#miss johanna COME HOME PLS

[nya-vivi]

I have to catch up with fgo valentine's event before it finishes too....

[wonderlandwalker]

Remember | Finnick Odair x Reader

THG Masterlist / Taglist / Inbox

Summary: The capitol has taken you from him, but he won't let them keep you. You can find pt. 2 here!

Content Warnings/Tags: Violence, bullet wounds, major character injury, blood, needles, angst, fluff, no use of y/n

Word Count: 4.0k

Requested by Anon: omg I love your writing and I have an unhealthy addiction to reading angst so could you please write something about the reader being with peeta and Johanna when they where taken by the capital and her being with finnick and recovering while she’s in district 13? 🫶🫶

A/N: The way I smiled when I saw this request I swear. This one has been in the works for a little while and I thought it fit perfectly. It is angst you ask for and it is angst you shall get. I'm considering writing a part two but I'm not sure how to yet. My bad habit of not proofreading happened again and with this one especially it was way too long so if I made any major errors pls do let me know.

The Capitol.

You are currently in the Capitol.

At least that’s where you think you are. You remember being in the arena, you remember running towards the general direction you last saw Finnick, remembering the marks you had gone by in case you had to take a different route. You remember seeing Finnick's face through the plantation, you’d be able to recall those features anywhere. You remember something hitting you from behind and falling to the ground, too caught up in catching up with him to check your surroundings. You remember crying out in pain, hoping he’d hear you. But the next thing you remember is the vision of him slowly going out of focus and losing consciousness not long after. 

At least that's what you think happened.

At least you can still remember, that’s worth something right? You remember your past, and you remember the reaping that led to the arena. The flood of relief that went over you as you finally found your way back to him. You don’t know what happened to Finnick, he was there too after all, but you had needed to split up early. Maybe he had been caught off guard too. Maybe he escaped. Maybe they never even found him. Maybe with him being the idiot he could be, he was probably already on his way here, looking for you. Just like you would have done for him, and he would have called you an idiot then too.

You would get out of here one way or another, that much you knew, but you needed to remember more, you needed to remember the last look on his face, you hadn't had much time to take it in, but you remembered the furrow of his eyebrows, the same expression he always had when he was trying to concentrate, you needed to remember that.

You knew that once you did get out of here, Finnick would be furious, telling you that you had been reckless, that you shouldn't have let your guard down, shortly after telling you how worried he had been. And it would feel like coming home.

Your mind becomes hazier, and it is harder to remember. You feel your head throbbing, and you move your hand towards it until you feel it can move no further. You open your eyes slowly, trying to adjust to the bright light that covers the room. You can't see much, can't move your head much.

You remember the rendezvous point you had talked about. You remember the quick “don't get yourself in trouble” and the kiss he gave you right before you parted ways.

You remember the layers of plants and trees you moved through, seeing some of them cut down, letting you know someone else had been there

But you know there is more, more that you missed. The stomped-out ashes that you ran past, you know you should have paid closer attention. But you can’t remember

You need to remember what happened. How you got here. Who got you here. If you really are in the capitol. But your mind doesn't want to cooperate anymore. The room is getting darker and darker, even though the lamp above your head is still dutifully buzzing

You wake up, you still remember where you are, or at least where you think you are. You still remember yesterday, was it yesterday? Why couldn't they just hang a clock in here? 

You look up, and you see a device set up, not too far from where you're lying down. You try to get a better look but the light above your head is too blinding to see anything else in the room. You don’t fully understand it until a man walks into the room with a video camera in his hand and an expression on his face that seems just a tad too happy. 

The camera starts blinking a red light, signalling you that it has started recording. The man has a sort of laser that he presses into your lower stomach, it doesn't breach your skin but it hurts like it does. It takes all your energy not to show him the satisfaction of it.

“Come on now darling, work with me a little.” He says after a while, changing the setting on the laser. The last bit of your energy is gone, and you can't keep the screaming from escaping any longer. It echoes off the white walls around you and when you hear yourself, you barely even recognize it. He seems satisfied with the result and finally puts the laser down. You look down but don't see any burn marks or indication of what has just happened.

He comes closer and you can see he is holding a sort of crowbar, but you're not sure why. You remember how you always left one outside your window in the districts, in case the wind had shut it and you needed to sneak back in. You remember Finnick finding out, giving you a serious, disappointed look, but not telling you to stop.

Before you can think of anything else, the bar hits you with full force, right above the spot he was previously focused on. You didn't expect it, and it knocks the little breath you had left out of your lungs. He hits again, not in the same spot, but close, he is very clearly aiming for your ribs. The switching between high-tech and old-school weapons has you puzzled, but you can't deny the result either of them has.

After a while, he stops, and with the added difficulty and pain that now comes with breathing, you are more than certain he just bruised a few of your ribs.

He walks back, taking the camera in his hands. He aims it at your face and you close your eyes to try and collect yourself as much as your current state allows. Your hair is a tangled mess and you are rather certain there is blood smushed over your face from the cuts you got in the arena. 

“Smile for the camera sweetheart.” He asks, even though it sounds more like an order than a request. You open your eyes to look at him. He is so close, and you want to drive your thumbs so far into his eye sockets you can feel the front lobe of his brain, if he even has one. But you can't do anything, no matter how much you want to fight, you are powerless here. You close your eyes again, trying to block everything out and remember.

You remember District Four, the way the light summer breeze would always carry the smell of the beach to your house, no matter how hard you had it, it always livened you up. You remember the first time Finnick tried to teach you how to surf, being so gentle with you no matter how many times you fell off it, always there to catch you again. You remember your last birthday, well, the day after, but you couldn't even complain about that. He had picked you up from your place and brought you to one of the lakes with him. He told you the story of one of his birthdays when he was younger, along with all the embarrassing details, but of course, it only endeared him further to you. You told him about the presents you got and all the people who came to wish you a happy birthday. You told him everything you could remember. You remember last seeing his face, maybe it was the last time you will have ever seen it. No. No, you remember it, but you’ll see it again, you have to.

“I’ll make sure your loverboy gets to see this, wherever he is, wouldn't want him to miss out on the fun.” 

Finn. Finnick. You remember Finnick. You remember when you returned from your first games. The black eye and broken arm you came home with. You remember how he lost it when they didn't immediately treat you for it. He would now either throw a fit over it for everyone to see or be so stoic in his thoughts even Johanna would get a little concerned.

You see the man standing up, walking to the table, and picking up something new. A syringe, it's a syringe. He walks over and pushes it into your upper arm, and before you know it, your vision turns black again.

You remember waking up to gunshots, and you panic. But after a few seconds, you figure out they’re not near you. There is, however, someone in the room with you, it's the same man again. He looks a little panicked, but you can’t figure out why just yet. The gunshots are becoming louder, and closer, and he seems more startled now. His arms drop to his sides from what he was doing and his eyes widen. Screams are echoing and you can hear footsteps.

You remember that pattern of paddling feet, and you recognize the second pair of steps too, but you can't remember much else.

The man gets closer to you, placing his hand over your mouth, pulling out a gun with his free hand and telling you to stay quiet. You never understood why people say that, it means he has something to lose, and you want to scream out, but your voice doesn't remember how to.

It's even closer now, right outside the door, and you can hear talking. You remember his voice. How he always asked you so sweetly how your day had been, the way he whispered sweet nothings in your ear as you fell asleep. 

You hear the door jiggle, and it makes you want to scream out for him, but your sore throat won't let you. For a moment you think that is it, you had your chance, and you let it go by. He’ll move along the hallway to the other doors and leave you here. But then you hear another gunshot, and they must have shot the lock, because right after you hear someone running into the door with an echoing thump as it breaks open. 

The man next to you had his gun pointed at the door, and he changes it to point at you instead. 

You were right, by the gods you had never been so thankful to have been right. Finnick walks in, and you can see the colour drain from his face as he does so. 

The man standing next to you is starting to get nervous, you can see the sweat starting to drip down his face. He must realize he has been matched, because there are more people by Finnicks side. But the man still has his gun pointed at you, and this isn't over just yet.

You can't keep your eyes open anymore, and when you close them, you remember. You remember your first kiss with Finnick, how nervous he had been at the time. He had been shaking a little and told you he was embarrassed by how much you got to him, but it only endeared him further to you.  He yells at the man to let go of the gun, he sounds nervous again.

But he doesn't let go, he decides to shoot. 

You hear the bullet leaving the gun, and for a single moment, you think it's over. The last thing you’ll ever see is Finnick, but he’s not himself. He’s upset, and even though you know he’s not upset with you, it still tugs at you. Except when you feel the bullet piercing through your skin, that's exactly what you realise. You can still feel it. He didn't shoot you right in the heart, he didn't shoot towards your head, he shot you in the abdomen. You’re not sure why, not sure why he didn't kill you, but you will never know, because not even a second passes as you hear a second gunshot, and he falls to the floor.

You can't seem to remember how to open your eyes, but you can hear Finnick rushing over and right as he reaches you, you fall. You fall into his arms and the memory of it gives you hope. Something comes in contact with your stomach, and the agony of it makes you want to scream out. You can feel him lifting you, and the shift of your body makes the bullet move, making you want to scream again. And if you remembered how to, you would have.

You know he’s talking to someone, but it sounds more like buzzing to you. You can only make out certain parts of the conversation, something about needing to leave, something about infections, and something about an aircraft. 

You can hear him talking again, and this time it’s directed at you. There’s a strain in his voice, and it sounds like he’s crying. It makes you want to comfort him, but you don’t remember how to.

“Please darling, just open your eyes."

But you’re afraid, youre afraid that if you open them, everything will turn out to be nothing but a dream, and he won’t be here anymore. But even if this is a dream, you need to see him. Even if it will turn into a haunted memory, you need to see his eyes looking back at you. It takes you some effort, but you open your eyes, looking at him. You can see tears flooding his face, you can see his lips moving, silent pleas coming from them for you to stay awake. He’s telling you how good of a job you’re doing, he's telling you to hold on. He promises that he won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again and that he won’t let go of you anymore.

You remember how he cried when you were reaped for the 75th games, and how you had told him everything would be okay, how you had comforted him, but you don't have the energy to comfort him this time. You remember hearing his sobbing, his shaking voice when you close your eyes again, not being able to keep them open any longer, even if you wanted to.

You wake up again, and for a moment you think it had indeed all been a dream, that you were right back where you had started, But then you remember the bullet in your stomach. You look down and see a bandage over it, even though it’s already soaked in blood. They must have taken it out. 

You try and concentrate, and you can hear Finnick talking to someone. “Just tell me, I know it’s bad but I need to know.” “Finnick, it won’t make a difference.” The person he’s talking to sounds desperate, and you remember how stubborn he could be when it came to you. 

But you don’t remember more, because your head starts to feel light again and you give in to the feeling.

When you wake up again, you manage to open your eyes, and you can see someone sitting in a chair next to the bed you're in. He’s slumped over, his face half pressed into the mattress and half into your stomach, both of his hands are holding onto one of yours. It hurts a little, but you don't mind, because it reminds you, even when you look away, that he is still there. You remember the way he always softly snores, and the way he wiggles his nose when your hair falls over it.

You think you're connected to a monitor, because something is beeping in the same rhythm you can feel your heart beating, and it gives you a headache. So you close your eyes again, and once again, you give in to the feeling of sleep that looms over you.

Since you had been brought to District 13, he has barely left your side. He keeps putting cold washcloths on your forehead to try and break your fever. It won't help, and he knows it, but no one has the heart to stop him. 

You haven't shown a single sign of life since they had found you. It was unsettling, the silence that filled the room, none of your usual laughter and banter there to replace it. 

It’s only when Finnick's head shoots up that the others notice it as well. The steady beeping that has been imposing the silence in this room for weeks picking up its pace. The beating continues to go faster and faster, your body shaking up from the bed in almost the same rhythm. But right before anyone can do anything about it, it stops. It all seems to stop, you stop moving, and the monitor stops beating.

He starts giving you chest compressions, and someone rushes into the room holding a small bottle, they fill a syringe with the clear liquid and inject it into your arm. Within a few seconds, your heart starts beating again. But it’s only after a minute of the monitor showing him a steady heartrate that he stops his actions.

It’s dark in the room when Finnick wakes up, and if it wasn't for the soft light and the beeping of the monitor, he would've thought he was dreaming, but it seems the reality won’t let him escape. He struggles not to fall back asleep, and every few minutes he does, but every time he wakes up startled again, scared that you’ll be gone if he doesn't open his eyes every once in a while. It was easy to see the toll it had taken on him. His posture was slouched, his face less well-groomed than usual. But no one could blame him, because they could see the way he looked at you, as if you were the sun and your dimmed light turned his world dark. 

He knows the chance you can hear him is small, but he feels the urge to talk to you nonetheless. 

“I don't think I can hold this in any longer. I remember some studies that have shown people in comas do hear what's going on around them, but maybe it’s for the best that you don’t, because you would never say yes.”

He continues but he feels his voice choke up, and he runs a hand through your hair to calm himself down, his other hand still holding onto yours.

“We talked about it once, I still remember every single word you said. You came at me with all your logical reasons for why it would be a bad idea. But what you never understood is that when it comes to you, I'm not able to think rationally, because my love for you will overpower anything else.” He chuckles softly as he recalls the memory he’s about to tell you next.

“I remember when I opened up to you for the first time. I had always held things to myself, but you were so calm as I talked to you. I thought for sure I had screwed it up somehow then. Everyone always tells me now how happy you make me, and they're right. Ever since you came into my life there has not been a single moment when the thought of you did not bring me joy, even when we fought my memories of you could still somehow bring a smile to my face. 

I remember when they showed me the video, they hadn't wanted me to see it, but you know how stubborn I can be when it comes to you. I saw you, I saw the way in which they were hurting you. And I started yelling, ironically enough in that moment, you were the only one that could have calmed me down. I remember yelling at them, fighting with them not to wait any longer, that they couldn't let you wait any longer, they had to have me sedating until they came to a conclusion."

He reaches into the pocket of his trousers, taking a small ring. It was his mother's ring, he had found it a while back and had carried it with him ever since. He had thought of moments to give it to you, but every time there was one, every time he was about to ask you, something had happened, something had interrupted him. But there was no one interrupting him this time. “I have thought about asking you this every time I see you, and I can't hold it in any longer. So when you wake up, not if you wake up, because I know you will. I know you will wake up because you have to. So when you wake up, will you marry me.” A little part of him had thought you'd wake up, that you’d answer him. Even if you said no, it would still be better than what's happening right now, because he didn't care if you'd say no, if you’d say you weren't ready, because nothing could be worse than the silence that followed him. And so he slid the ring onto your finger delicately, as if you were to disappear if he wasn't careful. He put the ring on your hand because he knew that even if it wasn't today, and it wasn't tomorrow, someday you would marry him, and he wouldn't let you slip away.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, sleep deprivation and desperation playing a trick on his mind. But then he saw it again, in the beams of morning light he could see your hand moving, as if it was trying to grasp onto something, trying to pull you back into this world. It woke him up in an instant. But it was all followed so fast, the way your eyes slowly opened, squinting at the light. Before you had even awoken for a second, he moved from where he had been right beside you in order to hug you. And he was about to get lost in the thought of your moving lips, tears falling down his eyes, about to get lost in a kiss full of built-up pain and desperation when he noticed, something was wrong. Your eyebrows were knitted together and the corners of your mouth turned down just a little. He looked at your expression, your body language, something was wrong. You looked vulnerable, you looked like you wanted to protect yourself from someone.

It was only when he looked into your eyes that he truly understood something was very wrong.

Your eyes looked as if you were in pain, but it wasn't a look of any physical pain, it looked as if something was endangering you, but he couldn't understand what it was. He slowly moved so as not to startle you and asked you “Darling, what’s wrong” And at first you didn’t respond, but when he kept looking at you, expecting him to answer you, you started to speak. “Am I supposed to remember you?” 

He immediately flinched back at the statement, his shoulder sunk and his eyes dimmed. Someone told him it wasn't uncommon for brain injuries to cause short-term memory loss after a coma.

So slowly, and surely, he made it work. But it was crumbling him down every time you didn't remember the unconscious acts of affection, so foreign to you now. A quick touch on your arm as he walked towards you made you flinch slightly as if his hand had been on fire. The subtle smiles he gave you when entering a room were now met with you looking down. The way that even though you were physically here, you really weren't. 

He promised himself, he vowed to himself that he would make you remember. That no matter how long it took, he would wait for you. He would wait for you to remember, make you remember. Because he had very quickly learned that he couldn’t live without you anymore.

Part 2: Trying to Forget

[angclika-blog]

ANGELIKA MARIE D'ANTONIO, also known as “THE ARBITRATOR”, is TWENTY EIGHT years old and is a DETECTIVE. SHE is said to be INTELLIGENT, ADAPTABLE, LOYAL but if you get on HER bad side, she also tend to be UNPREDICTABLE, AGGRESSIVE and VENGEFUL. ‘GELIKA identifies as a CISGENDER FEMALE and bears an uncanny resemblance to JOHANNA BRADDY.

okay let’s try thIS AGAIN. i’m kori ~ 20 & est. i’ve been stalking this rp since it hit the tags & debated on so many characters but i suck at playing shitheads & villians so let’s see hOW THIS GOES. i’m up for any kind of plots !! so pls just let me know if you wanna plot things out - i’ll put somethings about my lovebug underneath.

biography. // tw: murder / depression & overdose

angelika was born in fort worth, texas and invited to the world by her elder brother and parents on april twenty first at five in the morning.

the family moved to las vegas when angelika was five, causing her to lose any memory of her hometown since she was taken away from it at such a young age & lose her little southern accent quicker than her brother had, many almost refusing to believe that they are siblings because of her full blown american accent while he still has his texas slang at heart.

growing up, angelika rarely saw her parents because of their jobs, causing her and her brother to bond quickly and get closer than possible. her brother was someone that she would take a bullet for even at the age of seven, looking up to him more-so than her own parents.

unlike her brother, angelika didn’t really rebel or do anything considered illegal in her high school years. angelika wasn’t exactly what you would call a loner or a bitch, but she definitely wasn’t someone that people would run up & introduce themselves to.

she was nothing less but a perfectionist when she was in high school, knowing that in order to get into the criminal justice program in new york, she would need nothing perfect grades and distractions were something that would do nothing but ruin her future plans.

at a young age, angelika made it known to everyone around her that she was capable of taking care of herself and she didn’t need a man by her side to keep herself above water. many woman were intrigued by the woman because of her ability to be so independent the moment she entered the hallways.

her senior year was when angelika finally became to enjoy herself. with constant high grades and nothing but good references by her teachers, she finally experimented her tolerance with alcohol & even got herself her first boyfriend.

it wasn’t difficult for the girl to get away with the things she did, not only was the child of the family but she managed to learn the mistakes from her brother, always managing to get away with the drunken state she would come home in.

it was halfway through her second semester in her senior year that she found the cops at her doorstep, her parents and herself nothing less than confused as they sat down, questions arising about her ex-boyfriend and his whereabouts the night before, angelika fully believing that he was at home the night before studying and getting ready for college applications.

it was brought to her attention that her boyfriend had been experimenting with drugs behind her back, refusing to bring her around it because of her being uncomfortable with it and her parents both being in the law enforcement. that night, she found out that her boyfriend had overdosed on cocaine.

this was when the first wave of depression hit the young girl. being eighteen and seeing the apparent love of her life die without her ability to even understand why, being unable to say goodbye and unable to even picture him doing such a thing, the blonde curled up in her bed for days without a single word uttered from her lips.

it was only jackson that managed to pull her out of her rut, helping her understand that things happened for a reason and help her pick herself up from the ground that seemed to pull her down each time she tried to take a step.

almost missing the deadline, angelika was more-so shocked when she got accepted into the schooling she had dreamed of since she was old enough to know what she wanted to do with her life, hope finally shining a light at the end of the tunnel.

once graduated from the criminal justice major from nyu, she sat down with instructors to figure out what field she would like to focus on and with her constant pull towards knowing the answers and being the one to lay the facts on the table, angelika decided that she wanted to be nothing but a detective.

taking some night classes and online courses, she was able to give herself backgrounds of psychology and forensics as well as her major in criminal justice before joining her brother side by side in the las vegas police department.

angelika was someone that many would request to work on a case because of her inability to miss a step when looking over files or looking over a dead body, she was someone that needed every single thing written down from the tint of someones skin to the exact time they were born.

things had been going so well, that it was almost expected that she was going to be hit with darkness once again and it was the moment that she had been told her father had been murdered that things came crashing down around her once again.

tears were never shed as she took months off work, lived off bowls of cereal and a single shower a week while curled up in the same blanket every hour of the day. words were barely muttered and her eyes were bloodshot to no ends, causing many to think that giving her more than a leave was needed. 

it was the notification that suspects were being found soon after was when she finally got up and got herself together, pushing down every single feeling and every single tear so deep down in her stomach that it was almost non-existent, not a word muttered about her fathers death.

now, angelika is back on the job and working with such a cold exterior that many around her are worried about her wellbeing but knowing better than to push her too far. it’s only cases with gun-shot murders or overdose that angelika steps to the side long enough to gather herself from the darkness taking over once again.

personality.

angelika comes off as nothing less than someone who doesn’t have empathy or a single caring bone in her body, but it comes with the job. many don’t approach her because of her resting bitch face and her snub comments to avoid conversations.

deep down, angelika is nothing less of a romantic craver and a child at heart. her adult years were mostly nothing but darkness with a few light rays shining through and because of that, she rarely shows her true colours to people and makes sarcastic comments and fake smiles instead of showing those around her the real angelika.

at the end of the day, angelika wants nothing more but for someone to hold her tight and love her the way she believes she deserves, she hates going home to darkness and not someone to pull the sadness from her body with their embrace.

when she’s in her dark place, angelika is very much numb and shut down, nothing hits her in a way that it shoulder, she rarely talks and tends to avoid eye contact a lot more than she usually does. she is also very distant and distracted, not paying attention to anything that’s happening around her.

fun facts.

she lives in a two bedroom apartment in downtown las vegas, not far from the police department. ( if anyone wants her roommate then please let me know )

she has a snow white, blue eyed cat named mittens that she got when she moved back to las vegas after schooling.

she has exes, not many that she talks to but most ended because of her inability to battle work/school and a relationship, her body wanting to indulge in the relationship more-so than her work. ( if anyone wants to play an ex, please let me know )

she plays guitar - thanks to her elder brother for showing her at a younger age, although she doesn’t play much anymore unless it’s late at night and she can’t sleep.

her first therapy & medication was given to her after the death of her boyfriend her senior year, but was able to come off her medication and limit her therapy sessions because of her progress throughout the years, it wasn’t until her fathers death that she found herself with the same bottle of pills and the therapist, but lately she has been skipping sessions, not wanting to bring up memories that are going to cause a breakdown.

she’s 5′4 and about the size of someone’s pinkie finger but could probably kill you with a single stare.

[newyorktheater]

James Russell Morley in “The End of Eddy” at BAM and Laurenz Laufenberg in “The History of Violence” at St. Anne’s Warehouse, adaptations of autobiographical novels by Édouard Louis

The same gay character who is bullied in one play is nearly murdered in another play in a theater some two miles away. In an unusual collaboration, two Brooklyn theaters are simultaneously presenting stage adaptations of two autobiographical novels by 27-year-old French writer Édouard Louis. Both officially open tonight – not a coincidence – and have much in common, including innovative stagecraft with a heavy reliance on videos. But they differ markedly in tone, and in any case are separate shows with separate admissions, and so I review them separately below.

The End of Eddy at Brooklyn Academy of Music

James Russell Morley and Oseloka Obi on the video

Oseloka Obi

James Russell Morley l and Oseloka Obi

As they bounce onto the stage, two young actors dressed in identical striped shirts and bright white sneakers tell us that the play we’re about to see is based on a book of the same name by the French writer Édouard Louis, that it was published when he was 21 years old and that it focuses on the life of one Eddy Bellegueule between the ages 10 and 15, growing up in a small, grim rural village in the North of France. It was a bestseller in France, they continue, it has been translated into more than 25 languages, “and everywhere it’s been praised for its open and honest discussion of poverty and violence, and sex and homosexuality.”

Clearly, parts of “The End of Eddy” resemble a book report for school. Over the 90 minutes of the show, they even read or recite passages directly from the book. This reflects the initial audience for this adaptation by Pamela Carter. It was presented at a children’s theater in the UK — which explains why “we’ve had to leave a lot out.”

But for all the self-consciously childlike tone in the storytelling, “The End of Eddy,”which is having a brief run through November 21 as part of BAM’s Next Wave Festival, cannot be dismissed as a simple story hour for children.

This is for two reasons.

One is because of the inventive stagecraft. The two performers (Oseloka Obi and James Russell Morley) are not just narrators, talking  straightforwardly to the audience. They also portray Eddy, sometimes separately, sometimes simultaneously – and often in pre-recorded videos, on four video monitors lined up behind them. The videos often also offer texts as well, in what feel at times as if lifted from “Sesame Street.”

(Why four videos? At one point, the Eddys explain: “There were four televisions in my house….My father used to find them at the rubbish tip, and bring them home and repair them.”)

The two actors, who are ultimately as persuasive as they are energetic and charming, also portray Eddy’s mother and father, siblings, friends, people in the village and, most memorably, two bullies – all of whom interact on screen with the live actors on stage.

The main reason “The End of Eddy” is an effective work of theater is the rawness of the stories — his harrowing accounts of the relentless bullying, the deadened people in the dying factory town, his sad and funny efforts to “be a man,” his sexual experimenting. If it’s toned down from the novel, “The End of Eddy” is blunt enough so that the theater only recommends it for ages 16 and over.

It’s no spoiler to point out that “The End of Eddie” ends with the end of Eddy, because the two storytellers tell us that in the very beginning. But if that sounded ominous at the outset, “The End of Eddy” ends hopeful and warmhearted, with Eddy Bellegueule at age 15 getting a scholarship to study theater far away from his hometown tormentors. It’s the end of Eddy because Eddy Bellegueule changes his name to Édouard Louis.

“In an interview,” our two narrators tell us near the end, “Édouard said the reason he changed his name was not because he wanted to kill off Eddy but because ‘Eddy’ represented his father’s idea of masculinity. Eddy was the name of a man he could never succeed in becoming.”

History of Violence at St. Ann’s Warehouse

“History of Violence” begins with a crime scene. Three people wearing the disposable white suits that peg them as forensic technicians dust for fingerprints, as we can see close up in a live video projected onto the back wall. It will take quite a while into the two hour play (with no intermission) before we find out precisely what happened, the story parceled out the way it might be in a mystery or a police procedural. But “History of Violence” doesn’t fit those genres; it’s autobiographical: The crime reportedly happened to Édouard Louis for real in 2012. It strikes me as primarily an examination of trauma; that is in any case the most consistently insightful aspect of the play. The traumatic impact on the victim is evident from the first glimpse of the disconsolate blond man in a pink shirt sitting upstage (portrayed by Laurenz Laufenberg.) We’ll call the character Édouard, although he’s not named in the play. At the start, while the crime investigators do their work, Edouard moves to the lip of the stage and talks into a microphone (The play is in German, with English captions projected onto the back.) “In a week you’ll think, it’s been a whole week since it happened; in a year: it’s been a whole year.” Edouard narrates how in the immediate aftermath he did the laundry, burned incense, used air freshener, scrubbed the door knob, poured bleach into the sink, squirted saline solution into his nostrils, did everything and anything he could think of to get rid of the smell, the presence, of his assailant. But nothing worked. There are other characters, and other actions, but they all in different ways revolve around Édouard and the incident. He visits his hometown, staying with his sister (Alina Stiegler), where he’s reminded why he left; he overhears his sister telling her husband about the crime. Édouard is also interviewed by the police, who are casually racist, assuming the assailant was Arab. These scenes weave in and out of the moment-by-moment direct encounter with the man who became his assailant, which is re-enacted in bits and piece — arguably the way an individual reconstructs the memory of a trauma, out of order, unbidden. Eventually, the full story emerges. On Christmas Eve, a man who says his name is Reda (Renato Schuch) flirts with Edouard on the street, convinces him to invite him into his home. Reda tells a long story about the arduous journey his father took from Algeria to France. Then the two have sex repeatedly; they fall asleep in one another’s arms. When they both wake up, Edouard goes to take a shower. When he comes back, he notices that Reda has stolen his iPad and his smart phone. He politely asks for it back. Reda becomes enraged, takes out a gun…and rapes Édouard. This is reenacted in such explicit and extended detail that three different members of the audience rushed out across the stage to exit as if in urgent need of the restroom. I didn’t need to rush out. But, I left the play feeling as if there must be something missing in the translation from page to stage (not to mention the translation from French to German to English subtitles.) “History of Violence” offers a committed performances by the four-member cast, aided by meticulous stagecraft involving artistic projections and a live drummer dramatically underscoring the action. And somewhere along the way there is a suggestion that Reda’s explosion was motivated by self-hate and shame. But the point of the production ultimately felt more like an exercise in stagecraft rather than an exploration of history or violence.

  The End of Eddy Untitled Projects/Unicorn Theatre (UK) Based on the book En finir avec Eddy Bellegueule by Édouard Louis Adapted by Pamela Carter Directed by Stewart Laing Set and costume design by Hyemi Shin Video design by Finn Ross Lighting design by Zerlina Hughes Sound design by Josh Anio Grigg Cast: Oseloka Obi and James Russell Morley BAM Fisher (Fishman Space) 321 Ashland Pl Nov 19–21 at 7:30pm Tickets: $25 (recommended for ages 16+)

      History of Violence Adapted from the novel by Édouard Louis and directed by Thomas Ostermeier Dramaturgy by Florian Borchmeyer, set and costume design by Nina Wetzel, lighting design by Michael Wetzel, music composed by Nils Ostendorf, video designed by ,Sebastien Dupouey, choreographd by Johanna Lemke Cast: Christoph Gawenda, Laurenz Laufenberg, Renato Schuch,andAlina Stiegler,and drummer Thomas Witte. Running time: 2 hours with no intermission Tickets: $46 to $71 “History of Violence” is on stage at St. Ann’s Warehouse through Dec. 1 Due to depictions of nudity and sexual situations, History of Violence is recommended for ages 17+.

The End of Eddy and The History of Violence Theater Reviews: A Bullied Gay Boy Becomes A Nearly Murdered Gay Man The same gay character who is bullied in one play is nearly murdered in another play in a theater some two miles away.