stupid either and that made it easier for him to eventually relax and enjoy the conversation that, for once, didn’t revolve around fashion, the Games or who was screwing who.

It was plain to see they were surprised he could hold his own in debates. Politics was avoided – probably because it was rude or whatever but since that suited him just fine, it was alright – but Haymitch wasn’t that bad at other topics like literature, philosophy or ancient history.

“There’s not much else to do in Twelve other than read.” he awkwardly answered Sal’s diplomatic enquiries as to where he had gone to school, feeling embarrassed for no good reason. He had no university degree to boost, no degree at all to be honest since he hadn’t even finished high school, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.

All in all, he finally admitted after a whole hour of talking to them that the party wasn’t that bad. Down to Earth people, he could deal with. Still, he was a little surprised when Pec asked if he wanted to have dinner with them the following week – mainly because it sounded like a genuine invitation and not something born out of a need to be seen with the Quell’s victor. He had been wondering why Effie had kept in touch with people who were so obviously beneath her in the food chain, now he was getting a clearer picture. She might not trust them – and that was wise because who could trust anyone in the Capitol? – but they were certainly a nice change from the pompous people they had to deal with on an everyday basis.

“Here you are!” Celeste eventually appeared, wrapping her arms around Pec’s waist. “You are not mingling. Very rude.”

Effie wasn’t far behind her. Her blue eyes studied him and she must have come to the conclusion Haymitch wasn’t in need of a rescue because she flashed him that smug I know better smile. He rolled his eyes at her but didn’t protest when she leaned against his side. If her friends were surprised by their behavior, they didn’t let on.

“You were doing so well by yourself, my love, I did not want to rain on your parade.” Aspecus smoothly replied.

Celeste looked pleased by the compliment but her attention soon settled on the victor. “Are you having fun, Haymitch? I hope my husband and their friends stopped talking shop long enough to make sure you have everything you need…”

“I’m good, thanks.” he answered.

He was rewarded for this small polite act by fingers brushing against his, loosely entwining them together. He looked at Effie, a little surprised to realize she looked content, not quite harried or eager like she usually was at official parties but… relaxed. She still had her bubbly persona on but it was a bit toned down. Probably because there were no sponsors to impress. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that he was just there to serve as a birthday present or because gossip rags would have something to say about her bringing him to a private party… This was something else. She had clearly known those people a long time and she felt comfortable around them. She had brought him on her turf. This was a test of sort, to see if he could fit in her life.

“How am I doing?” he asked in a low voice and with a small unimpressed smirk while the Capitols were having a loud debate about a reality TV show or other.

She probably had expected him to figure it out at some point because she grinned. “You are passing with flying colors.” He shook his head at her and she tilted hers to the side, studying him. “Are you mad? I thought you and Pec might hit it off.” She wrinkled her nose. “He and his friends are a little boring, Celeste always complains about it. I thought they might be to your liking.”

“Cause I’m boring too?” he taunted.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and it was an automatic response to circle her waist with his. There was some staring and he was sure a few pictures were covertly taken but he didn’t really mind. That was the point, wasn’t it?

“Most Capitols would think so.” she hummed as he tightened his hold on her, bringing her even closer.

“And you?” he snorted.

“I know better.” she chuckled, leaning in to whisper in his ear all the not boring things she wanted him to do to her later. It was very hard to keep countenance or to resist dragging her back to the penthouse right then.

“Minx.” he accused in her neck.

“I am sorry to interrupt but I think it is high time for Pec to go fetch the cake in the kitchen and to start singing while I stand here and look surprised.” Celeste cut in with obvious amusement, clearing her throat. “Perhaps, Haymitch, you would be so kind as to help him? If you wouldn’t mind. I trust you can light a few candles without almost burning the house down.”

Pec rolled his eyes. “The match slipped through my fingers once and there was no damage. How long will you keep holding this over my head?”

Celeste’s look clearly indicated it would be a very long time indeed.

Effie dropped her arms and thus he had no choice but to follow Pec, a bit annoyed to have to let go of his escort. Still, the ruse was obvious because he wasn’t two feet away when Celeste loudly squealed. “How did this happen? When did this happen? Is it serious? How serious?! You have to share the gossip, Effie! Oh, this is the best birthday ever!”

All in all, it wasn’t the worst time he had had in the city.

He was startled to realize when they climbed back into the car that he had actually had a good enough time and that he hadn’t thought about the Quell in a couple of hours. The easy friendship between Pec and the others had made him miss Chaff but the dull ache had been eased by their willingness to include him.

He hadn’t quite meant to make plans with them but he had accepted the pressing invitation to get together some time in the following week.

Maybe, he thought as Effie’s head rested against his shoulder, just maybe he could find a place in this city.

[nataliesnews]

and a Follow-up

 A true and amazing story. First is the email sent to me by a friend followed by my response to him after some research.

  Alvin

 Subject: Fwd: An Amazing story – Pfizer Vaccine

                                         Hard to read but worth it. 

                            An Amazing story – Pfizer Vaccine

 Sixty thousand Jews were in Thessaloniki, Greece on the eve of the outbreak of World War II. A living and vibrant Jewish community. Most of the porters in the port of Thessaloniki were Jews. The port of Thessaloniki was even closed on Saturday. Great rabbis lived there too

It was on this glorious community that the Nazi terror brutally rose.

Hitler took Greece by storm to secure his southern wing before launching Operation Barbarossa and the offensive against Russia.

Out of 60,000 Thessaloniki Jews, about 50,000were exterminated in Birkenau in a very short time…. Few survived.

Among the survivors were the Bourla family.

After the war in 1961 a son was born to the Bourla family. And they named him Israel - Abraham. (Albert).

Albert grew up and studied veterinary medicine. He received his doctorate in reproductive biotechnology from the Aristotle University of Salonika Veterinary School.

At the age of 34 he moved to the United States. He married a Jewish woman named Miriam and had two children.

In the United States, Bourla was integrated into the medical industry. He progressed very quickly and joined the Pfizer company where he became 'Head of Global Vaccines'.

From there, the road is short for his appointment as CEO of Pfizer in 2019.

Throughout the year, Bourla led the company's efforts to find a vaccine for corona in super efforts.

The vaccine that will save the lives of millions of people around the world was led and pushed by a Jew. Son of Holocaust survivors. From Thessaloniki.

His vaccine will also reach Germany, where 1000s have died from Covid, and the vaccine will also save lives there.

And THIS is why Israel is becoming the first country to receive the vaccine. In memory of Albert’s grandparents.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 -----Original Message----- From: alvin.goldberg@verizon.net Sent: Fri, Mar 5, 2021 1:26 pm Subject: Fwd: A follow-up An Amazing story – Pfizer Vaccine

   Your email describing Albert Bourla's story of his family gave me the inspiration to look into it further and what follows is an expansion of his family's story.

   Albert Bourla: My Family’s Story: Why We Remember

  This week, as we do every year, we commemorated International Holocaust Remembrance Day so that the stories of the victims and survivors are never forgotten. Yesterday, I was deeply honored to join the Sephardic Heritage International in DC ‘s Annual Congressional Holocaust Commemoration to share my family’s story in connection with the Holocaust.

You can watch me deliver my remarks or read them below.

 Remembrance. It’s this word, perhaps more than any other, that inspired me to share my parents’ story. That’s because I recognize how fortunate I am that my parents shared their stories with me and the rest of our family.

 Many Holocaust survivors never spoke to their children of the horrors they endured because it was too painful. But we talked about it a great deal in my family. Growing up in Thessaloniki, Greece, we would get together with our cousins on the weekends, and my parents, aunts and uncles would often share their stories.

 They did this because they wanted us to remember. To remember all the lives that were lost. To remember what can happen when the virus of evil is allowed to spread unchecked. But, most important, to remember the value of a human life.

 You see, when my parents spoke of the Holocaust, they never spoke of anger or revenge. They didn’t teach us to hate those who did this to our family and friends. Instead they spoke of how lucky they were to be alive … and how we all needed to build on that feeling, celebrate life and move forward. Hatred would only stand in the way.

 So, in that spirit, I’m here to share the story of Mois and Sara Bourla, my beloved parents.

 Our ancestors had fled Spain in the late 15th century, after King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella issued the Alhambra Decree, which mandated that all Spanish Jews either convert to Catholicism or be expelled from the country. They eventually settled in the Ottoman Thessaloniki, which later became part of Greece following its liberation from the Ottoman Empire in 1912.

 Before Hitler began his march through Europe, there was a thriving Sephardic Jewish community in Thessaloniki. So much so that it was known as “La Madre de Israel” or “The Mother of Israel.” Within a week of the occupation, however, the Germans had arrested the Jewish leadership, evicted hundreds of Jewish families and confiscated their apartments. And it took them less than three years to accomplish their goal of exterminating the community. When the Germans invaded Greece, there were approximately 50,000 Jews living in the city. By the end of the war, only 2,000 had survived.

Lucky for me, both of my parents were among the 2,000.

 My father’s family, like so many others, had been forced from their home and taken to a crowded house within one of the Jewish ghettos. It was a house they had to share with several other Jewish families. They could circulate in and out of the ghetto, as long as they were wearing the yellow star.

 But one day in March 1943, the ghetto was surrounded by occupation forces, and the exit was blocked. My father, Mois, and his brother, Into, were outside when this happened. When they approached, they met their father, who also was outside. He told them what was happening and asked them to leave and hide. But he had to go in because his wife and his two other children were home. Later that day, my grandfather, Abraham Bourla, his wife, Rachel, his daughter, Graciela, and his younger son, David, were taken to a camp outside the train station. From there they left for Auschwitz-Birkenau. Mois and Into never saw them again.

 The same night, my father and uncle escaped to Athens, where they were able to obtain fake IDs with Christian names. They got the IDs from the head of police, who at the time was helping Jews escape the persecution of the Nazis. They lived there until the end of the war … all the while having to pretend that they were not Jews … that they were not Mois and Into – but rather Manolis and Vasilis. 

 When the German occupation ended, they went back to Thessaloniki and found that all their property and belongings had been stolen or sold. With nothing to their name, they started from scratch, becoming partners in a successful liquor business that they ran together until they both retired.

My mom’s story also was one of having to hide in her own land … of narrowly escaping the horrors of Auschwitz … and of family bonds that sustained her spirit and, quite literally, saved her life.

 Like my father’s family, my mom’s family was relocated to a house within the ghetto. My mother was the youngest girl of seven children. Her older sister had converted to Christianity to marry a Christian man she had fallen in love with before the war, and she and her husband were living in another city where no one knew that she had previously been a Jew. At that time mixed weddings were not accepted by society, and my grandfather wouldn’t talk to his eldest daughter because of this.

 But when it became clear that the family was going to head to Poland, where the Germans had promised a new life in a Jewish settlement, my grandfather asked his eldest daughter to come and see him. In this last meeting they ever had, he asked her to take her youngest sister – my mom – with her. 

There my mom would be safe because no one knew that she or her sister were of Jewish heritage. The rest of the family went by train straight to Auschwitz-Birkenau.

 Toward the end of the war, my mom’s brother-in-law was transferred back to Thessaloniki. People knew my mom there, so she had to hide in the house 24 hours a day out of fear of being recognized and turned over to the Germans. But she was still a teenager, and every so often, she would venture outside. Unfortunately, during one of those walks, she was spotted and arrested.

 She was sent to a local prison. It was not good news. It was well known that every day around noon, some of the prisoners would be loaded on a truck to be transferred to another location where the next dawn they would be executed. Knowing this, her brother-in-law, my dearest Christian uncle, Kostas Dimadis, approached Max Merten, a known war criminal who was in charge of the Nazi occupation forces in the city.

 He paid Merten a ransom in exchange for his promise that my mom would not be executed. But her sister, my aunt, didn’t trust the Germans. So, she would go to the prison every day at noon to watch as they loaded the truck that would transfer the prisoners to the execution site. And one day she saw what she had been afraid of: my mom being put on the truck.

 She ran home and told her husband who immediately called Merten. He reminded him of their agreement and tried to shame him for not keeping his word. Merten said he would look into it and then abruptly hung up the phone.

 That night was the longest in my aunt and uncle’s life because they knew the next morning, my mom would likely be executed. The next day – on the other side of town – my mom was lined up against a wall with other prisoners. And moments before she would have been executed, a soldier on a BMW motorcycle arrived and handed some papers to the man in charge of the firing squad.

 They removed from the line my mom and another woman. As they rode away, my mom could hear the machine gun fire slaughtering those that were left behind. It’s a sound that stayed with her for the rest of her life.

 Two or three days later, she was released from prison. And just a few weeks after that, the Germans left Greece.

 Fast forward eight years and my parents were introduced by their families in a typical-for-the-time matchmaking. They liked each other and agreed to marry. They had two children – me and my sister, Seli.

 My father had two dreams for me. He wanted me to become a scientist and was hoping I would marry a nice Jewish girl. I am happy to say that he lived long enough to see both dreams come true. Unfortunately, he died before our children were born ... but my mom did live long enough to see them, which was the greatest of blessings.

 So, that is the story of Mois and Sara Bourla. It’s a story that had a great impact on my life and my view of the world, and it is a story that, for the first time today, I share publicly.

 However, when I received the invitation to speak at this event – at this moment in time when racism and hatred are tearing at the fabric of our great nation – I felt it was the right time to share the story of two simple people who loved, and were loved by, their family and friends. Two people who stared down hatred and built a life filled with love and joy. Two people whose names are known by very few … but whose story has now been shared with the members of the United States Congress – the world’s greatest and most just legislative body. And that makes their son very proud.

 This brings me back to remembrance. As time marches on and today’s event shrinks in our rearview mirrors, I wouldn’t expect you to remember my parents’ names, but I implore you to remember their story. Because remembering gives each of us the conviction, the courage and the compassion to take the necessary actions to ensure their story is never repeated.

 Thank you again for the invitation to speak today. And thank you for remembering.

 Stay safe and stay well.

[gwenore]

Dominion. Chapter 5.

Chapter 5: Belle brings Rumplestitskin home from the hospital. 

Summary: Belle is working as a nurse at Storybrooke hospital. Some time ago they got in a John Doe in a catatonic state. Belle knows at once something is off as though he doesn’t speak or react to pain he doesn’t seem catatonic, following her with his eyes and listening to her every words. The only possession he has on him is a picture of a boy about fourteen years old. One evening she is reading to her charge and the skies turn blood red and the light goes out at the hospital as all hell beaks loose in the small town.

Belle honestly just wanted to end her shift… being in this place after what had happened… after what she had seen. She wanted to do something… not just wait. Though she attempted to busy herself her mind was distracted as she looked through the papers to check on medications.

“You are looking tired dear.”

Belle lifted to find little old Miss Warden standing there. Miss Warden had been at the hospital for as long as she could remember, a very sweet old lady which Belle liked very much.

“Oh… night shift… not always the easiest on your sleeping schedule,” Belle smiled to her. Miss Warden let out a soft small laugh.

“I can understand. Not easy keeping guard is it. I know all about that,” she nodded to herself. This lady was small in every sense of the word. Even smaller than Belle… who had often been teased due to her short stature.

“Oh! You were a nurse?” she questioned.

“No…” Miss Warden thought for a while. “Not a nurse… more a guard I guess.”

“A guard?” Belle asked, having to admit she was a bit puzzled over this.

“Well… it was after the war,” Miss Warden explained. Belle blinked. Perhaps Miss Warden meant caretaker? Or guardian? For some reason it was hard for her to see the little old lady as a guard for a prison. Miss Warden certainly had a slight accent… though Belle could not place it, but it made sense that English was not her first language. Belle gave her a gentle smile.

“Well… you would think I was used to staying up all night now,” she smiled softly.

“Takes time to get used to such things at times I assure you dear. But I should let you get on with your work and not bother you anymore,” Miss Warden smiled towards her, patting Belle gently on her arm.

“I will see you around Miss Warden,” she smiled towards the old woman, who said her final goodbyes before Miss Warden walked away.

Belle smiled towards him, it was always really nice to talk to Miss Warden. She was a really strange old lady, but the best kind. Belle always felt himself at ease around her… though she had noticed that some people was uneasy around the old woman… especially as she really seemed to know everything going on around the hospital and even the town.

Belle smiled slightly. Well… some old ladies really did have an ability to find out information as they tended to listen in on conversations and some seemed to have a mind like a steel trap when it came to information that was interesting to them.

In truth… Miss Warden had given Belle a bit of normality after… well her life had quickly gotten quite… insane.

She watched that little old lady shuffle down the corridor for a while before she went back to her work.

Finally the night was coming to an end and she had been able to get Dr. Whale’s signature and had even picked up Rumplestiltskin’s suit to get him out of the hospital gown.

Walking up to his room she knocked on the door before she walked into his room, finding him sitting up on the bed and she slowly closed the door behind her.

“Hi…” Belle said softly as she wandered close to him. “How are you doing?”

He glanced up at her, relieved to see her again, letting out a slow breath before nodding his head.

“Yes… or… somewhat… I am still adjusting, but I can move and talk. That is certainly an improvement…” he murmured doing his best to hide his sharp teeth as he spoke, though he was not really successful in this endeavor. Belle attempting to give him a comforting smile before she showed him his suit.

“I got you your suit,” she offered it to him, putting it down on the bed beside him.

“Thank you, I must confess that I cannot wait to get out of these,” he gritted his teeth slightly as he tugged his gown. “I also want to get out of here.”

He looked around the room, before shaking his head.

“I cannot blame you… you have been here for quite some time already. My apartment is small, but at least it is better than the hospital,” Belle told him with a soft smile. Rumplestiltskin nodded his head.

“And… I am forever grateful to you…” she could hear that he was rather embarrassed due to his situation. Belle smiled softly towards him, having the feeling that Rumplestiltskin… or the man that he used to be, was not used to be in someone’s debt.

“It is alright… we are sort of in this together,” she attempted to assure him. However this was something which only seemed to make him feel even worse about it.

“It is nothing that we can do about that. Just let us… try to get through it, there is no good to dwell on the past,” Belle said, him nodding solemnly.

“I suppose…” he sighed. Belle bit her lip slightly.

“Um… is there anything more that I can get you?” Belle asked then.

“If you can get me a cane or a crutch that would be much appreciated… still feel… a bit unsteady,” he told her. Belle nodded her head.

“Yes, I am going to find one. Just get dressed, I’ll be back in a short while,” she whispered softly, patting her on his shoulder, before exiting the room. Rumplestiltskin sat there for a while, glancing down on his hands which was still trembling. Gritting his teeth he stood himself up, having to steady himself at the edge of the bed.

Having laid still for so long has taken a toll on his body… not to mention that place. He was feeling absolutely exhausted simply moving, and he knew that taking on his clothes would be chore. Still… he wanted to do it himself… he hated feeling so powerless.

Belle took her time in finding a crutch for him. She knew he needed time… he was clearly struggling. Even a man who had been bedridden for long would need to have his body get used to moving again.

Her blue eyes wandered over to the windows… fearing to see that it had turned blood red once again… and that she would hear those sounds.

But he night guy had just started to lighten slightly, a promise that the sun would rise soon. Belle swallowed, decided to try to not think about it… not now.

Crutch in hand she wandered back to the room, where Rumplestiltskin had managed to get his suit on, trying his tie.

“Got a crutch… we will need to find you something more to wear. I mean… it cannot be comfortable to stay in the suit all day…” she told him as she handed him the crutch.

“Well… it is not too bad… you shouldn’t use your money on me,” he was more and more embarrassed.

“It is alright… you cannot stay in one suit the entire time. Besides, I am sure when we figure out who you are I am sure you will pay me back so… think of it more as a loan,” she once again attempted to cheer him up.

“Well… it is a decent suit at least, seems that I am a man of means… at the very least,” Rumplestiltskin said as he stood himself up, leaning heavily on the crutch, groaning softly, Belle grabbing his arm to help him steady himself.

“Thank you,” Rumplestiltskin nodded towards her.

“Don’t worry. Come, let us get you to my car, once we are back to my apartment to give you some rest,” she assured him, lending her his arm. Rumplestiltskin nodded towards her, the two of them made their way out of the hospital.

It was pretty still as the day shift had not fully started and they went down into the employment exit, to keep from attracting attention. Belle knew that there would be questions… but… hopefully it would only turn into gossip and a mystery no one would look too much into.

Because… if Emma or Graham were to find out about this… well it would be very hard to explain. Also what would happen if it was discovered if he wasn’t… exactly… human. What would happen then?

Belle decided that they would cross that bridge when they came to it… hopefully they would not.

They had now arrived at Belle’s little blue beat up car… she should really get a new one, but it was reliable and had never before crapped out on her. Gently she helped Rumplestiltskin into the passenger seat before walking in and drove to her apartment.

  It was not a long drive from the hospital to the little apartment she had which was located above the library in the small town. Belle was worried about how Rumplestiltskin would deal with the stairs, but with him steadying himself on her arm they were able to her front door which she was quick to unlock.

Finally inside the apartment Belle helped him onto the couch. It was evident that even this short walk had taken its toll on the man as he sat there, breathing softly.

“You are tired, look you just rest here, I will head out for a bit… need to pick some stuff up as… well I wasn’t exactly expecting guests,” Belle let out a gentle laugh as she looked around. It was a bit eerie. Everything she had packed to leave town… it was now back in its proper place. As if she never packed them to begin with. It sent a chill down her spine and made her a bit uncomfortable being in her own home.

Rumplestiltskin nodded.

“Yes… I’ll be fine… don’t worry,” he whispered softly. Belle nodded her head, but filled up a class of water and left it on the table for him.

“I won’t be long,” she assured him, but he was already passed out asleep. Belle wondered if she should leave him, but he seemed to be breathing well.

He needed rest. Hopefully he was still just… adjusting.

With a knot in her stomach she walked out of her apartment again to do some errands.

  Her trip to get groceries and the like… as well as picking up things she thought Rumplestiltskin would need like toiletries as well as undergarments went fairly well… it was an easy enough excuse to say she was picking some things up for her father, even if he lived in the town over. It sounded plausible enough.

However where she would find clothes that would not break her bank…

Driving around she noticed a small store that she never really had before… Gold’s pawnshop.

Hm… perhaps she could find something there, Belle thought as she parked her car outside and stepped inside.

[madisonacampbell]

Via the ACLU: The Short Life and Curious Death of Free Speech in America

The Short Life and Curious Death of Free Speech in America

No one expected their words to be enlightening or their tone harmonious. Hatred rarely comes in such flavors. It spills out as an ugly, incoherent mess infused with the rotten odor of willful ignorance. And so it was with the Nazi wannabes — self-styled white supremacists determined to make their mark on the world, committed to convincing anyone who might listen that their superiority was both evident and inevitable. The setting was downtown Charlottesville, Virginia, August 2017. Their mission was unity — of like-minded hate mongers. Their leader, Jason Kessler, was a 33-year-old who lived with his parents and had once supported Barack Obama. He had learned that many demographers thought whites would eventually become a minority race in the United States. That news was so unsettling that Kessler remade himself into a white-rights activist. He styled himself as “a civil and human rights advocate, focused on the Caucasian demographic” in the mode of “Jesus Christ or Mahatma Gandhi.” His “Unite the Right” rally, observed the Christian Science Monitor, “was supposed to be the movement’s coming out party, an emergence from the shadows of internet chat rooms into the national spotlight.” Kessler was inspired in part by fellow University of Virginia graduate and white supremacist Richard Spencer who, in May 2017, led a band of racists in Charlottesville chanting “Russia is our friend” and “Blood and soil,” a Nazi-inspired slogan. Why they were enamored of Russia is anyone’s guess; I presume it had something to do with President Trump. The reason for the Nazi chant was evident; they thought it allowed them to channel the spirit of General Robert E. Lee, who had abandoned the U.S. Army in a doomed quest to preserve race-based slavery in the South. Charlottesville’s leaders recently had voted to remove Lee’s statue from the downtown park that no longer carried his name. Spencer and his crew opposed that effort and everything they thought it implied, including hostility to the legacy of whiteness. The Loyal White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan were similarly motivated by the perceived threat to American whiteness. Its members — 50 strong — converged on Charlottesville that July to march around and shout “white power” as hundreds of counter protesters responded with “racists go home.” How did the mad ravings of a bunch of intellectually confused, racially paranoid misfits end up spurring a national debate over the limits of free speech, the meaning of the First Amendment, and the moral obligation of the president of the United States? One reason is that — despite Kessler’s efforts to cast himself as the Martin Luther King Jr. of white rights — the rally engendered fears of made-for-TV-scale violence. As news of the event spread, and some sense of its size became clear, several local businesses announced they would temporarily close out of concern for the safety of their customers and employees. The University of Virginia, located in Charlottesville, asked students to stay away. Many rally participants showed up armed with rifles and other deadly weapons (thanks to Virginia’s open carry laws). Indeed, even before the rally’s scheduled noon start time, Kessler’s congregation had ignited so much hostility and ugliness that local authorities labeled the gathering an “illegal assembly” and ordered participants to leave. In the end, the racist, anti-Semitic hate-fest caused three deaths. Two of the dead were state troopers. Berke Bates and H. Jay Cullen, assigned to monitor the gathering from the sky, died when their helicopter crashed. The third victim was Heather Heyer, a 32-year-old paralegal. James Alex Fields Jr., a 20-year-old Adolf Hitler fanatic from Ohio, killed Heyer by intentionally plowing his car into a crowd of counter protesters — injuring some 19 people in addition to Heyer, who died from blunt-force injury to her chest. Following the tragedy, Donald Trump famously condemned the “hatred, bigotry, and violence on many sides.” His words provoked a controversy that went on for months as Trump proved incapable of criticizing the racist mob without also condemning those who opposed it. Heyer’s mother, Susan Bro, was so sickened by the president’s words that she refused to take his condolence call. “I’m sorry. After what he said about my child,” Bro told CNN, and added, incredulously, “I saw an actual clip of him at a press conference equating the [counter] protesters … with the KKK and the white supremacists.” James Fields’ lawyers sought mitigation by stressing his history of mental illness. A psychologist testified that he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 6 and later with schizoid personality disorder. His lawyers also delved into his childhood traumas, which included coping with the murder of his grandmother by his grandfather, who had subsequently killed himself. “James’s mental illness causes him to lose emotional and behavioral control in stressful situations,” said his attorneys, who claimed he had taken himself off his meds when he was 18, meaning he was medically untethered when he murdered Heyer. After pleading guilty, Fields received two life sentences — one in state court and the other in federal court. Even with Fields confined to prison, questions raised by Heyer’s murder — and the rally that caused it — reverberated. Trump’s troubling insistence on calling bullying bigots “very fine people” was perhaps inevitable given his need to placate a base that contains more than its share of people like David Duke, the former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard who promoted the rally as an effort to “take our country back” and who, after Heyer’s murder, thanked Trump via tweet for his “honesty & courage.” Duke also tweeted, “This is why WE LOVE TRUMP and WHY the FAKE NEWS MEDIA HATES TRUMP. He brings to light what the lying, Fake News Media Won’t. The truth is the media covers up horrific numbers of racist hate crimes against White people!” But putting the president and his behavior aside for the moment, what about the free speech community — the civil libertarians who successfully fought in court for Kessler’s right to hold his rally in downtown Charlottesville? The city had wanted to move Kessler’s parade of bigotry to another park, one farther from the heart of town that officials claimed would be easier to police. But Kessler had said no; and the American Civil Liberties Union, along with a local outfit called the Rutherford Institute, had sued the city on Kessler’s behalf. Following the event, the ACLU was heavily criticized — and also lauded — for standing up for the racist rabble-rousers. Glenn Greenwald, best known for reporting on U.S. surveillance programs brought to light by whistleblower Edward Snowden, forcefully defended the ACLU. Civil liberties advocates, he argued, “defend the rights of those with views we hate in order to strengthen our defense of the rights of those who are most marginalized and vulnerable in society.” Others were not so sure. The Guardian reported on an erosion in “the belief that the KKK and other white supremacist organizations are operating within the bounds of acceptable political discourse — rather than as, say, terrorist organizations — and therefore have a moral right to be heard.” Jessica Clarke, a law professor at Vanderbilt University Law School, pointed to studies showing that bigots routinely hid behind free speech arguments as a cover for racism. Highly prejudiced people, she noted, “were less likely to voice First Amendment objections when the threatened speech was race-neutral, suggesting their free speech concerns were more about the freedom to express racist prejudice than free speech in general.” Legal scholar Laura Weinrib noted that the ACLU had never blindly supported free speech but had done so in the fight for a better society; and she wondered whether “a dogged commitment to free speech” was still the best strategy for an organization pursuing social justice: “The balances have shifted dramatically since the 1930s. In recent years, nearly half of First Amendment victories have gone to corporations and trade groups challenging government regulation. Free speech has served to secure the political influence of wealthy donors. Labor’s strength has plummeted, and the Supreme Court is poised to recognize a First Amendment right of public sector employees to refuse to contribute to union expenses. Long-settled principles of American democracy are newly vulnerable, and hate has found fertile terrain.” Even Susan Herman, president of the ACLU, questioned whether old assumptions about free speech still applied: “We need to consider whether some of our timeworn maxims — the antidote to bad speech is more speech, the marketplace of ideas will result in the best arguments winning out — still ring true in an era when white supremacists have a friend in the White House.” Leslie Mehta, the young black attorney who was legal director of the ACLU of Virginia when it took the Kessler case, seemed confident, when I interviewed her in the aftermath of Heyer’s death, that she had made the right decision. “There were certainly lots of conversations between myself and the executive director. There were a lot of revisions back and forth with briefs and having discussions about potential implications, but nobody has a crystal ball and no one [knew] exactly what [would] ultimately happen. I do think that the First Amendment has to mean something. And at the time, it was my understanding … that there was no evidence that there would be violence.” Mehta, a native of Woodland, North Carolina, is intimately familiar with the South and with the United States’ legacy of brutal racial oppression. She went to historically black Howard University School of Law because of its reputation for creating lawyers devoted to “social activism and social justice.” But she also is adamantly committed to the idea of free speech. “I think one of the reasons why free speech is so important to me is because … it exposes what you disagree with. And for me, I think it’s important to hear things like our president saying … ‘Well, there are good people on both sides.’” Mehta also thought it was important to consult with her mother and her 92-year-old grandmother as she proceeded with the Kessler case. Her grandmother, she confided, “never said that she fully agreed or disagreed [with Mehta taking the case], but she did not think that I was wrong.” As anyone trying to understand the Charlottesville fiasco quickly discovers, the issue of speech — particularly in a society polluted by racism and largely defined by economic inequality — is endlessly complex. So let me begin this journey with a brief exploration of how the U.S. came to embrace such a broad notion of free speech, and let’s look at some decisions made in its name. ••• We tend to think our current conception of free speech has been around essentially since the beginning of the republic. In truth, our firm and collective embrace of the First Amendment is a relatively recent phenomenon. The Constitution was drafted at a time when the Founders had rejected foreign tyranny. They were wary of the potential power of a centralized state. So the Bill of Rights was a balancing act, weighing not only the rights of individuals versus government in general but also the rights of states versus the federal government. Indeed, at the time the Bill of Rights was ratified, the First Amendment did not apply to the states. As legal scholar David Yassky has pointed out, the Constitution’s guarantee of free speech was “quite weak — at least to contemporary eyes. A citizen in 1800 had no absolute right to free speech; if the speech-restricting law was a state law, the Constitution was silent.” Eventually that changed, and that had a lot to do with the Civil War, the end of slavery, the 14th Amendment, and assorted court decisions. But even after the Reconstruction era, free speech, as we understand it today, was nothing but an aspiration, which is one reason that Southern states could effectively outlaw agitation for abolition. Free speech is very much an invention of the 20th century. And that concept of speech is very idealistic, inextricably linked to the notion that in the competition of ideas, good ideas generally crowd out bad. That argument received its most famous articulation in a 1927 case: Whitney v. California. At its center was Charlotte Anita Whitney, a wealthy California blueblood convicted of joining the Communist Party. She argued that her prosecution violated the Constitution. The Supreme Court unanimously disagreed. But even in disagreeing with her position, Louis Brandeis (joined by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.) produced a brilliant and eloquent exegesis on the potential of free speech to enact social change: “Those who won our independence believed that the final end of the State was to make men free to develop their faculties, and that, in its government, the deliberative forces should prevail over the arbitrary. They valued liberty both as an end, and as a means. They believed liberty to be the secret of happiness, and courage to be the secret of liberty. They believed that freedom to think as you will and to speak as you think are means indispensable to the discovery and spread of political truth; that, without free speech and assembly, discussion would be futile; that, with them, discussion affords ordinarily adequate protection against the dissemination of noxious doctrine.” As Brandeis saw it, free speech was virtually a sacred right and an awesomely powerful force that would expose “falsehood and fallacies” and “avert … evil by the processes of education.” Hence, the remedy to bad speech was “more speech, not enforced silence.” That piece of writing has been deemed one of the most important commentaries ever crafted on the First Amendment. But Brandeis assumed something that has not been borne out by facts, which is that the better argument would generally win. He also assumed that relevant people on all sides of a question were equally capable of being heard and that skeptics were interested in listening. That fallacy continues to inform the thinking of those who see speech as inherently self-correcting. Much as many of us admire Louis Brandeis’s mind and spirit, the society he envisioned has never existed. Instead, we have created a society in which lying is both endemic and purposeful. We have brought the worst values of advertising into the political sphere and wedded that to long-established tactics of political propaganda, even as our political class has learned to use social media to spread disinformation that propagates at a breathtaking rate. The very idea that political speech would expose and therefore vanquish “falsehood and fallacies” now seems incredibly naïve. Free speech always had limits. But because of our new technological reality, because of the unexpected weaponization of speech, we are having to consider those limits in a new light. We live in a world where it is far from clear that the answer to bad speech is more speech; and where a foreign power, thanks to our freedom of expression, may well be responsible for the election of a U.S. president. We live in a time when a frightened white minority within the larger white majority fights to maintain control of our country; and when large corporations and cynical functionaries — eager to exploit fear — have a bigger megaphone (including their own television news networks) than anyone speaking for the powerless and dispossessed. We live in an era when the U.S. awarded its presidency to a man who lost the election by roughly 3 million votes, and who, with the cooperation of a submissive Senate, has appointed judges determined to thwart the will of the public; has proposed policies, supported largely by lies, designed to further divide an already polarized nation; and caters to an irrational mob whose most fanatical elements want to refight the Civil War. All of this raises a host of difficult questions: If the Brandeisian view of speech is fatally flawed, what is a better, or at least a more realistic, view? Is it possible to reverse these trends that are destroying our democracy? How do we balance an array of important societal values that compete with the value of free speech? How, in short, do we enable a relatively enlightened majority to rescue our country from an embittered, backward-looking minority? And what happens to speech — which has never been totally free — in the process?

Excerpt adapted from The Short Life and Curious Death of Free Speech in America by Ellis Cose. Published by Amistad. Copyright © 2020 HarperCollins.

Published September 21, 2020 at 01:40PM via ACLU (https://ift.tt/3iRPsAm) via ACLU

[prorevenge]

2 birds....one stone.

Alright....this is my first post on /prorevenge, hell on reddit period. This is quite a bit long...so just bare with me.

EX: ex husband EM: ex’s mother me: naturally it’s me. MM: my mother SD: step dad MS: my little sister

About 9-10 ago (I was 17, turning 18 in 2 months) I met a young man (22 years old) a former US Marine. Good looking guy, smart, and funny. We talked for awhile before we went on an actual date. The date’s were always wonderful. In May 2010, I met his 3 year old daughter on her birthday. She was wonderful. I also met EM on that day as well. Not so wonderful. A b***h to be exact. But whatever, ya know. Early in our relationship we get engaged, young & dumb me was ecstatic. I’m still in high school at the time, 11th grade to be exact. Because of medical conditions (Epilepsy) I was held back in 9th grade. I write down literally everything, because my memory is absolutely horrid. So I had to find that notebook to make sure I had details correct. Anyways......at 17, early 18 I was this skinny little thing 5’2” 120-130lbs and very much “gifted”.

We get engaged & I move out of MM & SD’s house. I move to a city about an hour away. Transfer schools to a high school that was huge. I’ve always gone to small town schools. I was terrified. Right after I turned 18, I was put on a seizure med that made me gain 80lbs in a month. I had never been this big & went into a very deep depression. For an entire year I refused to take pictures with people, didn’t dress nice (I stuck with basketball shorts/sweats & t-shirts). We get an apartment soon after I move to the city. I have a job at the local home store & he has a job at a restaurant.

7 months later we get married. People were congratulating MM on becoming a grandparent.......I have never been pregnant, that’s how big I had become. I graduate high school & start working full time. EH has started working 20+ hours overtime at just a little fast food place (which obviously should have been a red flag for me at the time....but wasn’t.) After we were married, EH had informed me that he was dishonorably discharged from the military....that he never even made it out of boot camp. Because a guy pissed him off & he hung the guy out of a barracks window by his feet but ultimately pulled him back in. So then I realize that not only is this man violent, but manipulative as well. I had already got this man’s initials tattooed on my wrist (yes, I know, stupid as hell.) EH starts showing up at home with more & more money. We furnished the apartment with a new 55” TV. New furniture. Game consoles. EM starts treating me like shit, like I had done something wrong. Accusing me of being a gold digger & taking advantage of her sweet, sweet son....then started messaging MM & posting on Facebook that I was a lesbian and cheating on EH.

EH showed up one evening after work, a little nervous. He had gotten a call to show up at a meeting with his boss the next morning. He drops me off at my job that next morning (which is right across the parking lot from his), and then goes to his meeting. A few moments later I see a cop car show up & leave a few minutes later. Who happened to be in the back? You got it, EH. I found out that not only had embezzled over $3000. I moved home with MM & SD. EM continued to harass me. While her boyfriend would be texting me & asking me to have sex with him & doing other things with him. I made sure I had screenshotted everything. I got EH phone from police & started going through it. Messages, Facebook, etc. I found out that not only had he been cheating on me with a 16 year old girl. But he had also made fake Facebook acct and had been messaging MS who was 12 at the time. Asking her for sexual favors. Then I found multiple dating apps on his phone & with HUNDREDS of messages to multiple women asking about sex & relationships & marriage with them.

At that point I was furious & extremely done. I am very family oriented & would give my life for MS. So I also screenshot that Facebook acct & all of the messages to not only MS but to the 16 year old as well. And email them to myself. I gather all of the screenshots, sort them out. Send screenshots of the messages to MM & send screenshots of EVERYTHING to EM. Screenshots of her bfs convo, 16 year olds convo, & MS’s convo. To show her, that her sweet, sweet son was not only a pedophile but a manipulative little fuck who embezzles money like stupid fuck from his job. When she showed up to meet me, her face was PRICELESS. It was a mix of disappointment & disgust. She apologized to me about everything she had said. I went about my way. She broke up with her bf & kicked him out on the streets (he was from a state very far north of where I live).

I took the screenshots of the messages to MS & the 16 year old to the police. He got in even more trouble & not only had to spend 3 months in jail for the embezzlement but had to spend 2 years in prison & have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. He apparently had met a young girl somehow during the final days of his stay in prison, and moved in with her & her parents (she was 16 as well) when he got out. His mother & brothers had disowned him, cut contact, and he lost any custody/visitation with his daughter. I knew I still had the screenshots in my email. So I found out who the child was he was living with & figure out who her parents are & send them the screenshots. Let them know he is a sex offender & had talked with a different 16 year old & a 12 year old. They kick him out into the streets as well. Last I heard, he was couch hopping and jobless (this was as of last year).

As a result of everything, I am now in a very wonderful marriage (almost 4 years) with a man I’ve known for 13 years.

Him & EM bf both lost a lot & I feel no regret in any way, shape, or form. I done a lot to keep children safe from him. I am one of those people who feel like there’s only 1 cure for a pedo....but we will keep that violent comment out of here.

Anyways....sorry it was so long.

(source) story by (/u/truckerswife15)

[nancydhooper]

The Short Life and Curious Death of Free Speech in America

No one expected their words to be enlightening or their tone harmonious. Hatred rarely comes in such flavors. It spills out as an ugly, incoherent mess infused with the rotten odor of willful ignorance. And so it was with the Nazi wannabes — self-styled white supremacists determined to make their mark on the world, committed to convincing anyone who might listen that their superiority was both evident and inevitable. The setting was downtown Charlottesville, Virginia, August 2017. Their mission was unity — of like-minded hate mongers. Their leader, Jason Kessler, was a 33-year-old who lived with his parents and had once supported Barack Obama. He had learned that many demographers thought whites would eventually become a minority race in the United States. That news was so unsettling that Kessler remade himself into a white-rights activist. He styled himself as “a civil and human rights advocate, focused on the Caucasian demographic” in the mode of “Jesus Christ or Mahatma Gandhi.” His “Unite the Right” rally, observed the Christian Science Monitor, “was supposed to be the movement’s coming out party, an emergence from the shadows of internet chat rooms into the national spotlight.” Kessler was inspired in part by fellow University of Virginia graduate and white supremacist Richard Spencer who, in May 2017, led a band of racists in Charlottesville chanting “Russia is our friend” and “Blood and soil,” a Nazi-inspired slogan. Why they were enamored of Russia is anyone’s guess; I presume it had something to do with President Trump. The reason for the Nazi chant was evident; they thought it allowed them to channel the spirit of General Robert E. Lee, who had abandoned the U.S. Army in a doomed quest to preserve race-based slavery in the South. Charlottesville’s leaders recently had voted to remove Lee’s statue from the downtown park that no longer carried his name. Spencer and his crew opposed that effort and everything they thought it implied, including hostility to the legacy of whiteness. The Loyal White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan were similarly motivated by the perceived threat to American whiteness. Its members — 50 strong — converged on Charlottesville that July to march around and shout “white power” as hundreds of counter protesters responded with “racists go home.” How did the mad ravings of a bunch of intellectually confused, racially paranoid misfits end up spurring a national debate over the limits of free speech, the meaning of the First Amendment, and the moral obligation of the president of the United States? One reason is that — despite Kessler’s efforts to cast himself as the Martin Luther King Jr. of white rights — the rally engendered fears of made-for-TV-scale violence. As news of the event spread, and some sense of its size became clear, several local businesses announced they would temporarily close out of concern for the safety of their customers and employees. The University of Virginia, located in Charlottesville, asked students to stay away. Many rally participants showed up armed with rifles and other deadly weapons (thanks to Virginia’s open carry laws). Indeed, even before the rally’s scheduled noon start time, Kessler’s congregation had ignited so much hostility and ugliness that local authorities labeled the gathering an “illegal assembly” and ordered participants to leave. In the end, the racist, anti-Semitic hate-fest caused three deaths. Two of the dead were state troopers. Berke Bates and H. Jay Cullen, assigned to monitor the gathering from the sky, died when their helicopter crashed. The third victim was Heather Heyer, a 32-year-old paralegal. James Alex Fields Jr., a 20-year-old Adolf Hitler fanatic from Ohio, killed Heyer by intentionally plowing his car into a crowd of counter protesters — injuring some 19 people in addition to Heyer, who died from blunt-force injury to her chest. Following the tragedy, Donald Trump famously condemned the “hatred, bigotry, and violence on many sides.” His words provoked a controversy that went on for months as Trump proved incapable of criticizing the racist mob without also condemning those who opposed it. Heyer’s mother, Susan Bro, was so sickened by the president’s words that she refused to take his condolence call. “I’m sorry. After what he said about my child,” Bro told CNN, and added, incredulously, “I saw an actual clip of him at a press conference equating the [counter] protesters … with the KKK and the white supremacists.” James Fields’ lawyers sought mitigation by stressing his history of mental illness. A psychologist testified that he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of 6 and later with schizoid personality disorder. His lawyers also delved into his childhood traumas, which included coping with the murder of his grandmother by his grandfather, who had subsequently killed himself. “James’s mental illness causes him to lose emotional and behavioral control in stressful situations,” said his attorneys, who claimed he had taken himself off his meds when he was 18, meaning he was medically untethered when he murdered Heyer. After pleading guilty, Fields received two life sentences — one in state court and the other in federal court. Even with Fields confined to prison, questions raised by Heyer’s murder — and the rally that caused it — reverberated. Trump’s troubling insistence on calling bullying bigots “very fine people” was perhaps inevitable given his need to placate a base that contains more than its share of people like David Duke, the former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard who promoted the rally as an effort to “take our country back” and who, after Heyer’s murder, thanked Trump via tweet for his “honesty & courage.” Duke also tweeted, “This is why WE LOVE TRUMP and WHY the FAKE NEWS MEDIA HATES TRUMP. He brings to light what the lying, Fake News Media Won’t. The truth is the media covers up horrific numbers of racist hate crimes against White people!” But putting the president and his behavior aside for the moment, what about the free speech community — the civil libertarians who successfully fought in court for Kessler’s right to hold his rally in downtown Charlottesville? The city had wanted to move Kessler’s parade of bigotry to another park, one farther from the heart of town that officials claimed would be easier to police. But Kessler had said no; and the American Civil Liberties Union, along with a local outfit called the Rutherford Institute, had sued the city on Kessler’s behalf. Following the event, the ACLU was heavily criticized — and also lauded — for standing up for the racist rabble-rousers. Glenn Greenwald, best known for reporting on U.S. surveillance programs brought to light by whistleblower Edward Snowden, forcefully defended the ACLU. Civil liberties advocates, he argued, “defend the rights of those with views we hate in order to strengthen our defense of the rights of those who are most marginalized and vulnerable in society.” Others were not so sure. The Guardian reported on an erosion in “the belief that the KKK and other white supremacist organizations are operating within the bounds of acceptable political discourse — rather than as, say, terrorist organizations — and therefore have a moral right to be heard.” Jessica Clarke, a law professor at Vanderbilt University Law School, pointed to studies showing that bigots routinely hid behind free speech arguments as a cover for racism. Highly prejudiced people, she noted, “were less likely to voice First Amendment objections when the threatened speech was race-neutral, suggesting their free speech concerns were more about the freedom to express racist prejudice than free speech in general.” Legal scholar Laura Weinrib noted that the ACLU had never blindly supported free speech but had done so in the fight for a better society; and she wondered whether “a dogged commitment to free speech” was still the best strategy for an organization pursuing social justice: “The balances have shifted dramatically since the 1930s. In recent years, nearly half of First Amendment victories have gone to corporations and trade groups challenging government regulation. Free speech has served to secure the political influence of wealthy donors. Labor’s strength has plummeted, and the Supreme Court is poised to recognize a First Amendment right of public sector employees to refuse to contribute to union expenses. Long-settled principles of American democracy are newly vulnerable, and hate has found fertile terrain.” Even Susan Herman, president of the ACLU, questioned whether old assumptions about free speech still applied: “We need to consider whether some of our timeworn maxims — the antidote to bad speech is more speech, the marketplace of ideas will result in the best arguments winning out — still ring true in an era when white supremacists have a friend in the White House.” Leslie Mehta, the young black attorney who was legal director of the ACLU of Virginia when it took the Kessler case, seemed confident, when I interviewed her in the aftermath of Heyer’s death, that she had made the right decision. “There were certainly lots of conversations between myself and the executive director. There were a lot of revisions back and forth with briefs and having discussions about potential implications, but nobody has a crystal ball and no one [knew] exactly what [would] ultimately happen. I do think that the First Amendment has to mean something. And at the time, it was my understanding … that there was no evidence that there would be violence.” Mehta, a native of Woodland, North Carolina, is intimately familiar with the South and with the United States’ legacy of brutal racial oppression. She went to historically black Howard University School of Law because of its reputation for creating lawyers devoted to “social activism and social justice.” But she also is adamantly committed to the idea of free speech. “I think one of the reasons why free speech is so important to me is because … it exposes what you disagree with. And for me, I think it’s important to hear things like our president saying … ‘Well, there are good people on both sides.’” Mehta also thought it was important to consult with her mother and her 92-year-old grandmother as she proceeded with the Kessler case. Her grandmother, she confided, “never said that she fully agreed or disagreed [with Mehta taking the case], but she did not think that I was wrong.” As anyone trying to understand the Charlottesville fiasco quickly discovers, the issue of speech — particularly in a society polluted by racism and largely defined by economic inequality — is endlessly complex. So let me begin this journey with a brief exploration of how the U.S. came to embrace such a broad notion of free speech, and let’s look at some decisions made in its name. ••• We tend to think our current conception of free speech has been around essentially since the beginning of the republic. In truth, our firm and collective embrace of the First Amendment is a relatively recent phenomenon. The Constitution was drafted at a time when the Founders had rejected foreign tyranny. They were wary of the potential power of a centralized state. So the Bill of Rights was a balancing act, weighing not only the rights of individuals versus government in general but also the rights of states versus the federal government. Indeed, at the time the Bill of Rights was ratified, the First Amendment did not apply to the states. As legal scholar David Yassky has pointed out, the Constitution’s guarantee of free speech was “quite weak — at least to contemporary eyes. A citizen in 1800 had no absolute right to free speech; if the speech-restricting law was a state law, the Constitution was silent.” Eventually that changed, and that had a lot to do with the Civil War, the end of slavery, the 14th Amendment, and assorted court decisions. But even after the Reconstruction era, free speech, as we understand it today, was nothing but an aspiration, which is one reason that Southern states could effectively outlaw agitation for abolition. Free speech is very much an invention of the 20th century. And that concept of speech is very idealistic, inextricably linked to the notion that in the competition of ideas, good ideas generally crowd out bad. That argument received its most famous articulation in a 1927 case: Whitney v. California. At its center was Charlotte Anita Whitney, a wealthy California blueblood convicted of joining the Communist Party. She argued that her prosecution violated the Constitution. The Supreme Court unanimously disagreed. But even in disagreeing with her position, Louis Brandeis (joined by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.) produced a brilliant and eloquent exegesis on the potential of free speech to enact social change: “Those who won our independence believed that the final end of the State was to make men free to develop their faculties, and that, in its government, the deliberative forces should prevail over the arbitrary. They valued liberty both as an end, and as a means. They believed liberty to be the secret of happiness, and courage to be the secret of liberty. They believed that freedom to think as you will and to speak as you think are means indispensable to the discovery and spread of political truth; that, without free speech and assembly, discussion would be futile; that, with them, discussion affords ordinarily adequate protection against the dissemination of noxious doctrine.” As Brandeis saw it, free speech was virtually a sacred right and an awesomely powerful force that would expose “falsehood and fallacies” and “avert … evil by the processes of education.” Hence, the remedy to bad speech was “more speech, not enforced silence.” That piece of writing has been deemed one of the most important commentaries ever crafted on the First Amendment. But Brandeis assumed something that has not been borne out by facts, which is that the better argument would generally win. He also assumed that relevant people on all sides of a question were equally capable of being heard and that skeptics were interested in listening. That fallacy continues to inform the thinking of those who see speech as inherently self-correcting. Much as many of us admire Louis Brandeis’s mind and spirit, the society he envisioned has never existed. Instead, we have created a society in which lying is both endemic and purposeful. We have brought the worst values of advertising into the political sphere and wedded that to long-established tactics of political propaganda, even as our political class has learned to use social media to spread disinformation that propagates at a breathtaking rate. The very idea that political speech would expose and therefore vanquish “falsehood and fallacies” now seems incredibly naïve. Free speech always had limits. But because of our new technological reality, because of the unexpected weaponization of speech, we are having to consider those limits in a new light. We live in a world where it is far from clear that the answer to bad speech is more speech; and where a foreign power, thanks to our freedom of expression, may well be responsible for the election of a U.S. president. We live in a time when a frightened white minority within the larger white majority fights to maintain control of our country; and when large corporations and cynical functionaries — eager to exploit fear — have a bigger megaphone (including their own television news networks) than anyone speaking for the powerless and dispossessed. We live in an era when the U.S. awarded its presidency to a man who lost the election by roughly 3 million votes, and who, with the cooperation of a submissive Senate, has appointed judges determined to thwart the will of the public; has proposed policies, supported largely by lies, designed to further divide an already polarized nation; and caters to an irrational mob whose most fanatical elements want to refight the Civil War. All of this raises a host of difficult questions: If the Brandeisian view of speech is fatally flawed, what is a better, or at least a more realistic, view? Is it possible to reverse these trends that are destroying our democracy? How do we balance an array of important societal values that compete with the value of free speech? How, in short, do we enable a relatively enlightened majority to rescue our country from an embittered, backward-looking minority? And what happens to speech — which has never been totally free — in the process?

Excerpt adapted from The Short Life and Curious Death of Free Speech in America by Ellis Cose. Published by Amistad. Copyright © 2020 HarperCollins.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8247012 https://www.aclu.org/news/civil-liberties/the-short-life-and-curious-death-of-free-speech-in-america via http://www.rssmix.com/

[coldlipsmag]

The Traveller in the Perfect City by Geoff Nicholson

WELCOME TO PERFECTION:

The perfect city is well within sight, well within reach, and well within your budget.

The perfect city is easily accessible by train, plane, charabanc, amphibious landing craft, armoured car, overloaded ferry, by pony or indeed Shanks’s pony.

Make sure your passport, visa, medical documents, right to reside papers, are all in order, submit to a short but thorough interview, a few background checks and security clearances, and we’ll welcome you with open arms.

The perfect city teems with life and possibility. It is a city that gives and gives back. The smell of history is in the air.

The perfect city is a city on the move. Development and redevelopment are the watchword. And demolition. Our bridges, skyscrapers, monorails, moving walkways, underpasses, tenements, mean streets, skid rows and gasoline alleys are second to none. And we intend to keep it that way. Our architecture is timeless. We have mid-century buildings from almost every century. Our abandoned industrial zones have been described as “chic.”

*

Here in the perfect city we are all conservationists now. Pollution is a thing we simply don’t worry about.

We are saving the planet one dirty towel and one power outage at a time. The city is green, the city is verdant. Spillages of toxic materials are rare, and our environmental remediation units are top notch. Our air quality is officially classified as “acceptable.” Our water is perfectly drinkable and many have described its taste as “pleasantly earthy.”

*

ARE THE NATIVES FRIENDLY?

Yes. As with any city, it’s the people who make it what it is. The perfect city is full of locals eager to point you in the right direction. Our taxi drivers are prepared to drive to almost any part of the city. Our tradesmen, tinkers, pedlars, costermongers, are as honest as any, likewise our financial analysts, our money changers, and our sex professionals. Of course there are a few aliens and predators out there, but they’re nothing if not colourful.

The perfect city prides itself on its diversity – all classes and types, races, tribes and sub-cultures rub along together. In any of the city’s many watering holes you’ll find former liberals, conservatives, champagne socialists, champagne Falangists, radicalized youth, one-time anarchists, Nazis and neo-Nazis, all getting along splendidly. Heterogeneity is the name of the game. Why spoil it for the sake of ideology?

*

IS THE PERFECT CITY PICTURESQUE?

You bet. And scenic. Photo opportunities abound. However please note that the photographing of civic buildings, monuments, military installations, schools, hospitals, housing developments, power stations, telephone exchanges, sports arenas, and prisons (whether state or private) is strictly forbidden.

Personal cell phone ownership is impractical in the perfect city and the taking of selfies is severely frowned upon. Nude photography of any kind whatsoever is forbidden within the boundaries of the perfect city.

*

FOOD?

Yes we usually do have food in the perfect city. The periods of food shortages are well behind us, and were in any case, much exaggerated.

Bistros. Tavernas. Smorgasbords. Cantinas. Soup kitchens. Gruel houses. These are just some of the establishments that have opened and closed in recent years.

Are there affordable, high-quality restaurants using organic, farm-fresh ingredients? Well, we’re working on it. Our cooks and waiting staff put in long hours for low wages, and are rarely as resentful as they seem. Tipping is permitted but seldom deemed appropriate.

*

IS THERE CULTURE IN THE PERFECT CITY?

How could there not be? Performances featuring folk music, sword dancing, and trained animals are our forte. Tickets are easily obtained – terms and conditions (and certain restraints and legal waivers) do apply.

There are museums too – of abnormal psychology, taxidermy, ventriloquism, eugenics, and of course childhood deformity. The Museum of Tolerance is shuttered until further notice.

*

WILL I HAVE A SPIRITUAL EXPERIENCE IN THE PERFECT CITY?

No you will not. Religious worship was outlawed over fifty years ago. There are still the remains of churches, cathedrals, temples, mosques, sepulchers, holy sites, shrines, sweat lodges, open air altars, sites of propitiary offerings and sacrifice dotted throughout the city, but they are for entertainment purposes only.

*

IN CONCLUSION?

The perfect city is a peaceful city. The air raid and fallout shelters are there if you need them, but chances are you won’t. War is a thing of the past. There isn’t even a war on drugs. Ask your concierge for details.

Of course this is a metropolis, not toy town. There are pickpockets, muggers, footpads, white slavers, multicultural slavers: most are not unduly vicious, unless the victim attempts to fight back.

The perfect city is above all a safe city. Our police, security forces, national guards, and well-regulated private militias have the public good at heart. As do we all. Our surveillance systems are state of the art.

Protests, marches, riots, political gatherings of all kinds, are very rare but have been known to escalate into deadly violence. The traveler is advised to avoid such activities and to obey all instructions given by officials whether uniformed or not. Do not be lured into conversations about regime change, and under no circumstances resist arrest. Our legal system is scrupulous and thorough, if slow-moving. Allegations of torture remain unsubstantiated.

*

So what are you waiting for? Aren’t you ready for the perfect city? It’s certainly ready for you? Come as you are, stay as long as you like, but chances are you won’t be quite the same person when you leave, and maybe you never will.

*

Geoff Nicholson 2017

[floral-and-fine]

The Wild Cat pt. 1

Female reader series in the Marvel universe (X-Men and Avengers) 

 A/N: Trying something new. This fic isn’t romantic…yet… We’ll see where this takes me. 

(*At the bottom I added my drawing of what I think the reader’s claws look like,  they’re more cat like compared to Wolverine’s, at least that is what I was going for.)

Summary: The reader wakes up in a cell and recalls the event that led up to her capture. There is a link for the prologue below! :)

Warning: Triggers, PTSD, Violence and Cursing.

Read prologue here

“Do you know where you are?” the voice asked. 

You didn’t bother to answer the question. Whoever was behind the microphone had been asking the same damn questions for the past hour. You didn’t have any of their answers anyways. And if you did why the hell would you cooperate? From what you could tell they were the bad guy here or you were. Either way you weren’t on the same side. 

“Let’s try this, do you know what you did?” 

You didn’t, and whatever it was it couldn’t have been good. In fact, you couldn’t remember the last few days leading up to being locked away. They had you strapped down to a chair in the center of the room facing a two way mirror. Your hands and legs were cuffed with no room to budge.  

With all these precautions, it meant they knew more or less with who they were dealing with, and they weren’t going to take any chances. Therefore, they had your military file or had first hand experience dealing with your skill set.  

“Listen,” the voice said sounding irritated, “you’re not helping anybody sitting there silently.” 

They seem desperate for answers. What the hell did you do? 

A new voice started to speak, it was deeper and calmer then the last. “Ma'am, who are Victor and James?” 

Your eyes snapped to the mirror across from you and narrowed in suspicion. What were they playing at now? 

 Again the voice repeated the same question, “Who are Victor and James?” 

“None of your fucking business,” you spat. 

If they didn’t know Victor and James, it meant they weren’t affiliated with the military or any of your known enemies. 

“Whoever they are, you seemed quite concerned about them… They were all you talked about when we caught you,” the new voice taunted. 

You snarled at the hidden man across from you, protected only by glass. He probably wouldn’t be so fucking calm if he were in the same room as you.

You took a deep breath… 

 Slowly, it all started coming back to you.  

. 

. 

. 

 It was about 4 o'clock in morning, when you pulled into a small town gas station to fill up your tank, grab a quick snack, and a cup of coffee. After purchasing your food and gas, you leaned against your truck while the nozzle did its job. You considered, taking a nap in the cab, but you only had a couple of hours to go. 

 You got back in your pick up, and took off towards the exit to get back on the highway. You couldn’t remember in great detail who was at fault for the accident, but you remembered being T-boned by a semi truck.  

It slammed right into the driver’s side of your pickup. You were tumbling around in the cab as your truck flipped. You were hanging upside down by your seat belt when it finally stopped rolling. The windows were all smashed in, several of your bones were broken, and your face was cut up.   

Disoriented, trapped, and in pain, you extended your claws. Something in you snapped. You felt completely primal and animalistic. You watched black boots approach. 

“Hey! Are you ok!? Are you alive!?” 

The man crouched down and peeked in, “Oh thank God, I thought for sure that you’d be dead.” 

The man, his face, and his clothes all morphed into someone else… A soldier- Vietnamese, and his words weren’t making any sense to you.

An instinctual rage took over as you lost your mind. The arid country side became the humid jungle, and survival was the only thing on your mind. Mentally, you were back in Vietnam, the last war you were in before it all went tits up. 

With a roar, you cut through your seat belt and launched at the door successfully breaking it off its hinges. 

The man fell backwards startled by your actions.  He reached for something in his coat pocket. But before he could withdraw it, you lunged at him digging your claws into his chest. 

You heard sirens approach, and several police cars pulled up. They got out of their vehicles cautiously, but it didn’t take them long to see that more than just a collision happened.  

You were leaning over the man with some type of knives plunged into his chest. They shined brightly, as the rising sun reflected against them. Slowly, they surrounded you but kept their distance. 

Someone spoke into a loud speaker, “Ma'am! please back away slowly, put your weapons down, and your hands above your head.” 

It was as if reality was going in and out of focus. One moment you saw police officers, the next they were a squad of Viet Congs. 

Then you heard the sound of a gun cock. 

And that was enough to set you off again. 

The poor soul didn’t stand a chance. You were on top of him, ripping him to shreds before moving onto the next one. Shots rang out from all sides, and few of them hit. A couple straight through your arm, a few to the chest, and one through your back. This only fueled your rampage and delusion more. You tore through the rest of them quickly. 

Then a thought crept into your head, adding to your paranoia. Where are your brothers? The three of you were a team. You fought all your battles together. “James?” you whispered, “Victor?” 

You took in a deep breath smelling your surroundings, trying hard to pick up their scent, but nothing. 

One of the cops managed to radio for back up.  “This is Officer Pike, we need immediate back up. This is an emergency… We have several officers in need of emergency medical treatme-” 

It didn’t take you long to find him. You stabbed him in the gut and took hold of the receiver. 

“Where are my brothers? Where are James and Victor!?” 

Somehow you became convinced, that Jimmy and Victor had become prisoners of the war and needed your help.  Because there’s just no way they would have left you… That wasn’t a possibility. They were the only people you had in this world. 

Soon more vehicles arrived, additional cop cars, ambulances, and a black SUV.  Of course, this wasn’t the sight you saw. In your head you were surrounded by the enemy.  You ran straight towards the group, claws fully extended before they could get their bearings.  

You stabbed one who just stepped out of his vehicle, then leaped over the roof of the car to get his partner. Quickly, you impaled the next man in his side, and sliced open another’s stomach.

A man to your left of you emptied his magazine, most of the bullets hit their mark, going straight through your chest. But you didn’t go down. As a last resort he took out his baton. He swung it at you, but before the hit landed, you ripped opened his neck. 

Then you heard a chopper overhead.You bolted as fast as you could trying to lose it.  

“Jimmy! Victor!” you cried. 

 You were out of breath and didn’t have a whole lot of options. Where were your brothers? The three of could take a whole army. Why couldn’t you find them? They wouldn’t have abandoned you. Your brothers would never leave you. 

 “VICTOR!” you screamed, breaking down and falling to your knees. “JIMMY!”

You didn’t notice the man from the black SUV sneak up on you from behind. Suddenly, it all went black. A bullet went straight through your head and it was enough to knock you out for a short period of time.

. 

. 

. 

A single tear slid down your face, as you stared at your reflection in the two way mirror. In that delusional state, you didn’t remember that you and your brothers went your separate ways. And while you knew the truth that you instead of enemy soldiers you attacked civilians. The panic and fear of not knowing where Victor and James were was very real.

Your current circumstance made a lot more sense now, and you knew you were fucked.

*My idea of what her claws look like :) but feel free to imagine them differently if you’d like :D

[fluffshack]

This is my new AU. Alternative Heros AU (AH AU for short). It’s like switching the species of everyone around, and it also has a different story.

Here’s all the information about them. Sorry that it’s so long. I’ll also will make the Villainous version.

Slug: Slug is an eldritch demon. Why he looks more animal than human is because he’s a youngester. He has yet to figure out how to shapeshift and act more human. He’s only around 50 years old, which is maybe around 20 in demon years. He lives in a part of the underworld called The Abyss. It’s a mix of a dessert and volcano area but color black and purple. In the abyss, it’s kill or be killed. Sin has no limits. Being the runt of his pack, Slug was not only abused and tortured by his pack, he was used as a “stress reliever” and a toy for higher ranks. Soon the pack disowns him and he stumbles across a portal and enters it.

When he arrives at the other side he is so amazed by the much more forest and city landscape. He terrorizes people, steals their food, and ruin their property. White hears about the so called creature and decides to capture it. Slug walks into a trap and is captured by White. White oddly enough knows how to speak in Eldritch and takes Slug as a pet. 

White is released as the priest in his church because he is keeping alive a demon. The two move out of town after that. White finds a job taking care of orphans and Slug even comes to play and comfort the kids.

Slug mostly acts like a curious and grumpy cat. He can understand a bit of English, but his vocabulary is of a toddler. His native language is Eldritch and he’s learning to be more human thanks to his friends. Slug will get grumpy a lot, but he doesn’t go too far as to hurt anyone.He loves to cuddle though he won’t admit it. Slug is also very stubborn and will not back down from any challenge. He will protect his friends to the very end. 

Slug’s relationship with White is hidden. It’s hard to tell if he cares about White or doesn’t. Deep down he loves White, but he’s too scared to tell him. For now he just gives the occasional cuddle time as White reads the bible to him.

Slug’s relationship with Ria is adorable. He always makes sure she’s calm and collective. If Ria has a mental breakdown, he will calm her by purring and rubbing his face against hers. The two are like brother and sister.

Slug’s relationship with Six is like brothers. Six will be rough with Slug. Wrestling noogies, playing sports, ect. The two have a bro bond and Slug enjoys that he can take his energy out on Six.

White: White’s full name is White Hat. He is 26 years old. White was a perfect child. He got straight A’s, did what he was told, and was a good person. White was in a fire when he was a kid, which he claimed was caused by a demon. A plank of burning wood fell on Whites face and his right eye was burned. White decided to learn about the occult if he ever saw a demon ever again. He soon became the priest of his church and was a great role model for his church. White adopted slug into proving his town that a demon can be reformed. The town he lived in was full of more traditional people and he learned that some people will never change no matter if you shove the facts into their faces. He found work in an orphanage and he is loved by the kids and the people who come to adopt the kids.

White Hat adores everyone and believes that he can change people or at least leave an impact. He will get in depressive states if he fails to help people, blaming himself and bashing his mood. He never cares about himself, and he’s insecure about himself, even though he is a smart and kind man.

His relationship with Slug is mixed. He loves slug more in a romantic way, but makes it seem like he’s friend. He wants to be with Slug, but he also wants to keep focus on everyone else. He is too stubborn to give himself any sort of romantic relationship. He does care about Slug and spends most of his time with him and even takes care of Slug more than himself.

His relationship with Ria is great. He knows Tia because of Six. He took Ria out of her terrible state and changed her to a better person. He taught her how to be a better person and Ria wouldn’t be around if White didn’t help. White and her love to work with the kids at the orphanage they work at.

His relationship with Six is interesting. Six is White’s cousin. White has always been close with his cousin until they became teens. When Six got our of jail, White took Six in and formed a better relationship with him and even learned sign language for him. The two don’t talk a lot, but when they do have a nice chat, it’s nice.

Ria: Ria was born in a very strict household. She was diagnosed with Hysteria Personality Disorder after years of abuse and even the death of her father. Kids teased her and called her Hysteria even till High School. She became selfish and egocentric. She dressed like a mean girl and did things she wasn’t proud of. She was also obsessed with being the center of attention. She fell in love with Six in her junior year and she was abused by Six. The two did a lot of drugs and couldn’t stop. After a knife fight, Six was sent to jail, and Ria was left alone. No longer was she a headstrong and selfish person, she became scared, depressed, and soon was diagnosed with Delusional Disorder. She couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake. Events of the past replayed over and over again. Soon White took her in and helped her get back on track with her life. She was timid and sweet after she took therapy and medication. She still is obsessive of attention, but not to an extreme level. She became someone new and when Six came back to her life, the two became a stable relationship.

Her relationship with Slug is adorable. She relies on Slug to help her calm down. She loves to brush Slug’s hair, pet him, watch movies, and play video games with him. She is thankful that she has an overgrown cat to protect her.

Her relationship with White is strong. Every day she is glad that White changed her. She never hesitates to help White and she looks up to White. She and him bake and sew clothes a lot. The two are best friends.

Her relationship with Six is beautiful. The two are not proud of their past relationship but have changed to make things better. She loves Six with all her heart even after the abuse. She cares because she know Six is not a terrible person. She and Six love to take walks in the park, cuddle, and the two teach kids about substance abuse and sign language. Ria wants to marry Six, but she knows Six isn’t ready. She will wait until then.

Six:

Six is White’s cousin. He wasn’t big on religion, so he took the other route. His life was nothing but bad luck and he didn’t believe in any sort of heavenly beings because of it. He did whatever he wanted and became a delinquent. He lived his life to the edge. When he started dating Ria, he started drinking, and that lead to abuse. Ria one day was being molested by Six’s friend and the two had a knife fight. Six’s friend slit his throat. He survived but lost his inability to speak. He was sent to a jail for a year, then to a rehabilitation for violent offenders. His prisoner number was 6.0.6 and people normally called him that in jail. He learned sign language and White helped him in a better life. He also made up with Ria and the two are a stable couple.

Six is very gentle with his friends, but with strangers, he will act aggressively. He is like a bear and he relates to them. Tough but gentle. 

His relationship with Slug is great. He can relate to Slug on some odd level. He wasn’t even bothered that Slug was a demon. He teaches Slug how to sign and he rough houses with him. The two are bros.

His relationship with White is inseparable. Even with the rough past, Six care about his cousin and what he’s done for him. Six does the heavy lifting for the orphanage and teaches the more aggressive kids with White. He wants to be a good role model, and he has White to thank for that.

He loves Ria. He cares about her more than anything. He hated how he hurt her and has sworn to never harm her again. Six wants to marry Ria, but doesn’t know if he’s truly want to do that right now. For now the two are fine where they are.

[emilyl-b]

10 Sites to Help You Become an Expert in best beginner keyboard piano

Correction Appended

On an album of bittersweet childrens music that she wrote greater than a decade ago, the girl who came to get known only given that the piano Trainer available what, in hindsight, seems like an eerie glimpse of her personal future.

Im shifting away currently to an area so far-off, wherever no one is familiar with my name, she wrote in the lyrics of a track named Moving.

When she wrote that tune, she was youthful and vivacious, a piano teacher and freelance new music writer who loved Beethoven and jazz, sunsets and river Appears, extended walks and everything about New York.

On one of those beloved walks, by way of Central Park in the brilliant Solar of the June day in 1996, a homeless drifter defeat her and made an effort to rape her, leaving her clinging to existence. Following the assault, the text to her track arrived genuine. She moved absent, out of New York City, out of her old everyday living, and all but her closest buddies didn't know her title. To the remainder of the world, she was — similar to the more famed jogger attacked in Central Park seven many years before — an anonymous image of an urban nightmare. She was the piano Trainer.

Now, to the 10th anniversary of your assault, she is celebrating what seems to be her full recovery from Mind trauma. She is 42, married, with a small youngster. She is Kyle Kevorkian McCann, the piano Instructor, and he or she hopes to tell her Tale, her way.

Her health care provider informed her it could just take ten years to Recuperate, and Sunday was that talismanic anniversary. I feel my existence continues to be redefined by Central Park, she explained many times in the past, her voice delicate and hopeful. Right before park; following park. Will there ever be a time Once i dont Consider, Oh, this is the tenth anniversary, the 11th anniversary?

She spoke in her modest ranch home in a very wooded subdivision within a New York suburb. She sat in the dining area strewn with toys, surrounded by images of her cherubic, dark-haired two-12 months-previous daughter. A Steinway grand crammed 50 % the area, and at a single point she sat down and played. Her actively playing was forceful, but she appeared humiliated to Participate in quite a lot of bars, and shrugged, in lieu of answering, when questioned the title of your piece. She requested that her daughter and her town not be named.

She calls that day, June four, 1996, the day when I was damage.

Hers was the 1st in a string of attacks by precisely the same guy on 4 women above 8 days. The final victim, Evelyn Alvarez, 65, was crushed to Demise as she opened her Park Avenue dry-cleansing shop, and eventually, the assailant, John J. Royster, was convicted of murder and sentenced to lifetime in prison.

However the attack to the piano teacher is the one people today appear to recall essentially the most. Element of the fascination has to do with echoes on the 1989 attack to the Central Park jogger. But In addition, it frightened persons in a method the attack on the jogger didn't due to the fact its situation ended up so mundane.

It didn't take place within a remote Component of the park late in the evening, but near a well known playground at three during the afternoon. It might have took place to anybody. The tension was heightened through the mystery with the piano instructors identification.

For 3 days, as law enforcement and Medical professionals attempted to see who she was, she lay inside a coma in her healthcare facility bed, nameless. Her dad and mom have been on getaway and her boyfriend, also a musician, was in Europe, on tour. Last but not least, one of her pupils identified a law enforcement sketch and was in the position to discover her within the hospital by her fingers, due to the fact her confront was swollen outside of recognition. The police did not release her title.

The last thing she remembers about June 4, 1996, is providing a lesson in her studio apartment on West 57th Street, then putting her prolonged hair inside of a ponytail and likely out to get a stroll. She will not try to remember the assault, Even though she has read the accounts in the law enforcement and prosecutors.

To me its like a reality I uncovered and memorized, she claimed. Like I were being a student in school learning historical past.

She will not give thought to The person who did it. I may have been angry to get a instant, although not much longer than that, she mentioned. How could I be angry at John Royster? He was declared not insane, but I suppose by our expectations he was.

Dr. Jamshid Ghajar, her health care provider at Ny Clinic-Cornell Medical Center, as it had been identified in 1996, advised reporters that she had a ten percent prospect of survival. Doctors experienced to eliminate her forehead bone, which was later on changed, to create home for her swelling Mind. When her mom designed a public attract pray for my daughter, thousands did.

Immediately after 8 times, she arrived out of a coma, initially in a very vegetative condition, then inside of a childlike point out. As she recovered, she slept little and talked consistently, in some cases in gibberish. I had been having mad at individuals every time they didnt reply to these phrases, she mentioned.

Like an Alzheimers individual, she had small short-expression memory and would overlook visitors when they still left the room.

Over several months, she needed to relearn ways to stroll, gown, examine and publish. Her boyfriend, Tony Scherr, visited on a daily basis to Engage in guitar for her. He encouraged her to play the piano, versus the recommendation of her physical therapists, who assumed she could be frustrated by her incapacity to Engage in the way she once had. Mr. Scherr performed Beatles duets together with her, actively playing the still left-hand component even though she performed the right.

That was my most effective therapy, she explained.

In August, she moved again dwelling to New Jersey, with her father, an engineer, and mother, a schoolteacher. She visited previous haunts and referred to as close friends, striving to restore her shattered memory. I was very obsessed with remembering, she explained. Any memory reduction was to me an indication of abnormality or deficit.

Her therapists assumed her development was wonderful, but her two sisters protested that she wasn't the deep thinker she had been.

What bothered her most was that she had lost the ability to cry, just as if a faucet inside of her brain had been turned off. One particular night, nine months after she was hurt, she stayed up late to look at the John Grisham Film A Time to Get rid of. Just just after her father experienced absent to bed, she viewed a courtroom scene of Samuel Jacksons character on trial for killing two Males who had raped his younger daughter.

The faucet opened, as well as the tears trickled down her cheeks. I thought of my moms and dads, my father, and what they went by, she explained. Tiny by tiny, my experience returned, my depth of intellect returned.

Urged by her sisters, she went again to highschool and acquired a masters degree in new music instruction.

Not all the things went nicely. She and Mr. Scherr break up up five years after the assault, nevertheless they remain close friends. She dated other Adult males, but she generally informed them concerning the attack instantly — she couldn't enable it, she mentioned — and so they in no way identified as for the 2nd day.

We have now to search out you anyone, her Mate David Phelps, a guitar player, said four many years in the past, prior to introducing her to Liam McCann, a pc technician and amateur drummer. For when, she did not say anything at all in regards to the attack till she acquired to be aware of Mr. McCann, after which you can when she did, he admired her strength.

Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani, who had often visited her at her bedside though she was in the hospital, married them in his Situations Sq. Workplace. She wore a blue gown and pearls. When she was pregnant, in the burst of creativeness, she and her mates recorded While Had been Younger, an album of childrens tracks that she experienced published before the assault, including the tune Relocating. Her ex-boyfriend, Mr. Scherr, produced the CD. On it, her partner plays drums and he or she plays electric powered piano.

Is her lifetime as it had been? Not just, nevertheless she's reluctant to attribute the dissimilarities to her injuries. Her final two piano learners left her, with out calling to explain why, she explained. She has resumed playing classical tunes, but very simple pieces, for the reason that her daughter does not give her time for you to apply. As for jazz, I dont even try, she stated.

She wish to push far more, feeling stranded in the suburbs, but she is easily rattled. She attempts to be material with staying residence and caring for her daughter.

Dr. Ghajar, a clinical professor of neurological operation at what is now referred to as Big apple-Presbyterian Medical center/Weill Cornell Health care Center, who operated on Ms. Kevorkian McCann once the attack, claimed past week that her volume of recovery was uncommon. Shes essentially typical, he said.

Other authorities, who're not personally accustomed to Ms. Kevorkian McCanns scenario, tend to be more careful.

Regaining the chance to Participate in the piano could require an Nearly mechanical course of action, a semiautomatic recall of just what the fingers ought to do, stated Dr. Yehuda Ben-Yishay, a professor of medical rehabilitation medication at New York University University of Medicine. When brain-hurt, you will be usually Mind-injured, For the remainder of your daily life, Dr. Ben-Yishay stated. There isn't any treatment, there is only intense compensation.

The more telling Section of a recovery, in his see, is psychological, and on that rating he counts Ms. Kevorkian McCanns relationship and kid as a big victory.

For her section, the piano Instructor is aware of she has altered, but she has designed her peace with it. I used to be form of a hyper —— I dont know if I used to be a sort A, but I had been ambitious, she suggests. Why was I so formidable? I was a piano teacher. I dont really know what the ambition was about. I actually did return to the individual Im alleged to be.