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ijustwant2write · 5 years ago

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Just Next Door-Sam Wilson x Reader

(GIF credit to @marveladdicts)

Tags: @amirahiddleston @bloodorangemoonlight

Summary: Sam moves to new apartment filled with the usual neighbours, always armed with brief conversations; including the girl next door (Y/N). He doesn't know much about her, until something triggers a panic attack, revealing that they have more in common than they thought.

Characters: Sam Wilson x Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Panic attacks, mentions of war, fighting and death

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Sam hadn't been all too happy when he had to leave his home because of the aftermath of the whole 'civil war' situation. There wasn't really any plan put in place as to what they would do now, seeing as they were still under watch by the government. Steve had said to lay low, separate themselves to a certain distance, but not too much that they were out of reach. So here he was, having lived in a normal apartment building for three months, lying around, waiting for something to happen.

Looking at the positives, it was quite nice to go back to the normal part of life. This is what it would have been like if Captain America hadn't come along; except it would be back in his own home, not this small apartment. Still, after all the shit they had been through, why waste time looking on the negatives?

When there was a knock on the door, Sam was cautious, you never knew what was on the other side, or who could be coming after him. After stealthily checking the peephole, he relaxed when he saw it was his neighbour, (Y/N). A kind smile was on his face as he opened the door.

She was also grinning, one hand in her blazer pockets and the other holding onto the straps of her handbag."Hi, just letting you know that they're finally looking into the plumbing for the whole place. Saw some guys come in through the entrance."

"Thank god. I was only just getting used to having hot water for thirty seconds."

"Tell me about it."

"Busy day at the office?"

"Average, but no one pissed me off today, so that's good, I guess. What about you?"

"You know the drill. Staying in hiding till Cap needs me."

It was impossible not to know who Sam was. The news had covered as much as they could, the stories were practically selling themselves. However he was fortunate that most people living here didn't interact all that often. He had been wary of (Y/N) at the beginning, wondering if she was some sort of spy sent out to keep an eye on him; but he was able to figure her out, she was just your typical neighbour, a friendly greeting here and there, small conversations.

(Y/N) sighed."You've been here for so long though."

"Life of a hero isn't all that glamorous."

"No, suppose not. Well, I'm gonna grab dinner, I'll see you later."

"Uh (Y/N)," Sam held the door slightly open,"I've actually filled my time with cooking, and I definitely have enough for the both of us, if you want?"

"Oh, uh..."

"Not like, in a date way or anything, as friends."

Her voice was enthusiastic as she spoke."Yeah actually! I have a bottle of wine in the fridge, I'll go grab it."

They smiled at each other before she left, Sam closing the door but keeping it unlocked. He really didn't expect anything out of this. All he wanted was some company, just a friend to talk to, someone down to Earth. (Y/N) had only asked questions about his alter ego once, and then was when they first met. After that, she was the only one who looked at him like a normal person.

The meal together was full of laughter and some deep talks. Sam didn't let too much out, he still had to be careful. (Y/N) spoke of her childhood (as had he), what she had always dreamed of doing and fun anecdotes from work. However, Sam realised she had mission a portion of her life out, she had mentioned she had an 'old job' but never stated what it was (in fact, she had never even implied where she worked). Sam had tried to direct the conversation back that way, though (Y/N) was able to steer it right back, completely avoiding it. He decided it was unimportant at this stage of the friendship, he didn't want to pry. Though, she did tense up slightly when he mentioned his time in the military.

Sam felt refreshed the next day. Talking with (Y/N) had given him a break from the silence, or the yapping from the TV and radio. Well, he was at peace until he looked at his laundry basket. Another annoying thing about the apartment was that the washing had to be done in a communal laundry room. He had always found it strange how people came together in one room to do their laundry.

Effortlessly carrying the basket downstairs, he saw his neighbour also headed to the same place. (Y/N) had sensed someone behind her, relieved when it was Sam.

"Thank god it's you," she had sighed,"I wouldn't be able to deal with Jim at this time in the morning."

They walked down the rest of the stairs together, easing into conversation again. Sam noticed that her basket was just as big and full as his, yet she had no trouble with it; her office uniform hid her muscular arms, as if she had been lifting weights all her life. Still, Sam only saw snippets of (Y/N), perhaps she was a gym junky.

Their talking continued as they began loading their laundry into the machines. Sam had his back to (Y/N), until he heard a bang on the floor. His instincts caused him to whip around, calming when he saw that (Y/N) had knocked her basket over. She was knelt down, hair falling in front of her face as she scooped everything back in.

"Here, I'll help you." Sam offered, kneeling down opposite her.

It was only when he was level with (Y/N) that he saw the true state she was in. Her body was shaking, hunched over, breathing rapid. He recognised the signs of a panic attack, but what had brought it on? He noticed that she was clutching onto something in her hands; it was a military hat, green camouflage, the army. Whether it be hers or someone she knew, Sam had to do something to help her. The machines around him were creating loud, banging noises, so he quickly went round and turned them all off (hopefully no one walked in and made a complaint, now wasn't the time) before going back to (Y/N).

"(Y/N), it's OK, you're safe. You're safe with me, in the apartment building. We're in the laundry room, yeah?" Sam calmly said, kneeling in front of her. He repeated these words, slowly and gently reaching out for her.

Her hands were still gripping onto the hat, eyes in a trance like state until Sam finally started getting through to her. The shaking stopped, tears began to dry, and she practiced her breathing with Sam. Soon, she was back to a somewhat normal state.

"You OK?" Sam whispered after a few more minutes of breathing.

She nodded before she spoke."Yeah...sorry, I'm so sorry you had to witness that-"

"Hey, it's alright, these things happen." Sam reassured her as she began crying again."You were in the army."

"Mhm. Years ago."

"It's a tough world."

"You can say that again. I saw too many horrible things. Thought I could get through it, wanted to serve my country but... But it was just too much."

"It gets too much for everyone, it's normal."

Sam decided to reveal another part of his life, knowing that if he connected with her, she might feel more comfortable.

He sat down next to her both of them leaning against the machines."I lost a friend actually, a very close one. It was a tragic accident."

Surprisingly, she opened up straight away."So did I. I think too many of us did. I keep in touch with a few of my comrades, we try to talk about it, but it's hard."

"You know, I actually ran meetings before I met Cap, about PTSD, aftermath of coming out of the forces, anything really. So, if you need to talk, I'll be happy to listen. As a mentor or a friend. But there's no pressure, it's always in your own time."

"Thank you Sam." Megan looked down at her cap, holding it more caringly."I thought I had packed this away with my uniform somewhere, must have slipped in the basket somehow. Just... I wasn't expecting to see it."

"Of course not. Has this happened before?"

"I used to have nightmares sometimes. The worst thing was this slamming door downstairs, I always asked a neighbour to get it sorted, they never did. It just reminded me of the guns and bombs, especially when it came out of nowhere; they didn't have a particular schedule, so I couldn't even expect the noise. One day I went down to ask one last time before complaining to the manager of the place, but it slammed and I broke down in the hallway. I just can't seem to control it, someone always finds me crumpled up on the floor."

"I can give you techniques to help with that, if you want them."

"Please, that would actually help."

"Course. For now, shall we get on with our laundry?"

They both chuckled, the mood lightening. He helped her off the floor, going back around and turning the other machines on again, once (Y/N) had agreed. Small talk was made as they carried on like nothing happened, but (Y/N) hadn't let go of her hat. Sam saw, though made no comment, not right now.

"You sure you're gonna be alright?" Sam checked as they stood outside their doors.

"I think so. It's strange isn't it? How something like a piece of clothing can bring back so many memories."

"The human brain is complex. Everyone has has the same feeling, whether in the forces or not."

"Yeah, I guess so. Thank you Sam, I'll use those techniques you told me about." she started to unlock her door.

"If you ever need me, at anytime as well, just knock, yeah?"

"I will." before she closed the door, she caught his attention again."Sam?"

"Hm?"

"It's comforting to have someone who's been through the same thing. Thank you for helping me today."

“Well, you know I’m just next door. I'll always be right here."

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songsofloretto · 4 years ago

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Kieran gave me this earlier. I like writing for Kieran. He's a nasty bastard trying to turn his life around which makes him multi-faceted but as a character giving direction he's easy to 'feel'. Kieran never does third person perspective. His stories are always first person and written like a commentary.

Kieran, Nicky, Rory and Matthew

Sainsbury's, May 2021

"Uncle Kieran can I have these water pistols?"

It's been 30 years since I last took a child grocery shopping. It was bad enough in the 1980s with the kids wanting the sweets at the end of the checkout and all that. Fast forward to the 21st century and the problem has absolutely mushroomed, along with the size of supermarkets in general. Before I went to prison supermarkets only sold food. These days they sell everything from sun-dried tomatoes to fecking funeral plans. Nothing is sacred from these corporate giants. There are whole sections devoted to toys so there's no avoiding the inevitable pleas from children presented with their every wildest dream every time you call in for a pint of milk. Our Matthew's grandson is no different. The little lad is only four years old and to him this toy section is like every Christmas morning he's ever dreamed of all rolled in to one.

"Eh?" I say.

Rory lifts a box of four water pistols from the shelf and almost topples over under the weight of them. I grab it quick and steady him before he smacks his head off the corner of a shelf.

"Woah," I say to him, "steady on, our kid."

"I want these water pistols," Rory says emphatically, "there's four altogether. You, me, Uncle Nicky and Grandad can all play with them in the garden."

I look at the box. The pistols are nothing special. I've seen more power in a carrot. But the kid is right. It's a boiling hot day and perhaps an hour in the garden shooting each other up is exactly what this fecked up family needs to bond.

And who can say no to little Rory, who hasn't seen his daddy in over a year. Deaglan has been stuck in New York over this bloody pandemic, unable to get home to his son, missing out on all the drama we have going on here. The kid, innocently caught in the middle of it all, deserves a little joy in his life. I take a pistol out of the box and work my finger over the trigger, pretending to shoot, while Rory laughs and crouches down low.

"Aye you can have them," I tell him, and ruffle his hair with my fingers.

Right on cue the ever uptight Nicky slides up to us, almost falling over himself in his desperation to spoil any fun. He's swaggering about in his police uniform with a stick up his arse as usual. No tie or epaulettes but you can still tell he's an off-duty police officer. The cunt.

"I don't think so," he says rather efficiently as he plucks the box and the pistols out of my hands.

"What the f...Nicky!" I say, and pull the box back from him, "what's wrong with you?"

"I don't think it's appropriate for children to play with guns," Nicky says matter-of-factly.

"Aww!" Rory whines, "please, Uncle Nicky!"

His face creases and I can't bear to see him look sad. I know from experience that arguing with Nicky isn't easy. He's a jumped-up, self-important and arrogant little prick. In fact he's just like me when I was his age. It amuses me somewhat. I know that he'll get wound up like a clock if I challenge his decision - and I'm really trying to make friends with him, honest - but I've got to try and change his mind, for the little lad's sake.

"Well they're only water pistols," I say with a little shrug, "not gonna do much damage with them, eh, Nick auld fella?"

Nicky pulls a straight-laced expression and looks down his nose at me like a seasoned bloodhound would look at a yapping pup. He thinks I'm scum, I realise as we face each other off. He'll always look down on me like this, because in his bright, British eyes I'll always represent the dirty side of Ireland. I feel the vein on my temple flicker. I have to take a deep breath to keep my cool.

"It's not about any potential risk of damage," Nicky breaks the tension between us with a belittling little sniff, "it's about the psychology. Teaching children that guns are good fun and can't hurt anyone is a slippery slip. Before we know it he'll be twelve years old and shooting up his gym class."

"Fuck off Nicky, this is England, not America," I try to laugh off his point but he just keeps staring.

"And I don't think you, of all people, Kieran O'Driscoll, are in any position at all to be encouraging my nephew to take an interest in firearms," Nicky looks down his nose at me again.

I've been trying hard to handle his snooty arrogance for weeks. I really have. But something inside me snaps.

"Why?" I ask, squaring up to him, "because I was in the IRA? Is that it?"

I don't know what I'm doing. I'm 79 years old. Nicky is 45. I haven't got a chance against him in a fight, especially not with all his police training, but it's my pride that pushes me on. I have to stand up for myself, be a man about it. Teach this little arsehole a lesson.

"Yes," Nicky nods his head, "because you dealt firearms for terrorist organisation. And I don't want you playing with any sort of gun, imitation or otherwise, in front of my brother's son."

Deaglan is Nicky's own twin brother. They've never met. They were seperated at birth. Deaglan stayed in Ireland with Matthew, Nicky went to England with Kate. And now he fancies himself as the big Englishman, the creme de la creme of Britishness, superior above each and all other nationalities. And he spent his whole life loathing the Irish for putting his mother in a wheelchair. She was was a British soldier, victim of an IRA bomb, Newry police station, 1975. Sad story.

It was a terrible shock to poor Nicholas Jamie Hawley when he discovered that his father was not, as his mother always told him, a dead British soldier who died for his country in a halo of bullets. His father Matthew is in fact a proud Ulsterman who is very much alive and even did time for murder. Nicky's brain must have exploded inside his skull when it tried to digest this information. When he realised that half of him bled for Ireland it nearly knocked him sick.

But he had to get used to the idea because this pandemic threw us all together under the same roof, forcing us to learn to love and live with each other. And so here we are, factions of a long-estranged family trying to find common ground, and about to start fighting over water pistols in Sainsbury's.

"You'll never forgive me for being ex-IRA, will you?" I ask him.

"Never," Nicky lifts his chin, "once a terrorist, always a terrorist in my book."

"I did my time, Nicholas," I tell him, "27 years in a hell-hole of a prison. Oh Lord I suffered. And I'm deeply sorry for my transgressions as a younger man."

"Sorry will never be enough," Nicky whispers, "what your sort did to my mother..."

I close my eyes. I don't like think of it. And all over some water pistols to make the little lad happy!

The Voice of Reason enters stage left. Here is Matthew O'Driscoll, everyone's favourite peace-keeping fence-sitter. He spent an age parking the car and has only just joined us. He's as Irish as I am but everyone loves him, even Nicky, because...well because he's Matthew. Need I say more?

Matthew is astute. He studies the body language between me and his long-lost son and folds his arms, awaiting explanation.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"The wee bairn wanted a few water pistols to play with," I said, "and PC Gobshite over here has got an issue with it."

Matthew looks at Nicky who blushes a little as if he suddenly feels rather foolish.

"I didn't think it was ok," he says. His mouth is suddenly dry and he swallows, "to promote guns to a child. I'm in Loco Parentis for Rory. Deaglan has trusted me to look after him. I don't want to fuck it up and send the kid back to his dad thinking guns are ok. Because they're not. What would Deaglan think of me?"

He gives Matthew a slow look. Matthew nods his head. He is trying to understand Nicky's perspective. The man is nervous about all this family stuff. He's still reeling from the shock of discovering he has a family he never knew, that the family is Irish, that there is a man out there in the world who shares his face. Appearance and reputation is key right now. Nicky has never been a parent and suddenly, thanks to the pandemic, he's stepping in to care for his twin brother's son. He wants to do a good job. Of course he does.

It's interesting that Nicky never gives Matthew any stick about being Irish. Let's not forget that Matthew did prison time too. In 1994 he shot his own best mate in the head to stop the IRA from kidnapping and torturing him. We've never spoken about the fact it was me who ordered Brophy's kidnapping in the first place. If I'd have got my hands on Donnachadh Brophy all those years I'd have cut his balls off, fried them in Crisp N Dry oil, added little salt and pepper to taste and made the cunt eat them. But not now. I've mellowed out now. I'm not like that any more. I wouldn't hurt a hair on Brophy's head if he were alive today. And I don't deal in guns. Except water pistols because...well they're water pistols for feck's sake.

"You mean you've taken offence to Kieran handling a gun because he's Irish, is it that it?" Matthew asks.

"Not because he's Irish, per se," Nicky says, "but because of...it's because he has previous."

Matthew nods. The simple action brings calm to the situation. Nicky is feeling heard. He relaxes a little.

"I know you still suffer the fear of the IRA," Matthew says to him softly, "I know as a kid they haunted your dreams. You grew up thinking you had to protect your Mammy from them. But it's all in the past, Nicky. Wether we like it or not we're all together now and there are things we have to forgive each other for if we're going to survive this virus. And survive as a family. Because that's all any of us ever longed for, isn't it? It's time to let go, son."

Matthew takes the pistol from Nicky's grip. The police officer tightens but then releases his hold, surrendering control to the father he never knew he had, and letting go of the toy gun. It's very poignant, metaphorical moment. Makes the man in me uncomfortable so I try to inject some humour to make it bearable.

"Fecking hell," I scoff, "who do you think you are Matty eh? A walking example of the Good Friday Agreement?"

Matthew doesn't take his eyes from Nicky's face. A silent agreement is passing between them.

"Shut up, Ki," Matthew says without looking at me, "it's all right, Nicky. We're going to take these pistols home, fill them up with water and have a big old laugh together. Three generations shooting cold water at each other. And it will be safe, it will be ok. Because it's what families do together all the time."

"Ok," Nicky starts scratching at his arms in that way he has when needs to self-soothe with a wash, "we'll have a water fight. Together. But I'll need to get a shower first."

"If it makes you feel better," Matthew nodded.

He understands Nicky's need to be clean better than I do. I've never known a man so obsessed with washing his skin, changing his clothes, marinating in aftershave because unfamiliar smells upset him. As soon as you walk into the house we all share his first question is 'have you washed your hands?' He won't let you touch anything until you wash your own hands at the kitchen sink. Which by the way is a Belfast model. That little detail is lost on Nicky. It brings me a private sort of amusement.

Nicky's scratching intensifies. We'll have to hurry up with the shopping now because he has it in his head that he needs a wash and a preen. If he doesn't get to a shower soon he'll start getting all upset with himself. There's no time to argue now.

Matthew hands the pistol to the four-year-old whose innocence is responsible for bringing us all together. And then we all walk on, four abreast, to find the pint of milk we all came in looking for in the first place.

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writingisbetterthandying · 6 years ago

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empathy - ch

A/N: I was listening to Youngblood as a whole and I got this idea and its kinda angsty but enjoy! I literally wrote this in like one sitting. (highkey a 5sos fic cliche but do I care? yeah, I do.) also "hearts ain't gonna lie" by arlissa kind of really helped this out so if you want, take a listen. this is also not only my first official 5sos fic, but also the longest thing I've written in a while so 😎🤪

hi! this is like three years old soz

Warnings: angst, a lil alcohol, sad times, cursing

Word Count: 4.7k

Your POV

Calum and I have been dating for almost a year, and everything has been perfect. I've always been friends with the guys since they originally came to LA, but until a barbecue at Mike and Crystal's about a year ago, Calum and I had been nothing more than friends. The boys and the girls had a little bet going and much to everyones' dismay, Luke took home way too much cash. A little excessive, but they had been pooling it for months.

We've had our issues, as any relationship does, but it has been nice having them here, in LA, together before tour starts. We officially moved into our house three months ago, and it's been a dream living with Calum. Every morning we have our routine, one of us lets Duke out in our backyard and the other starts the coffee and gets to decide breakfast. We don't live too far from everyone else and the city, but far enough that we aren't in the middle of it all, all the time. Sometimes little fights start when someone forgets to turn off the light in the hall, or the studio door isn't closed, the AC is left too high, no more coffee is left in the pantry, but other than that, we pride ourselves in our open communication and our happy relationship.

That is except for one thing. I know for sure that I love Calum, and that there is no one else for me, and I know he feels the same, it's just that those three words hang over our home like a dark cloud. Every morning I wake up and I feel grateful, and I would love to just profess my love to him, but of course I know how that word makes him feel. As their tour dates start to get closer, the more ready I feel to say it, almost to have that assurance while he's away.

As I had lunch with the girls, I had to bring it up.

We were at a small cafe somewhere on Abbot Kinney, just the four of us (myself, Kay Kay, Sierra, and Crystal). We had all ordered and were making small talk when Crystal said, "Y/N, you feeling alright honey? Do you need some water?" I was consumed in my thoughts, only half listening when I just blurted out,

"Were any of the boys weird about saying 'I love you?'" As soon as I said it, I looked down. "I know it's weird, but I just can't help thinking that something is wrong." I was about to say something to cover it up but Sierra spoke up.

"I know that right now it seems that Cal might not, but he loves you ok? Everyone can tell, and I know what you're talking about, the same kind of thing happened with Luke, but he came around, didn't he? It’s just the words that are missing right now."

I knew that Sierra was right, but some part of me just kept on doubting.

"I know Lu took a while, but some times when I say the word 'love,' if it's about Duke, or a movie, or it's something completely irrelevant, he freezes up, and I don't know, does he love me, not even love, but does he really even care about me?" I felt tears start to prick a the back of my eyes but I knew that I shouldn't be crying over my devoted boyfriend. It really was only three words.

"Sweetie, it's okay to feel this way, but trust us, Calum loves you, he might just need some time to say it," Kay Kay said. She always knows how to reassure me.

"Thank you guys, now enough of this icky boy talk, let's eat!"

The rest of the lunch we didn't mention the whole thing, we just enjoyed each other's company before planning to meet again next week.

It had been a couple days since the lunch, and I didn't worry myself thinking about the whole thing.

I got home from work, put my keys in the bowl, placed my bag down, took off my shoes, then called out for Duke. The small fluff ball yapped at me as I crouched down to his level before checking to see that I wasn’t some intruder, then proceeded to give me kisses.

I was so caught up in the puppy love that I hadn't realized Calum leaning against the counter.

"Hi babe, how was your day?" He asked.

"It was fine, but much better now that I'm with my two favorite boys." He let out a short chuckle at that.

"How about you go change out of your work clothes, and I start on dinner. How does pasta sound?" The thought of a home cooked meal sounded amazing.

"That sounds amazing Cal, I'm gonna go take a shower and then I'll come and help." With that, I walked up the stairs to the master bedroom. I picked out a pair of pajama shorts and then grabbed Calum's empathy sweatshirt from the closet- it was just too comfy for me not to. I checked my phone before I stripped, seeing a couple of Twitter mentions and some Instagram updates. I turned off my phone, got undressed, and started the shower.

After my shower, I went downstairs to see Calum in his "Kiss the Cook" apron that I had bought for his birthday, singing to a playlist we made over summer, stirring the pasta. I leaned against the counter and admired him, so domestic and cute.

God I love you, I thought.

"What?" The music was now paused, and the burner off, Calum now looking straight into my eyes, expression cold, now not as domestic and cute.

"What do you mean 'What?'" I asked.

"What you just said," he asked slowly. "What did you just say."

My face paled as I realized that I had said the L word out loud.

"Is it okay that I said it?" I asked cautiously, not knowing what his response could be.

"What do you mean 'Is it okay what I said?' Why would you think that?" He let out a sarcastic chuckle. I had never felt scared around Calum, but the frustration in his voice was something new.

"I just thought-" I felt that we were in a place where it would be okay to finally say those words, but Calum obviously did not.

"No you didn't, Y/N, you obviously weren’t thinking when those words came out of your mouth." The venom in his voice caused tears to start pooling in my eyes. He took off his apron and started walking towards the door.

"Cal, what do you mean?"

He scoffed.

"I mean that I can't do this shit. Don't wait up."

As he said those words the tears started to flow. He grabbed his keys and left. He unlocked the door, and slammed it straight after him, too frustrated to really think. With the slam of the door my first sob was released, so ugly, so wet, so broken. I didn't realize when I had gotten on the floor, but since I was already there, I laid down, letting the sobs rack through my body. With shaking hands, I was able to call Sierra and make out a few comprehensible words to tell her to come over.

Calum's POV

What did she mean, "I love you?" She can't just say that kind of shit. I didn't care, and I know I should've but what could I do? I saw her tears, and even though I promised to never make her cry, I just had to get out of there. I couldn't be in our house at that moment. I got in my car and drove straight to Ashton's. The less time I spend near our house, where she is, the better.

Just that word, and just all the shit that I’ve seen inevitably comes with it, it's just not something I really wanted to think about. I was happy where we were, I mean moving in together was already a big deal, how about we wait a little more time before we go around saying that. As I walked up to the door, these thoughts ran through my mind, and it briefly crossed my mind how she must be feeling, but I just thought we were in a good place without needing that.

After I knocked on the door, a very angry Ashton opened it, as an equally pissed Kay Kay shoved passed me to get to her own car.

"Mate, you're a complete douche," he stated. He obviously found out, how, I don't know, but I didn't really care.

"I know, but can I come in?" I know that Y/N is his friend too, but as my best mate I just need him to support me right now.

With an annoyed huff, he let me in.

"Make yourself comfortable I guess, I'll grab you a beer," he said as he locked the front door and went to the kitchen.

I nodded in acknowledgement and sat on the couch, resting my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Ashton just placed the beer in front of me.

"You obviously came here to talk, or whatever, so talk." He sounded beyond annoyed and disappointed, but I knew he was just trying to help, so I talked. I told him about my weariness around the word, and what was said, how it all went down, and then he was quiet. It felt nice, to be able to feel the weight lifted off my shoulders. It was quiet for a while before Ashton spoke up.

"You still are a massive asshole, you know that right?" I let out a sigh of frustration.

"Yeah, I know." This whole situation was not good.

"At least you know. Mike and Luke are on their way." More people telling me that I'm not a good person, just what I needed.

The doorbell rang not long after, and as it was opened by an unsuspecting Ashton, Luke immediately beelined to Calum, ranting his ear off as Michael closed the door and greeted Ashton.

"My girlfriend just left our house with my dog to cheer yours up! What the fuck is wrong with you, man? She had to bring fucking Petunia to Y/N, you ass! We had to bring out Petunia when her asshole of an ex broke her heart and her grandma died. You fucked up big time, Cal. Also, I had plans tonight, and that isn’t exactly relevant but whatever, man, what the fuck! Y/N is our friend too, so what the fuck did you do and why did you do it to the poor girl?"

As he finished he let out a deep breath and Ashton made sure to stay in between us so that no fighting would happen. Luke was right, as much as I didn't like him right now, Y/N really only needed Petunia when it was really bad.

"Crystal took Southy too," Michael mumbled.

That relieved some tension as we all laughed. That, however, did not last very long.

"She told me that she loves me," I barely whispered.

"And so you bailed," Mike stated simply. As much as it was true, I hated the way it sounded coming from his mouth.

"Yes, okay? I bailed, I didn't know what to do, so the asshole I am I left my girlfriend crying in our kitchen, I feel so great about it," I stated sarcastically. As I admitted the part about leaving her there, crying, I felt the guilt seep in. I started to feel like crying, and I think that the boys could tell too.

"Hey, Cal, it'll be okay, we promise. You just need to talk to her." Luke's tone was a lot softer now, especially since I started to cry as he started to talk. His hand and Ashton’s rubbing my back like I was some child. Not that it wasn’t nice but their pity just made me feel worse. The few tears and sniffles eventually led to big fat, elephant tears, rolling down my face, and hiccups escaping every once in a while. I know it isn't very macho, but I really fucked things up.

I was barely able to get out, "One of the last things I said to her was that 'I couldn't do this shit.'"

At that they all looked at me with sympathy, realizing that it was a lot worse than they originally had thought. I started to sob. "She probably thinks that I broke up with her, that I don't want her, but I love her." The last part slipped through my mouth without me thinking, and I could tell the guys definitely noticed.

"You're in some deep shit, my guy," Mike stated plainly. Everyone else just nodded in silence.

Ashton was next to speak up, "I think you should tell her, because she deserves to know, but let us talk to Sierra or someone first okay?" I hated the way he sounded like he was talking to a first grader, a child, but I hated even more the way that it comforted me so much.

"Sounds good." Something in me was still hesitant as I wiped my sleeve across my face. This was not at all what I had anticipated for tonight. We were going to eat our pasta, drink some wine, watch an old movie that we've probably seen way too many times, play with Duke, make out a little on the couch, then head up to bed. However, all because of me, we would have to save that for another night. That nice evening plan has been completely thrown out the door when I left.

Your POV

It had been a while since Calum left. At least I wasn't alone, I had three very supportive friends, and three very cute and dogs, too.

But now isn’t the time to admire my friends and their wonderful dogs. Right now is the time to cry and just shout and yell and be mad at the whole fucking world and share a bottle of wine and just let go and not care about the consequences. I had always been an emotional drunk, and a lightweight, having been told many times, but tonight, instead of being angry, I just felt sad, and tired, and weak, hopeless even, just completely drained. All that ran through my mind was his words over and over again, and how angry he was, his face so cold. "I can't do this shit." It was draining, picturing it so vividly over and over again. Sure, I had had a little too much to drink, but no one wanted to be the one to stop me.

Sure, there was anger, maybe in the middle, but it lasted maybe ten minutes, and then everything just felt sad. I cried to Petunia, telling her how much I loved her, and when she grunted back at me, I broke down. I broke down because here I was, sitting on my kitchen floor still, my three closest friends standing at my counter watching me tell a dog I love them for them to actually reciprocate at least something. How ironic.

I sat there, Duke in my lap, Southy staring at me from the couch, and Petunia lying on my right, two empty wine bottles on my left. I sat there petting Duke and Petunia, silent tears falling as I mumbled sweet nothings to the two of them.

"This fucking hurts. A lot," I stated simply. Calmly too, but after a couple seconds a fresh wave of tears came, "This really hurts. I miss him already guys. I know I shouldn't but I do." I could feel their stares as they all came to sit down on the floor with me.

"This hurts a lot, and I know it does, but let’s drink some water and get some food in you, okay? Can you do that for us?" Crystal said. I stared at her with wide eyes, and I knew that the wine couldn't always be there, and God knows it made everything a little less terrible, but I nodded in agreement. Time to be a grown up.

Somehow I made it to the couch, now having a blanket and all three dogs in my lap or at least near enough for support. Most of the tears had dried when I realized I was still wearing his empathy sweatshirt. I put the hood up, and took in that smell, that Calum smell that was just so distinctly him, and I cried. These were full on sobs, and I'm sure I looked hysterical, crying into a sweatshirt, but here I was. This jacket just held so many memories, and although it seems like something so insignificant, he wore it on our first date, a night with so many good and pure memories attached. He had asked me to move in with him wearing that sweatshirt, it was that jacket when we talked about our dream home, the one that feels so cold now. Just the thought of his face, his cheeks, his eyes, the kindness they hold, and his smile, I couldn't help wondering if that would ever be directed at me again, and the thought just ripped me in half.

Kay Kay gingerly handed me a cup of water. "I just want you to know that we love you, and I know that word is sensitive right now, but the girls and I, Ashton, Luke, Mike, we all love you okay? And the dogs." That alone brought another wave of tears, although mainly sad, I did chuckle a little at the mention of the dogs. I nodded and gave her the best smile I was able to produce. As I listened to everyone's supportive words, his harsh ones came back. "I can't do this shit. I can't do this shit. I can't do this shit." That and the painful slam of the door just kept on haunting me, I felt hopeless.

"At least some people love me." I mumbled. I could see that my friends had started to get teary, "I didn't tell you guys what he said, before he left." I swallowed thickly, the room so tense I felt like I was drowning.

"He uhm he- he said that he couldn't do this shit anymore." As I spoke, it felt like pushing a big fat rock through my throat, just painful and so heavy. I felt so stupid, and that there was nothing else for me to in that moment, but cry. I saw my friends shed a tear or two as they listened.

"I hope you know that none of this is your fault, okay sweetie? We love you, and we know that this hurts but we're here for you," Sierra said. At some point they all came to the living room and were sitting with me. All I could do was nod.

Although their words were comforting, I couldn't help but feel selfish, so fucking selfish that I still wanted Cal to be with me. For him to be saying I love you and for him to be the one giving me cups of water and saying everything will be alright. As selfish as it was, I knew that I couldn't do that. I knew that the girls knew. That despite all the hurt, I still needed him. I knew that it was my fault, and that he might never come back, so I did all I had done in that past hour or however long it had really been, and I pulled the dogs closer to me, and I cried myself to sleep on that couch in his stupid green empathy sweatshirt.

As I was asleep, the girls talked a little bit, Crystal saying that Mike texted her telling what was going on at Ashton's, and them planning on how they would deal with Calum. They knew that he was a somewhat mess, but they knew that Calum was not nearly as physically crushed as the girl asleep on the couch was. She looked small, and so tired, and they wanted nothing more than to protect her as best they could.

Calum's POV

The boys had put on a movie some time ago, but I didn't bother following the plot. Looking at the screen gave me a headache, but looking anywhere else all I saw was her, crying on the floor. I swear as I left our house, after I slammed the door and I heard her sob, I have never wanted to leave anywhere faster. I knew it was stupid of me, and that I was terrible and should never had done that to to her, and I know that I love her. I felt a tear slip past, but I wiped it away before anyone could see.

"I know I acted like a major asshole, but I love her guys. I just know for sure that I love her, and there sure as hell isn't anyone else for me; I just really need to see her," I said suddenly.

I think this surprised the guys, but he got a response.

"The girls texted, said she fell asleep crying, but also that she wanted to see you," Ashton said, still annoyed, but understanding.

Luke however, interrupted, "Well she never said that she wanted to see you but apparently she was crying into your hoodie and never took it off, so we assumed that she wants to see you. She really fucking loves you dude."

"Well thanks for that wonderful speech, Lucas, but let's just get our boy here to his girl," Mike said. We all nodded and went out to Ashton's car, and for the most part we were silent all the way to our house. As we went up the driveway I started to feel more nervous. I saw the girls' cars parked outside, and it was comforting to know that at least she wasn't alone.

Ashton turned off the ignition and turned to look at everyone.

"Calum will be the last of us to go inside, capeesh? We’ll talk to the girls, 'cause from what it seems she was asleep. Once the area is secured, Calum can come in and he will talk to the girls first, and then maybe talk to Y/N. If not, we drive him back to my place for the night." I appreciated how much control over the situation Ashton took, although I really hoped I would be able to talk to her. I don't know how it would feel, not falling asleep next to her, probably a lot of hurt, and pain, but that's what I caused in the past hours.

We all nodded and the boys went in, and I stayed in the car. They had been gone, inside of my house for 15 minutes when my phone buzzed.

Luke US:

Coast is clear, we are a go for eagle, godspeed.

Seeing that terrible text, I turned off my phone and got out of the car. I had never really felt nervous to enter our house. Every day, opening that door, and just feeling the warmth, regardless of who was there. We prided ourselves on that homey environment we had worked to pull off. Really, a beautiful home, but as I opened the door, hesitant for the first time, as soon as I stepped in, that warm environment was gone. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I felt some tears collect back in my eyes.

The emptiness of our home, despite the eight people and three dogs, and the countless number of small plants and all the decorations, and everything we worked so hard to have in our shared space, came as a shock. I knew I was at fault, but if this was how our home felt, our shared physical space, I had no idea how she could be feeling.

I knew she felt terrible, and probably responsible, and that she probably thinks that I'm officially the worst boyfriend ever. She probably is second guessing most of our relationship and her actions, and I know the way she thinks, and I hate that I caused her this much pain.

I stepped closer to the couch, where I could see a happy Petunia clutched by her arms, Duke cuddling into her side. If I hadn't known the reason, it would've been the perfect picture, but I knew that know wasn't the time. I leaned over the couch, and Duke sensing my presence started to get antsy, so I picked him up and greeted him as I would any other day. It was almost deja vu, and I realized that this was almost how we started our night.

My puppy love woke up Y/N, and despite looking so small, and so fragile, she still looked as beautiful as ever.

"Hi babe," I said carefully, I decided to sit at the end of the couch, where her feet were. I saw the way she tucked Petunia closer to her, and tried not to take too much note of it. "I just wanted you to know that I love you."

A small gasp escaped not only her mouth, but Sierra's, Kay Kay's, and Crystal's too. Obviously shocked to hear my words. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see someone's enthusiastic fist pump. All six still in the kitchen decided to go outside, to give us some privacy. I then looked at her, her eyes watery again, and she nodded.

"I know that I made you feel shitty. Hell, shitty isn't the right word, even. I broke you down, and I never should've reacted the way that I did, it was immature and irresponsible. I understand if you don't want to be with me anymore, but I think that we can work through this." I felt my own eyes get watery, I mean I know that what I did was wrong, but if we couldn't work through this, I don't know what I'd do.

I was so consumed in my thoughts that I barely heard her release a sob. I was immediately at her side. I shifted so that her head was in my lap, and it was slightly awkward, but it felt so much better. She was still holding Petunia, and Duke went back to his place next to her side. I played with her hair, my fingers soothingly going through her head. It had been a nice silence for a while, before she spoke up.

"I love you too," she barely whispered. Her voice was hoarse from all the crying, and it broke my heart. "I-I just, I don't know if I could function without you Cal. I just, I know that this was all stupid, but I love you, and I'm sorry we couldn't talk about it properly." Hearing her voice break made me look down at her face as she was still crying. I shifted her, and made it in a way that it was comfortable for me to hug her, and for her to hug Petunia. It was nice, comforting, just overall a nice moment.

"Don’t apologize, okay? It’s on me. I swear babe. I don’t think I could live without you, seriously. There is no one else I’d rather have this life to share with, and I love you, forever okay?" With my last words I held out my pinky finger. It was something we did when we had first started being friends, we always made pinky promises, and pinky promises were never broken.

"Forever," she said as she linked our pinkies.

Of course we would need to talk about it more, but with our current mental states, the pinky promise and the light kisses to the forehead were enough reassurance for tonight. She fell asleep, on the couch, again, this time with a smile on her face, and I smiled too. I smiled as I returned Petunia back to Luke, and then picked her up and brought her up, Duke happily following us. Laying in bed next to her, the tears dried away, it felt right again, our house was definitely back to being a home, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

#calum hood imagine #calum hood x reader #5sos imagine #5sos angst #calum angst #calum x reader angst #reader insert #y/n #calum x reader

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koholinthibiscus · 4 years ago

Text

My Tumblr Journey and mental health

What the hell is this? Where am I? What do I do and how do I do it?

You often hear of people getting to their 30′s and feeling more comfortable in their skin and just owning, accepting and loving themselves. Well, maybe it’s because I need psychotherapy, and maybe it’s because I’ve come into adulthood in a period with huge economic and political upheaval as well as a pandemic; but I don’t feel that way. I feel simultaneously old and young. clueless about young things (like tmblr) and clueless about old things (like mortgages... even though I have one)

I’ve deleted Facebook and use twitter sparingly these days so the reason joined this site is to purely vent. To write my thoughts out and send them into the internet ether to languish, probably ignored. But just getting it out might make all the difference to my physical and mental well being so I’m just going to give it a shot and see where things go.

I feel terribly alone and isolated. I have a type of social anxiety that you probably wouldn't notice. You might just think I’m an idiot or a bitch. You might barely acknowledge my existence. I’m pretty average so I may not register. But when I’m done talking I will think and think and think about it. How did I come across? why the fuck did I say that? You think I’m a fucking idiot don’t you? I will simply torture myself forever and ever. And I avoid social interaction, especially with new people, as much as I can. I can just about manage in a workplace setting but all my energy for this is taken up with that.

I feel unheard, unseen and unsatisfied. I feel a lump in my throat and a weight in my chest. I feel exhausted and headachey most of the time. I can’t bear this current situation. I have a visceral hate for my country. I can’t bear sad news. I can’t cope with news that implicates humans as ignorant, unsympathetic, inhumane creatures. I feel deep sadness at the existential threat our planet faces and confusion and sadness when I realise that barely anyone in my real life feels the same urgency and guilt. I have changed my lifestyle (probably not enough) to try and alleviate the guilt but it hasn’t worked.

So I get into things to try and distract myself; fandoms, stories, subjects, video games, novels and I feel sad about it because I feel useless “not good at it” or that they’re a waste of time. I hate myself so much that my hobbies make me sad. How stupid is that? I’ve recently been getting into DnD during lock down and watching critical role. I enjoy it but it makes me sooooo sad and jealous that I don’t have a strong friend group like that who can enjoy playing DnD with the same level of fun, ease and camaraderie. It literally hurts my heart and I’ve been feeling weird for days. So I’ve tried to make myself better by consuming things. I’ve bought a new set of dice and bought some unrelated books.

I skip from one subject or thing to the next feeling unsatisfied and discontent. I don’t practice things, I don’t finish things. I give up. And I feel like I’m giving up at life. I am lazy and stupid. My hobbies, likes and interests feel like a plaster over a gaping wound and was working but it’s not any more. Getting lost in a fantasy world just makes me feel sad I can’t create my own or be with a group of friends, either on line or on person where I can create together.

I am petrified of parent hood. I have an amazing 3 year old. She is a marvel. But I have a constant dread of failing her. Doing too much, doing too little. I want her to strive for happiness. Take on hard things, work at things till she’s good at them, whatever it may be. I honestly don’t care what as long as she enjoys it, has a passion for it and is ultimately happy. I want to push her, but I don’t want to push her too much. I worry about sending wrong messages. I worry about not doing enough with her. I do not want to bring her up the way that my mother brought me up. I am terrified of repeating the same mistakes.

I’m ultimately a kind person who is trying their best but can’t unleash my true potential due to depression, anxiety and self-confidence issues. I get so angry and sad at people who don’t follow the same ideals as me. which.... isn’t ideal. I can’t stand TERFs, racists, ableists, misogynists, right wing people, climate change deniers, ignorant people. I can’t stand it when people think that poor people only have themselves to blame. I hate capitalism and colonialism. I want to change the way the world operates even if it is to my detriment as a white CIS English women living in comfort. I feel trapped in suburbia where nothing changes and no one looks or is different.

I don’t mean to fetishize certain communities with that statement and I reliaze that it’s probably ignorant of me to suggest that everyone is the same too, given that I struggle to interact with people. And I’m not suggesting that I’m some sort of special flower or that ‘I’m not like other women’ (eeww) either, I know there are people out there I would probably get on with but like I say, I struggle.

It frustrates me when people don’t feel the same way politically. I think that people’s politics are based on their morals so I struggle with conservatives for example. I don’t understand them or where they come from. I want things that people need to be owned by the public and free at the point of access, healthcare being the main one and I fear for the future of the NHS. Yes, even if it means higher taxes (but I obviously want the super rich taxed more) I don’t believe billionaires should exist. I want universal basic income. If the human race keeps breeding, if we keep suffering from pandemics, if we progress technologically to the point where mechanization is even more prevalent, we will not need people to have jobs. We need UBI to level the playing field. And I want a vegan world. All of the above makes my head swim with anger and despair. What type of world will my child have to endure when she gets to my age? I fucking hope it’s better than this. I can honestly say that I believe I am on the right side of history with my politics. It is ultimately about being kind and humane. But no... I’m probably seen as a soft SJW snowflake keyboard warrior twat by my family (which is why I went off facebook). Even though I have a masters in Gender studies and a career in social justice work, but sure, I’m just after the ‘internet points’ or want to look ‘woke’. I feel like not many people truly know me and if they do know all of the above and don’t like what they see, I don’t know man, that kills me. I want people to think well of me. I want people to think I am a good person.

I could yap on for ages about this honestly but it would make little sense.

I think I wanted to start this as a place to get my feelings down because I am starting a journey of therapy soon. My sessions should begin in September but I feel the need to get stuff out now. I’m having a bit of a shit time in my head right now and I felt like I would burst.

I’m already worried that I will appear stupid and self centered. There is nothing particularly wrong with my life. I have a good job that I love but am also petrified of it and of getting it wrong so I self sabotage, worry and don’t believe in my abilities and I’ve been doing that since college. (I need to un pack how I feel about work and my actions around it, I have a lot of thoughts, maybe for another time)

I pick the spots on my face till they become angry red welts, I pick the skin around my nails till they get infected and then I hate myself for how I look, even though it was my fault in the first place. I don’t shower, don’t wash my face, don’t get enough sleep then look in the mirror and see my greasy lank hair, baggy grey eyes and bad skin and I just hate myself. Is this an analogy for the entirety of my personality? I am my own worst enemy and I need to give myself a fucking break. Easier said than done.

Things to unpack in therapy:

My work

My politics and how I interact, deal with people who don’t feel the same way as me

My child hood and family dynamics - It’s fucked up y’all.

My Child

My husband

My past relationship

The sick thing I do at night when i think about horrible things, like the death of my child for no god damn reason. (Is it punishment?)

It’s frustrating being so aware of my issues and not feeling able to do anything about it.

It’s probably an effect of lock down but I have been feeling really bad consistently for a very long period of time now and it’s exhausting. I always have peaks and troughs, feel great to OK for sometimes a good few months then it just comes down on me like a bag of hammers and I feel like death for 2-4 weeks.

I’ve been having those hiccups more often and for longer. I’m so fucking tired man. A couple of months ago a I had a terrible headache for 4 days, could barely move and felt tearful all the time. I just thought it was a migraine attack at the time (which I very very rarely have) but I coincided with a particular event that I’m not ready to talk about (It’s really not that juicy it’s quite fucking pathetic actually) and I think it was a major depressive episode.

I think I’m done now, I’m emotionally exhausted after reading this through and my throat hurts from trying not to cry. Maybe this is the start of my tumblr journey maybe I’ll delete it all in a few days I don’t know. I had to try something.

#mentalhealth depresson anxiety tumblrnovice isthishowhastgaswork?

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peaches-of-1 · 6 years ago

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How the Jinch Stole Christmas

A Grinch!AU where Jennie tries to steal Christmas but three sisters and a town full of Whos change her mind.

Jennie Kim was resting as she often did this time around this perfect time called noon. However, the sound of carols and jingle bells woke her up all too soon. Oh the sounds of Christmas cheer, it made her flinch, but what else do you expect from one the Whos called the Jinch? She took her face mask off and threw it down. What were the Whos doing in their wretched little town?

Looking at her calendar and seeing all the crossed off dates. Jennie realized that it was the one that she decided to most hate. It was Christmas Eve and everything was bustling. Here and there and everywhere the townspeople where hustling. The last bit of decorations, bobbles and trim. Little did they know that the Jinch’s patience had at last grew wayyyy too thin.

“They’re hanging their stockings and making it bright.” The Jinch scoffed and sneered. “This doesn’t feel right. How is Christmas Day already so near? Three hundred and sixty four days of silence could never replace all the noise noise noise once everything that the holiday spirit held is perfectly in place!”

She imagined the toys and joys that would be given to the girls and poise and then, and then all the noise! Noise! NOISE!

The beeps and clangs from all technological thangs.

The youngers would get all the things with spinny spinning wheels.

So many Whos would go click clack in their brand new heels.

They’d gather in bunches and talk talk talk while at all the new things and lights they’ll continue to look at and gawk

They’ll probably play jenga while others read manga, falling wood on tables abound.

They’ll dance wearing tressingles. Face full of makoloos.

They’ll drink their sojingles. Happy to listen to foolaroos.

They’ll pop and cheer and cherish everything that’s dear.

And the Jinch didn’t want to hear any of that this year.

“Kuma, my darling.” She said to her yapping precious pup. “I know hate it too, isn’t the constant silence enough?”

Jennie picked up her dog with chocolate floofy hair that covered his whole body and made him look like a tiny grizzlie bear. Then she gave him kisses because he was the only thing she would ever love.

“I need a way to ruin Christmas. If only an answer came from above!” Eyes up to the sky, she waited for the perfect plot. But did a miracle happen and squash the Christmas spirit and turn off the awful Christmas music?

It did not.

So the Jinch sighed and slammed her door shut, but then the cute little darling heard a small sound that hit her right in the gut. Her Kuma had run outside to play in the snow.

“Quickly, back to the door I must go!”

Jennie threw open the door and could not see her Kuma anywhere and that was because her brown fur and become way too fair. He blended in with the snow itself for when the door was shut, the white flakes came from the roof to make a very sudden hut. The dog was ok since it’s fur kept it warm, so he shook most of it off. There was no cause for alarm. Most of it came off, except from his chin.

But the image in front of her made the Jinch give a wicked grin. Bringing her pup inside, her brain and arms began her most mischievous plan. As if there was anything she knew about Christmas is that it all depended on one very very fat man with cheeks so red it could start a fire. Jennie searched her closet to see if she could create the right holiday attire. After some time and some sewing and snipping, our Jinch knew she had the perfect outfit.

She chuckled to herself, “Once I’m done with them, the Who’s won’t know what went missing.”

The Jinch used the white curtains to make a beard for her face. After smiling in the mirror to herself, she made sure everything else was in place. Using the cases from the pillows she would usually rest her head, she used the pillows themselves to make it look as though as if she had been extremely well fed. The pillow cases were sewn together to make the Jolly Man’s sack where all the Christmas trinkets would be stored after her night long attack. There was a sleigh in the backyard that she had decided to use. She had stolen it last year since the town when the town got a bigger one and said that this one was old news.

There was just one thing missing that Santa had and that she lacked. That was a reindeer that obeyed every time the whip was cracked. Though, the big man didn’t have a whip and neither did she. The only thing that she had was her hot cocoa colored puppy. Kuma needed an antler, a tree branch would do. She made it so the twig would stay put and off they flew.

Into the town, they slithered and stole. By the end of the night, the Jinch would have made the Whos pay a very big toll. Into the first house the grumpy girl snuck and made it so that all of the stockings from the fireplace became unstuck. After getting everything into the sack and out the window, there was only one thing left in this house that had to go. The pink tinsel Christmas tree with decorations placed with care. The Jinch started to tie it up, but something made her stop right there.

“Santa, that you?” A voice slightly muffled made Jennie the Jinch jump in fright.

It was nothing but a tired who eating in the middle of the night. A rice cake was hanging out of her mouth. Jennie had to think of something quick, or the plan would go south. She swallowed the treat all the way down.

Then she looked that the supposed Santa and started to frown, “I’m Rosé. You’re Santa cuz you’re fat. Oh wait, Santa Claus, why are you messing with our tree like that?”

“Well you see, my dear.” The impersonator fibbed. “You got the wrong tree. This one has already been dibbed. Don’t worry, my child, I’ll bring you a new one. I promise, I promise, it’ll be perfectly done.”

Before the Jinch could finish his nightly chore, another tired Who made her way through the empty corridor. This one had very dark hair unlike her sister with locks quite fair. Both had on pink sweaters so soft and cozy. Jennie really hated people like this who were nosy.

“This is Lisa, she’s younger than me.”

This Lisa girl worried too, “What are you doing with our tree?”

“Your tree belongs to another, so keeping it would be wrong. But I cross my heart dear, your tree won’t be gone long. I’ll take this tree to the correct house and put the correct one in this exact place.”

Rosé nodded, a new treat passing her lips. Hearing new footsteps, Jennie couldn’t believe that wasn’t the end of all the nighttime trips. A girl with hair in a very messy bedtime bun came into the living room to join in to all the fun.

“Why are you out of bed? What did you get up to do?”

Lisa introduced the girl, “This is our big sister Jisoo.”

The situation was explained once again and they all said it was fine. The Jinch promised to have it have their new tree set up before it was nine. And so the three girls went back to bed with tired eyes and promises and a craving that had been fed. Jennie sighed and said that was close before she finished emptying all the other Who houses in their neat little rows. All the toys they went into her sack. As if she would keep her promise of it ever coming back. For her plan was the throw it off the edge of her mountain home, and she couldn’t wait for the the whole town of Whoville to whine and bemoan.

When it was all done, she did just that. Jennie couldn’t wait to get out of her accursed Christmas hat. She leaned in and listened just as the dawn was breaking because she knew it was around this time that the whole town would be awaking. She waited for them to see that Christmas was gone with their gifts and decorations. The Jinch couldn’t wait to hear their cries. However instead of whining and complaining about what had gone missing, Jennie just couldn’t believe her eyes.

All the Whos down in Whoville gathered around the tree and began to sing a carol about friends and family. That’s when Jennie realized it wasn’t about gifts and trinkets or any of those things. What mattered really was the togetherness that the Christmas season brings. The Jinch realized that Christmas wasn’t something you could steal. It was what mattered in one’s hearts of hearts. It was about what one could feel.

Speaking of hearts, Jennie felt hers beat. She felt guilty and bad about what she had done, it really wasn’t neat. And so she pull the gifts back from ledge before it went over. Our beautiful and sweet girl followed what her inner goodness told her. She brought back the gifts, and trees, and decorations alike. Then someone gave their own gift to her, what she always wanted, a bike! Real festivities bagan and everyone forgave only on one condition that Jisoo layed out.

“From now on, you behave.”

“I promise I’ll be good. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. It just seemed that even without me that you could have so much fun.”

Lisa honest and told her what they thought, “We always sent you an invitation, but it seemed like you always forgot.”

Jennie was glad things were cleared up and everything was fine. The townspeople also invited their new friend to join them and dine. Everyone got a plate piled up with food and even fluffy Kuma was in a happy mood.

So Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight. Oh wait, oh wait, that isn’t the ending for this one, right?

#Blackpink #KIm Jennie #Kim Jisoo #Rosé #Lisa #Lalisa Manoban #Jennie Kim #Park Chae Young #how the grinch stole christmas #Grinch!AU #rhyming story #rhyming

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uppers-writes · 7 years ago

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Sick to Death

A Coco (Pixar, 2017) Fanfic

written by @upperstories

Chapter 1 of 5 - Death Warmed Over

Miguel was no stranger to being grounded.

As well meaning as the boy could be, he was a magnet for trouble. Whether it was the occasional squabble with other kids at school, butting heads with a member of his own family, or simply getting himself into foolhardy situations-- usually involving anything and everything musical-- Miguel couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d been grounded in his twelve years. Most of those times, he’d believed grounding had been an unfair consequence, that he had not been at fault.

But this time, Miguel did not argue. Did not whine about the injustice of it. Did not even bat an eye.

There were worse fates than facing an old fashioned Rivera-Brand Time Out.

“You know the drill, mijo,” said Enrique, Miguel’s papá, “No TV, no futbol, no Lucha Libre, no mu--”

“No music,” Miguel nodded, finishing his papá’s words when Enrique could not, as if rehearsed. Music was a given on being forbidden in the Rivera household, whether Miguel as punished or not.

But a small spark of something crossed his papá’s face. His father seemed to falter.

“...Well…” Enrique cleared his throat into his hand, eyes training to Mamá Coco’s bedroom door. He could hear his mother, Abuelita Elena, gushing to her mother, reliving memories that none of the other Riveras believed Coco could still recall. Hearing his mama be so happy, it was a sound he had not heard in many years, not unless it had to do with overcoming an exceedingly difficult shoe order. “No music… unless you intend on singing to Mamá Coco again.”

Miguel’s face, though slightly ashen and salt caked from dried tears, lit up. He sniffled and wiped his face, coughing a bit in spite of himself, overcome with relief.

The boy looked ready to topple over, as one would expect from a young preteen spending an entire night galavanting off to… Enrique had no idea where, but he did not feel the need to dwell on it. The idea of Miguel being alone on a holiday meant to be spent with your familia left him feeling like a rock was lodged in his stomach. A rather spiky one at that.

“A month sounds fair,” said Miguel, voice cracking from emotional fatigue, Enrique assumed.

“...How about just a couple weeks?” said Enrique, patting Miguel’s shoulder, “One week if you're good.”

Miguel almost laughed as he stumbled into Enrique’s side, making the man jump. He caught Miguel and pulled him into a hug, to which his son gladly, if weakly returned. Enrique felt his chest tighten, trying his best not to imagine all that Miguel had gone through in the past twelve hours. Though his son had refused to share every single detail of all that had transpired during Dia de los Muertos, he’d told Enrique that he’d spent it in De la Cruz’s tomb. A night in the cemetery was no place for a child, especially with the chill in the November air, and--

And...

Was Miguel shaking?

“Mijo?” Enrique said, ruffling his son’s hair, eyebrows furrowing at how warm his son’s head felt. Was he running a fever? “You know we’re not angry at you anymore, yeah? Is everything ok?”

“J-just,” Miguel croaked, smiling tiredly up at his face as he continued to cling. Miguel hadn’t clung to Enrique since he was young enough to believe in monsters under his bed, to cry over being teased by his older cousins. And he was shaking. “A little c-c-cold. And t-tired.”

“Well no wonder…” sad Enrique, feeling the light fabric of Miguel’s shirt, “You’re soaked to the skin and-- mijo? What happened to your jacket? The red one you were so fond of?”

Miguel choked on his words. For a moment, Enrique was worried he would run again, and his heart fell. Miguel hugged him tightly and his his face.

“I-I lost it, papá,” said Miguel, shakily.

“Where?”

“In the… I-In the graveyard?”

Enrique gave Miguel a look that only a father could give to a wayward son. It was a pretty darn good one too, as the boy was having a hard time keeping eye contact.

“S-sorry.”

Enrique opened his mouth to argue, to scold Miguel for telling a lie, and a rather poor one to boot. To claim that, as small as Santa Cecilia was, the cemetery was hardly a big enough place to lose a jacket. To tell Enrique the truth, the whole truth.

But one look at his son, who had already gone through enough stress from their family’s overbearing superstitions of music, who had openly cried and buried his face into his papá’s chest upon returning home (mind you, after nearly scaring him and his mother to death), who had returned Mamá Coco’s long-buried memories of a man who everyone, even Elena had grossly misunderstood, and all the fight to scold his boy had flown out of him. Enrique could only sigh, left to realize just how tired he felt after a full night of searching for his son.

“Come on, mijo,” said Enrique, gently rubbing Miguel’s back and leading him to the extended household that he and his brother’s family shared, all of it interwoven with the Rivera workshop. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Do--” Miguel coughed, roughly, then sniffled. “D-don’t I need t’get re--ready for school?”

“I think after the night you’ve had, you can afford to miss one day,” said Enrique. “Besides, you think we’re about to let you out of our sight after pulling this stunt?”

Miguel actually laughed, surprising Enrique, the snickering only interrupted by more coughs.

“I-I guess not, papá.”

Miguel’s room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the Rivera household. A single bed, a chest of drawers, some photos on the wall of small, sweet moments with friends and family. In spite of the lack of furniture, it was still very much Miguel.

Dirty clothes littered the floor in spite of his mamá’s many attempts to get the boy to clean his room. Posters of Miguel’s favorite luchadores were taped to the wall, action figures strewn about, bed left unmade-- and now that Enrique was looking with a more aware, critical eye, he spotted a borrowed toolbox under Miguel’s bed, haphazardly hidden by unmade sheets. Enrique tried not to imagine what the boy intended on using it for, though it probably had something to do with the makeshift white guitar his son had frankensteined under his family’s nose. The boy’s wastebasket was also filled with crumpled pieces of paper, a blank notepad and pen on his bedside table.

Trying to put thoughts of guitars and graveyards out of his mind, Enrique led Miguel to his bed, quickly unmaking and remaking it before helping his son climb in. Dios, the boy looked beat. He hadn’t even bothered to take his shoes off.

“Are you sure you’re just tired, mijo?” said Enrique, placing the back of his hand on Miguel’s forehead, pushing the boy’s matted hair from his face. He felt far too warm.

“Mmmhmm,” said Miguel, barely awake. He was already burying his face into his pillow.

“Miguel?” said Enrique. “At least change into some new clothes before going to bed, huh?”

“Sí, papá…”

“...Miguel?

“...”

Aaaaaand the boy was out.

For a moment, the exhaustion of the night crept up on the father, and poor Enrique was so sorely tempted to simply turn around and call it a day. But, well, a father was a father, and no matter how much he knew Miguel would complain about being fussed over, he was not about to let his boy sleep in damp clothes from yesterday.

For the first time in many years, Enrique helped Miguel untie his shoes and change his clothes. He even helped Miguel under the covers and tucked him in, giving the boy’s dirty hair a tousle. In spite of nearly turning thirteen, Enrique had almost forgotten how young his boy still was. So young and foolish and careless…

And very brave. Brave enough to do what neither he, nor Berto, nor Gloria nor any of the Rivera men or women had ever managed to do in their longer lifetimes. Change Elena’s mind, and make Mamá Coco smile like the sun.

Ah, yes. He could reprimand the boy about his carelessness later. For now, Miguel needed rest. The entire family did. He was grateful that most businesses were closed following Dia de los Muertos, as Enrique planned on spending the next few hours surrounded by his loved ones, soaking in the glow that could only have been described as a miracle.

As Enrique made his way back to the family’s hacienda, a familiar stray Xolo shambled its way clumsily across the courtyard, covered in stray marigold petals and yapping up a storm. His enthusiasm nearly gave poor Carmen a heart attack. Enrique recognized the pooch immediately as the raggamuffin mutt who followed Miguel around town, begging for scraps. The boy’s very own clumsy shadow.

Before Enrique could think to shoo the Xolo away, he heard the telltale whap of a chancla smacking a palm, and froze. He noticed movement new Mama Coco’s room and turned to find his seething, broiling mother, a petrified Berto standing right behind her. Their childhood had taught the Rivera men well, not to stand between their mother and the object of her wrath when a shoe was within reach.

“You,” growled Elena, pointing her chancla at the hairless mutt.

Dante barked, lips pulled back in a smile, long tongue lolling out in complete innocence. The poor mutt apparently could not see his end staring him right in the muzzle.

Elena marched right up to the pooch, hands on her hips, and glared down at the poor, unsuspecting dog.

Dante, as Miguel had named him, wagged his tail, standing at attention (or… at least as attentive as one canine would look with his long tongue nearly hanging to the ground).

“And just where have you been, eh?” said Elena. “Your boy goes missing for a full night and what help were you? Pah! Rolling around in some trashcan all night, I bet.”

Dante tilted his head, and for a moment Enrique thought that the pooch had finally grown some sense and was about to book it to the nearest alley. But then the Xolo simply snorted in response, and trudged forward to lean heavily into Elena’s legs, leaving dust and drool all over her skirt and apron. Enrique saw Berto cross himself, honestly looking afraid for the dog’s life.

But when mamá did not move to slap him with her shoe, Enrique knew that Berto had nothing to fear. The exhaustion, both emotional and physical, washed over her face, and she put the shoe away. Enrique almost laughed. It was not often that his strict mother’s heart was melted and her weapon shieved, but perhaps in light of recent events, poor Elena’s heart had finally lost some hardness.

Dante’s head swiveled the door leading to Miguel’s room and yapped merrily, oblivious to Elena’s frustration.

She sighed and nodded.

“Go make yourself useful,” said Elena, patting Dante’s head and motioning to the door. “Keep that boy company, mutt.”

Though Enrique knew better than to assume that this dimwitted dog could understand anything beyond the words “food” and “fetch”, Dante pounced in place, barked, and dashed off to Miguel’s room. Like a dutiful soldier.

The family collectively winced when they heard a crash, possibly of the dog running right into a wall.

A very graceless, clumsy… dutiful soldier.

-----

Héctor was no stranger to waking up in peculiar places.

The life of a vagabond had warrented him as many freedoms as it had setbacks. No home real home meant no real curfew. No one to tell him where to go or how to dress led to the opportunities to wander and cause trouble to his heart’s content. No one to look out for him, to keep him in mind, to care for his well being and safety led to night after night, drinking to (ha) forget. No one to tell him to stop when things went too far.

He couldn’t count on both boney hands how many bars he’d been thrown out of. How many gutters he’d awoken next to. How many outraged unfortunate neighbors had shooed him off of their front steps with brooms, or porches with spatulas, or window sills with chanclas (Héctor still had no idea how he’d gotten into Leon Hernandez’s window ledge hanging garden, but he could only assume that the empty tequila bottle lodged in his ribcage had everything to do with it).

But this time was different. This time, Héctor did not awaken to a cork painfully lodged in his eye socket or the smell of booze on his bones. He was not lying prone, held together by his suspenders and luck on the far edge of town. No one was screeching at him to get lost, to get off their property. From the smells, or rather-- the lack of smells, he did not think he was even in his ramshackle hut in Shantytown.

He was… somewhere warm. Some place soft. A place that held no intent on kicking him to the curb or hauling him off by his bootstraps. Sounds were muffled and quiet, though he could hear footsteps come and go past whatever room he was in. They echoed faintly, making him wonder how big the room was or how high the ceilings were. He could faintly feel sunbeams gently falling over his side, from a window perhaps? It all felt strangely, almost achingly familiar, like the room he and Imelda had shared when he was still alive--

Ah.

Yes.

So that explained it. He was dreaming of Santa Cecilia again.

He always did after Dia de los Muertos. Héctor couldn’t quite remember a time he did not dream of his hometown, but the dreams that followed him after the holiday, usually in a dazed, drunken stupor, were the ones that acted like the strongest balm. If he could not cross the bridge of orange petals, stand on the earth with his own two feet, small the oh so missed scents of tarragon, flowers, earth and stone-- and yes, even the livestock-- then by god, he could at least pretend. Pretend that everything had been a dream, that one day he would awake in his own bed to the sleeping face of his young wife, to the faint giggling of a little girl padding her way across the covers, the welcome sights and smells and sounds of home.

Héctor smiled, settling deeper into the covers.

Up a bit early today, aren’t we, mija? He wanted to say.

Tengo hambre, papa! Coco would whine.

He could almost feel her settle on his chest, gently shake him with her small hands. He wanted to reach up and cup her face, but his arms refused to move. Too tired. Too worn from the horrible, horrible nightmare.

Well, we cannot have that, a voice would say to his left.

Héctor felt his heart lift when something warm pressed up close to his side, smelling of sleep and cat hair and chicken feathers. No matter how often Imelda scrubbed, she would never be fully rid of the smells of a farm, as neither would Héctor of wood, stale clothes, ink and parchment. The smells of professions stuck with you that way, but Héctor did not mind. He preferred cats anyway.

How about huevos rancheros? Imelda would say.

Huevos! Huevos! Huevos! Coco would cheered, jumping up and down on Héctor and shaking him to more wakefulness.

Díos, this is some dream, Héctor thought. For a moment, he could feel something very heavy, shaking his chest. Pressing down. Getting heavier. How much had Coco grown in the past months he’d been gone?

Héctor tried to move his arms to lift Coco off of him, but they remained pinned to his sides. The pressing feeling was starting to spread to the rest of his body, keeping him rooted in place. Almost as if he were trapped under a rock, rather than wrapped in tight, clean sheets. The pressing turned to burning, burning in his chest and throat, and Héctor felt panic rise in him.

Why couldn’t he move? What was going on? Where was he?

The warmth from before, once sweet and caressing, turned to stifling, suffocating. Héctor couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. Almost as if…

Almost as if her were buried, deep underground. As if he were in a grave.

No.

No no no, please no.

He could not be dead. He was so close, dreaming sweetly of breakfast and tiny hands and smiles and miles away from the nightmare of the truth. That his best friend from childhood, his hermano had taken his life, that he’d spent so many decades alone in death. That Imelda had died angry and Coco had lived without knowing a father. That he’d failed time and time again to return to the small town he’d dreamt of returning to, time and time again.

Héctor wanted to scream, but his aching throat would not let him. He tried to open his mouth, to call for help, but the burning only became worse, and when he coughed, he felt the pressing intensify. His arms, so heavy and aching, could not move, and now entire body felt like it was on fire. His eyes felt as though they’d been glued shut, his head began to pound, and the soft haze of sleep gave way to dizziness. Were if not for the fact that he lacked a stomach, Héctor was certain he was going to vomit.

He felt something in his chest-- a small rib bone, fractured-- slip out of place, and choked out something that almost sounded like a word. His throat exploded in pain, and he prayed for anything to end this nightmare. Even the Final Death would have been a mercy.

“PEPITA!”

A voice screeched, reaching Héctor through the wave of pain that had drenched him, and his eyes finally flew open. He was met with blindingly brilliant colors, greens and reds and oranges, far too dazzling for the first sight of his streaming eyes (when had he started crying?). But the most brilliant were the yellow, gleaming, judging eyes of an alebrije. Imelda’s alebrije, large, commanding, terrifying, and lying completely on top of him.

“Get off of him!”

The alebrije’s large head perked and swiveled, cat-like at the skeleton standing in the doorway. Héctor almost didn’t recognize her, but even with her hair down in a single braid, and her regal purple gown exchanged for a white, embroidered camisa and red skirt, there was no mistaking Imelda Rivera, in all of her enraged glory. She was covered in leather shavings and wearing a pair of work gloves, and in one gloved hand, she shook an unfinished boot at the large creature, like a soldadera brandishing a sword.

“Shoo! Shoo! ¡Hechate!” Imela screech, “Get down, right now!”

With a defiant, almost annoyed rumbling growl, the spirit guide cowed under her mistress’s anger (the shoe, in particular), and crawled off of Héctor. The burning feeling finally gave way, and he took a deep breath-- but he regretted it almost immediately, as the cool morning air scratched and tore at his throat in a way he had not felt since living-- and was launched into a whooping cough.

Imelda dropped her shoe and was at his side in an instant. He felt her small hand gently pressed to his skull, pushing his matted hair away from his face. Her cool bones were a relieve against his skull, which felt as though someone had used it for a spirited game of futbol.

“Im--” He croaked, still hacking up a lung he did not posess, “Imelda--ha--?”

“Shhh, shh, wait for it to pass,” Imelda instructed, strict, yet tenderly. “Breath, breath…”

Once he’d finished giving his ribs a thorough workout, Héctor tried taking smaller, more even breaths. Díos, he felt awful. Like that time when he was a young boy, and caught a terrible cough from playing in the rain. He felt as though his nasal cavity had been stoppered, and his ribcage and the vertebrae along his neck burned, as if he’d swallowed several habañeros. The rest of his body hurt when he tried to move it, like many thousands of pins and needles poking his bones from the inside out, and everything else felt so heavy and hazy. Had he still been able to, he was certain he’d be sweating through the soft bed sheets he’d been wrapped up in.

“There. Easy, muchacho, easy,” Imelda crooned, placing her other hand on his chest.

He wanted to move his hand on top of her, but found he could not. Whether this was because of the pain or because his instincts still warranted trepidation with romantic contact with her, he had no clue. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been cared for with such tenderness, and instead leaned his face into her other hand when she moved it to his cheekbone. He tried to focus on breathing, not sure what to say to his former beloved. Not sure he even could say anything with his throat feeling all torn to shreds.

Imelda, skull pinched in fretfulness, annoyance, and the faintest of fondness, snapped her head at Pepita and pointed at her, accusingly.

“I told you to keep an eye on him, not smother him!” she snapped. “You could have broken a bone. Ay, Díos mio, as if he doesn’t have enough of those!”

Pepita growled again, and Héctor could swear he heard something akin to a mewl.

“Don’t apologize to me!” said Imelda, “I’m not the one who was crushed under three hundred fifty pounds of fur and feathers!”

Pepita’s ears fell back. She lied down, bodily on the ground-- and it was then that Héctor realized that the room must’ve had a rather high ceiling to accommodate such a large creature-- and she rolled onto her back. She growled in a loud, purposeful purr. Héctor wished so desperately that he could laugh at the alebrije’s attempts of endearing herself Imelda, all of its intimidating swagger flung out the window.

“Don’t you try to butter me up,” said Imelda. “It never works.”

Pepita purred louder.

“Don’t,” Imelda warned.

Pepita purred louder.

“Pepita!” Imelda snapped, though it was clear that her resolve was slipping.

The urge to laugh at the absurdity of the scene, a small, stern woman treating such an imposing creature as one would a housecat, all became too much for Héctor and he choked out a laugh-- one that sent him into another painful fit of coughs.

Imelda fell silent, all of her anger snuffed out, and with a sigh, she simply shooed Pepita to the veranda-- with a perch for some time-out time-- and returned to Héctor’s side. She smoothed out the sheets as she waited for him to settle, the poor man groaning in pain once the coughs subsided.

“What…” Héctor wheezed, voice rougher than sandpaper and almost gone, “What ‘appened? Where… where’m--?”

“Don’t talk,” said Imelda, “Save your strength. Here.”

Previously unnoticed, Héctor watched Imelda as she turned to a table next to the large twin bed, and poured water from a metal pitcher into a clean white cloth. She wrung it out over a pan and then gently placed it over his brow bone. The coolness eased the throbbing headache, and he sighed in relief, glass eyes fluttering closed.

He felt her hand press to his cheekbone once more, and pressed his face into it with more certainty than before. Were it not for the ache in his bones and the fever, feeling her run a thumb along the ridge where his upper jaw met his lower one would have felt like heaven.

“Thank you,” he croaked.

“Mmmm,” Imelda hummed, softly.

A silence fell over the both of them, and Héctor simply waited it out. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to be said, but he knew better than to interrupt the silence. For everything that Héctor wanted to tell Imelda, he could feel that she had so much more to say.

“You look awful,” said Imelda, though she held no bite in her voice, as if stating a fact rather than making a scathing remark. “How do you feel?”

Héctor tried to speak, but his voice could barely break a whisper. Why did everything hurt so much?

“Like death warmed over,” he said.

“That’s not funny,” said Imelda. She sounded angry. \

“Sorry,” said Héctor, smiling in spite of himself, “But it’s the truth.”

His smile fell when he felt thin, warm bones carefully encircling him. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the side of Imelda’s head, which she was pressing into his collar bone like a lost child to her mother’s skirt. Her boney fingers clenched the sheets. She was shaking.

“Imelda--?” Héctor croaked, the space in his ribcage where his heart would be giving a fearful jerk.

“You were gone, idiota,” Imelda said into the sheets. Héctor could not see her face, and he was thankful. From the sound of her voice, broken and forcing itself to be held together, would have been worse than any of the pain he felt right now. “You almost… you were dust.”

Héctor’s eyes widened. Memories from before were fuzzy, warped, fantastical and difficult to grasp, like smoke. He recounted… a boy, a small, living with a smart mouth, a dog, a competition, Ernesto. Things trickling back in, little by little, until Héctor finally recalled the empty, cold feeling settling over his bones and drawing all of his strength from him. Of being tired. Of feeling something he’d feared for nearly a century.

“The… the Final Death?”

“The Final Death,” said Imelda. She did not move from the embrace, nor did she stop shaking.

And that’s when everything fell back in a rush. Miguel and the photo, the Sunrise Spectacular, Imelda’s singing, nearly losing his little chamaco to a great fall, and then sending the boy home just in the nick of time. The creeping emptiness overtaking his bones, being unable to move in Imelda’s tight, desperate embrace, and everything going white.

“Oh...” Héctor croaked, numb with shock. He’d survived. Somehow, some way, his wreckless little great-great-grandson had resurrected the memory of the wayward musician from his pobrecita.

Just as he was about to become dust in his poor wife’s arms.

Héctor’s arms ached to return her embrace, but alas they still would not listen. He could only settle for pressing his face against hers, grateful that their cheekbones somehow messed together, and did not clack. They fit, like a couple puzzle pieces, and Héctor only focused on Imelda’s and his own breathing. This feeling, this fitting, gave him a whole new feeling, not one of emptiness of burning or aching, but a warm, melancholy belonging.

For the first time in so long, it almost felt like home. Not just a pretend kind from one of his dreams, but a safe, warm, home.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“I know,” said Imelda, her voice tight and muffled.

“I… I think I’m going to be saying that a lot,” he said, almost laughing, “I have a lot to be sorry for.”

“Don’t,” she said, settling deeper into the hug. Héctor nuzzled her hair, and was overjoyed beyond words to realize that she still smelled of cat hair and chicken feathers, in spite of the overpowering leather from her shoemaking. “You’ve apologized enough. Just be quiet and let me…”

Héctor did not understand what she meant at first, but when he felt her head move, the strange sensation of teeth and jaw clacking gently against his temple, Héctor went stiff.

She’d kissed him. She’d swallowed her pride, her anger, her fear, all of the many emotions his beloved had felt so strongly in life and death, and kissed him.

He hadn’t been kissed since he left home.

“Don’t you ever,” said Imelda, her voice low, threatening, with a touch of possessiveness, “Leave home again.”

Imelda sighed and settled back into the hug, her shaking finally subsided. Héctor, breathless, staring wide eyed at the ceiling above him, wished the moment could last for eternity. He fought as hard as he could against the wave of relief, of utter exhaustion as it creeped its way through him, the warmth of the embrace lulling him. He couldn’t fight it off forever, but damn if he wouldn’t try.

“Claro… I’d like to see someone… try to make me leave again,” he breathed, nestling into the feeling as exhaustion finally took him.

The last thing he heard from Imelda humming a soft tune, and Pepita purring loudly in time to her song from her perch on the veranda.

And for once, he needed not dream of returning home.

He already, finally, was.

#coco #coco spoilers #coco fanfic #sickfic #Hector Rivera #miguel rivera #imelda rivera #abuelita elena #coco rivera #enrique rivera #luisa rivera #dante #pepita #uppers writes #uppers writing #upperstories

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shipaholic · 4 years ago

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 20 Part 1

Last chapter! (1/2) It’s all over but the epilogue...

And aw, our last Big Swear.

Link to LAST PART EVER at the end! (From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono) ---

Chapter 20

Anathema grabbed for something, half-awake.

She blinked and woke herself fully. What was she doing -?

Her Book!

She thrashed and entangled herself in bed sheets. What the hell…?

She stopped moving and took a deep breath. Then she sat up, slowly enough to only get a small head-rush.

She was in her bedroom, back in Malibu. She stared at the green wallpaper. Kind of ugly, but it had always reminded her of the Book.

Wasn’t she… somewhere else?

She was already losing the details. But she was sure she had got on a plane, that she had left California - for some reason?

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. A soft rap on the door. It opened, and her mother’s face appeared.

Anathema’s eyes were suddenly full of tears. She blinked them back, because there was no reason for her to be crying, and she didn’t want to look crazy. She just - had a feeling. Like she’d known she was never supposed to see her mother again.

“Hey, baby, are you feeling better? It’s not like you to nap during the day.”

Anathema tried to hold on to the weirdness, but the details were already draining away. She rubbed her forehead. Maybe she was crazy.

“Can you come down? I need help with this food.”

Anathema pushed the covers off. She wanted to leave this room. Hopefully she could leave behind this unsettling dream.

The weirdness followed her onto the landing. Damn it. She just really, really felt like she shouldn’t be at home right now. Wasn’t she doing something? It felt so important. Her insides were twisted in knots at the thought that she hadn’t finished it.

Familiar voices drifted to her from downstairs. She stopped dead.

“Who’s visiting?”

Her mother turned around. She looked concerned.

“Everyone’s visiting, sweetie. It’s the party, remember? It’s been in the calendar forever. The whole family’s come over. Most of them arrived while you were asleep.”

Anathema stared blankly. As her mom talked, her brain caught up, but a split second behind. It was as if she was remembering reality the instant after it was described to her. Yes, of course. The party. They’d been planning the party for months. They’d known about the party for… well, forever, like her mom said. Anathema had known about this day her entire life. It was Book Day. Sort of like a book launch, but the opposite. They were celebrating the Book ending. On this day, the prophecies ran out. Everything Agnes had predicted had come true.

It was impossible to know why Agnes had stopped prophesying past twenty-nineteen, but then again, no-one had ever had any idea why Agnes had written the Book in the first place. It was all a bunch of random predictions about the Device family. Nothing earth-shattering, or even all that interesting. It had been a family curio since the sixteen-hundreds. Of course, they had all obsessed over it. It was hard not to, when a book was all about you, even if it was a little boring. At least the tip about Apple had been a real godsend. Anathema could thank her distant relative for this house, and a mind honed on the equivalent of solving a cryptic crossword from four hundred years ago, and her own hard-to-pronounce name. Besides that…

Honestly, Anathema had never cared that much about it. Most of the information in it had been decoded and come to pass already before she was even born. She felt a little alienated from the family members who took it really seriously. Mostly, she’d just looked forward to this party. It had been a while since everyone was together in the same room.

So why did she feel so strange?

Her mom stepped forward, full of concern. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

Anathema shook her head. “I just feel…”

She looked into her mom’s eyes. She was being ridiculous. She shook it off.

“It’s nothing. Just a funny turn.”

Her mom gave her a look, but turned back and began to walk down the stairs.

“You’ll be ok to hand round canapes, then?”

Ugh. Anathema wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I can handle that.”

As she followed her mom downstairs, she realised that the odd feeling was the sense that she needed to find something new to do with her life. Which was unsettling, but probably not the end of the world.

~*~

“Coo-ey, Mr. Shadwell!”

Madame Tracy knocked on her neighbour’s front door. Four times rather than her usual three.

She stood back and waited. There was a pit in her stomach, like she was afraid he wouldn’t answer. When the shuffling footsteps and the nasty cough sounded on the other side of the door, her head swam with relief.

The door opened a crack, and an angry eye appeared. “Aye?”

Madame Tracy breathed out. “There you are!”

“Not like I’d be else, wumman. What d’ye want?”

He was fine. Of course. Why wouldn’t he be? Madame Tracy beamed at him, aware that she probably looked like a bit of a ninny.

On a second glance, he looked a bit twitchier than usual. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes had that wide paranoid look they got sometimes. Tracy was a little glad it wasn’t just her.

“Funny morning, isn’t it, Mr. S?”

His eye narrowed through the gap. “Ye’re not wrong… portentous, tha’s what. It’s a bad omen. Feel like summun’s walked over m’ grave.”

“I know exactly what you mean. My hip’s playing up. It’s like there’s a change in the wind.”

He nodded. He looked reluctant to agree with her. “I sent young Newt home early. Wanted a bit of quiet.”

“Well. I’m very happy to see you, you old silly.”

That was a bit bold, maybe. But Tracy wanted to say it. She could swear his visible cheek went a bit blotchy. He harrumphed and muttered something about the devil.

There was roast beef in the oven, and two places laid out on her kitchen table. Now was the time to ask.

“Thing is, I’m on my own this afternoon and I wouldn’t say no to some company. So. There’s a Sunday roast going begging. It’d be lovely to see you.”

Shadwell’s face definitely flushed.

He muttered something that was probably an insult and had about a sixty percent chance of being an agreement, and slammed the door.

Madame Tracy giggled and left for her own flat. She knew he’d be right behind her. Probably trying to smarten up a bit. Right as rain, and definitely not dead. She frowned. No, he was quite alive. Why had she thought that?

There was nothing special about today, except for the continuing odd feeling that they had both escaped something terrible by the skin of their teeth. Well, it was probably her subconscious letting her know not to waste any more time. She decided it didn’t matter if it seemed out of the blue. Now was the time to discuss her retirement plans with him.

~*~

In his childhood bedroom in Dorking, Newt swung idly back and forth in his old computer chair. It was far too small for him, but so was everything else in the room. So was the house, really. It had always been a bit awkward ever since his first growth spurt.

He poked at the mouse, but didn’t switch the computer on. He was learning.

He had a weird feeling that he did something very cool and important recently. It was a nice feeling, and he suspected he would never experience it again.

He looked around his room. All his old electronic projects from decades past were laid out meticulously, with their numbered parts and their instruction manuals. None of it had ever mattered. Newt had always triple-checked that he had followed the manual and joined up the correct parts exactly, and every time he had blown something up, taken down the power grid, or caused a small fire. Catastrophic failures, every one.

He let his eye drift over them all as he rocked himself from side to side in his computer chair.

An idea popped into his head. It was a strange little idea. Probably not worth paying attention to. He was only entertaining it because his mum had said there were still fifteen minutes left before dinner.

What would happen if he tried to mess them all up on purpose -?

~*~

Warlock Dowling surveyed this year’s worth of birthday presents, crammed into his already overflowing bedroom. It had taken three days just to round everything up from under various counters, sofas, hedges, etc. throughout the house and grounds. He nodded in satisfaction. Good haul this year.

One thing was bothering him. It was a weird one, because he wasn’t sure why it had never occurred to him before now. He frowned.

He bellowed out of his bedroom door.

“MOM? Why the fuck do I have such a weird name?”

His mom called back from the floor below. “Language, honey.”

She sounded frosty. Whatever.

“I want some tropical fish,” he hollered back.

~*~

Tadfield, England. A village in a time capsule. A perfect place for a child to grow up.

Three children crossed the edge of a field, round the back of the houses. Two of them had sticks, which they swept lazily against the hedges as they walked.

They passed rows of neat back gardens until they reached the one that belonged to their best friend.

They heard barking before they arrived. Dog’s nose poked through the back gate. He was a little black and white dog, with a nose that snuffled at the air and at hedgerows and at other dogs’ behinds, unimpeded by any kind of space helmet.

Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale ran to the gate, dropping their sticks. Pepper and Brian hopped onto it like a climbing frame, using the slats as shelves for their hands and feet. The gate groaned. Wensleydale stood back, eyeing it mistrustfully.

Adam waved to them. He was sitting out in a deck chair. His curls shone gold as the sun dipped low in the sky. His hair was getting a bit long. He had to sweep it out of his eyes.

“All right, Adam?”

“All right.”

Dog bounced up at the gate, yapping. Pepper reached a hand down to scratch his head.

“The circus is setting up near Norton Woods,” Brian said. “We were going to watch.”

“Brian reckons they’ve got lions and grizzly bears,” said Pepper.

“I think they probably haven’t, actually,” said Wensleydale.

“Want to come with us and see?”

They looked at Adam, expectantly.

He gave them a rueful smile. “Can’t.”

Their faces fell.

“Why not? Are you still not allowed near the circus? Tell your dad it was an accident last time -”

Adam shook his head. “Nah, it’s not that. I’m grounded.”

Pepper’s mouth fell open in dismay. Brian pursed his lips at the injustice of it all.

“But what for?”

Adam hesitated.

“Come on, Adam, what did they say?”

“Oh, they didn’t say anything. I’ve sort of.” Adam coughed. “I’ve sort of grounded myself.”

The Them fell silent in astonishment. The notion of their leader volunteering for punishment caused their universe to crack open in a way they didn’t like.

Pepper eyed Adam. She didn’t say, “But why?”, even though it was clearly the only question that could be asked. He looked serious, far beyond any seriousness he had ever shown before now.

“Thing is.” Adam frowned. He scratched his head on the left side. “I kind of… did something bad. Something really, really bad. I need to properly think about it.”

“You mean like… murder?” Wensley whispered.

The other two didn’t jeer at him. They watched Adam for confirmation, eyes wide.

Adam’s mouth quirked up at one side. “Not… exactly. But it was serious. I reckon I need to sit out here and just think about it for a while.”

The Them exchanged looks. This was well outside of their usual emotional range.

“Will you still be thinking about it tomorrow?” asked Pepper.

Adam brightened. “Oh, no, tomorrow I’ll be done. That’ll be quite enough thinking by then.”

The Them cheered up. “Oh, OK,” Brian said. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Bye, Adam,” Pepper and Wensley said.

Pepper and Brian jumped down from the gate. They wrestled, loyally, with whether to give the circus a miss, but decided it would be acceptably loyal to go anyway and just tell Adam it wasn’t that good.

The three of them left, waving over their shoulders. Adam waved back.

Dog sniffed around the hedge, nose working overtime. It was as though he was making up for lost time, smell-wise.

Adam watched him. He knew that there could be a hole in the hedge. Easy. Lots of hedges had holes in them. And if there were, Dog would certainly run out, and Adam would certainly have to chase him.

But…

No. Not today.

“Here, Dog!” he called.

Dog raced towards him, tail a blur. He jumped onto his hind legs and put his front paws on Adam’s leg, closing his eyes in doggy bliss when Adam scratched his ears.

Adam grinned. Dogs were brilliant. He was so lucky to have a dog.

---

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #I'm typing this at high speed in a cafe bc my wifi's down~

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buzzmery · 5 years ago

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21 Reasons You Can’t Get A Girlfriend

There’s a reason for everything and deciding why you're having trouble landing a girlfriend isn’t always easy.

Besides, if you knew why, you wouldn’t have a problem, right?

We are getting to uncover oodles of various common and not-so-common reasons why you would possibly be having trouble within the girl department, so you'll take action to form positive changes.

After you understand why you're having issues, then you'll make an idea to interrupt through your obstacles and find an answer.

21 REASONS YOU CAN’T GET A GIRLFRIEND ONE – YOU AREN’T TRYING ENOUGH TIMES If you're serious about getting a woman, you’ve needed to intensify to the plate and hit it such as you mean it. Use as many approaches as you'll until you land the girl.

Studies say the bulk of men that can’t get a girlfriend just don’t try enough times. In other words, they provide up prematurely.

Guys don’t like rejection and if they ask a woman out and she or he says no, it often takes months before he’ll try again!

Wrong!

Don’t let the sheer fear of rejection stop you from getting a pleasant girlfriend.

Rinse and repeat. Ask a woman out and obtain her telephone number. Keep doing it until you get a yes. and check out to not be too picky because if one girl isn’t getting to work for you, then you owe it to yourself to undertake another.

TWO – YOU’RE TOO PICKY Chances are you’ve been watching too many Victoria Secret magazines and that they have painted an unrealistic vision of the right girl for you in your brain. Having too many set features or characteristics goes to the line you up to fail.

Time for you to open your mind and obtain real. Step outside your temperature and take a second glance at a woman that doesn’t suit your perfect picture.

You never know until you are trying.

THREE – QUITTERS NEVER WIN If you’re the sort of man that quits too quickly, there’s no wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. Resilience is golden within the dating and relationship department.

Ask a woman out and if she’s busy, that’s fine. you'll still ask her out again. Have touch patience and persistence; and you’ll be surprised how easy it's to truly get a girlfriend.

Think of it from the women's perspective for a moment. Maybe she needs a touch time to warm up to you? provides it an opportunity by asking her again for a week approximately and you only could be pleasantly surprised.

FOUR – you reside IN YOUR PARENT’S BASEMENT Sorry boys, if you continue to accept your parents, that shouts bent the planet, you're a loser. Girls don’t want to travel out with a boy that lives with mommy and daddy.

If you're working and may afford to measure on your own, you better roll in the hay quickly if you ever want to possess a meaningful relationship. Scratch that, if you ever want to possess any relationship in the least.

When you survive your own, it’s one of the simplest routes to secure a girlfriend.

FIVE – YOU’RE JUST a pleasant GUY This isn’t an honest thing because “nice” guys usually do finish last. If you’re too nice, the women aren’t getting to offer you a second glance.

Stop being too nice and you’ve got an opportunity.

SIX – HYGIENE ISSUES If you've got any quite hygiene issues, you'll never get a girlfriend. Bad breath, dirty clothes, and greasy hair are bad news.

Some girls don’t need a man to be her boyfriend for very specific almost anal reasons, and not taking care of yourself fits the bill.

SEVEN – YOU LET YOUR INSECURITIES GET within the WAY Everyone has things they don’t like about themselves and a few things just got to be accepted or changed. Maybe you’ve lost your hair so you’re getting to need to just recover from that one. But if you're overweight, you'll make changes to reduce and obtain happiness.

Regardless, you're who you're within the now and if you don’t love yourself, you would possibly never get a girlfriend.

Everyone has flaws and that’s no reason to not have a girlfriend unless you let it get within the way.

Look around you. Happy couples are available in all different shapes and sizes. Stop letting your insecurities be your excuse.

EIGHT – TRYING TOO HARD TO BE PERFECT The girls just like the men who aren’t perfect. You see, when a person seems too perfect, this puts pressure on the girl to undertake and be perfect too. Then she’s getting to get worried she isn’t ok and that’s enough to form a woman run far and fast the opposite way.

Think about this one for a moment.

NINE – EXPECTING the lady to form the primary MOVE Of course, there are times when a woman initiates the primary move but that’s far and few in between.

The Truth is…the majority of girls prefer a person to form the primary move and if he hasn’t got the balls to try to that, she is going to just advance.

That’s not a challenge, just the truth!

THEN – YOU’RE the person THAT’S ALWAYS LOST within the CROWD If you happen to be the guy that hangs out with popular and super sexy strong men, you'll be last within the hierarchy. So if the lads around you're stronger than you, they're shining brighter and your sweet personality will never be seen much less valued.

Don’t put yourself out at the expense of your friends. you'll never during a zillion years get a girlfriend, if all the talk is about the buddies you hang around with.

Something else to believe.

ELEVEN – YOU HAPPEN to keep faraway from ALL THINGS SOCIAL If you're a social introvert naturally, you’re making it super tough on yourself to urge a girlfriend.

Newsflash! If you're serious about getting a girlfriend, you would like to exit into the sunshine and attend the social places where girls hang out.

No, if’s, and’s, or but’s about this one.

TWELVE – YOU grind to a halt ON YOUR PAST SCREW-UPS! If you get all crazy about your past mistakes with women, it'll interfere with getting a girlfriend within the now.

Yes, it’s natural to believe how you screwed up but if you need a girl on your arm, you’ve just needed to let it go.

Use your past to find out and grow from, to not linger over with an interference factor.

You are human and you'll make mistakes. Let it go and specialize in the positive and you'll get your girl.

THIRTEEN – YOU HAPPEN TO BE MR. COMPLAINER If you're a perpetual complainer that yaps on and on about how crappy your life is and the way you'll never get a woman ever, then you don’t deserve a girlfriend.

Seriously dude! Stop complaining and begin talking positively. Your attitude and demeanor will change and trust me, the women will come.

This one is your choice.

FOURTEEN – you only DON’T HAVE THE LOGICAL DISCIPLINE TO ASK WOMEN OUT REGULARLY This is a learning process and you would like to sometimes just throw your hat to the wind and choose it.

If you aren’t willing to regularly ask women out, then you're choosing all by yourself to not have a girlfriend. Pretty sad if you inquire from me.

FIFTEEN – you're TOO FOCUSED ON WORK for love or money ELSE This one may be a no-brainer. If you're working crazy hours and not willing to form time for dating and a woman, you'll never have one.

Sadly, some men choose their career over having a girlfriend and within the end, they're left with nothing.

SIXTEEN – YOU’RE TOO CHICKEN to inform IT love it IS I’m calling you boys out here. If you can’t make yourself a tad vulnerable and let a woman know that you simply have an interest in being quite just friends, you risk the prospect of only being friends and zip more.

What you would like to try to do is intensify to the plate and tell this girl you would like to kiss her which you would like her to be your girl. once you do that, she’ll either be head over heels receptive or she won’t.

Don’t you think that it’s worthwhile just to seek out?

SEVENTEEN – you're SERIOUSLY OUT OF SHAPE This doesn’t mean you would like to be ripped and have a six-pack! What this suggests is that you simply shouldn’t be sporting a beer belly and you ought to attempt to possess some muscle and a touch sexy lean tissue mass.

That is super hot!

You don’t need to be perfect but you would like to undertake.

Truth – once you are in shape, you're showing her you care about your body which works wonders once you are focused on getting a woman.

Slobs are gone!

EIGHTEEN – you're JUST THOUGHT OF AS ICKY Sorry to mention, women do care about looks and that’s something you would like to stay into your pipe and smoke it.

Yes, a man cares far more about how his girl looks, but…Girls care too!

A girl does care about how you look and if you're ugly and a slob, she’s just not getting to be your girlfriend regardless of how sweet you're. Please understand this before you're taking another breakthrough.

FACT – Guys have it such a lot easier than girls. All you would like maybe a clean look and a few stubbles and you'll drive a woman crazy.

Stop your complaining and take action. you'll win if you are doing.

NINETEEN – NO MONEY OR POTENTIAL There is little question that cash draws the sweet girls in. i don’t care what you think that because money is what many ladies want.

If you're financially secure, you'll get a girlfriend. which may not be fair but that's reality…Trust me.

Women want to be ready to leave for a movie or a pleasant meal without worry. And for a bonus, if you'll take them on a mini-vacation without the fear of cash, you're golden.

That’s the reality straight up.

TWENTY – an equivalent STUFF ON REPEAT WILL KILL YOU If you're a programmed creature of habit that never changes his ways, you only aren’t getting to have a girlfriend.

Girls are drawn to the strong men that are getting to take them on new adventures. the lads which will step outside their temperature to wow her. End of story.

If you would like to seek out your value and maybe find a girlfriend for real, you would like to drop your walls and open them up to opportunity. Then you would like to point out her and make it happen.

TWENTY-ONE – you're TOO NEEDY Girls haven't any trouble sniffing out the person that's needy and dependent. Secret – That’s a complete turn-off.

Women are drawn naturally to men that are confident and sure in themselves. those which will dare decisions and put the girl first.

For sure, girls don't want an insecure man that doesn’t skill to require control and make decisions. There are zillion fish within the sea…that’s fact.

Step up to the plate if you want.

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asaricciardi-blog · 7 years ago

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A Story About Tom the Sheep

Once there was a sheep named Tom.

Tom was raised like a dog — like a pet.

He came when called and enjoyed scratches and belly rubs. He had great spunk, personality and was much loved all around.

What a sweet, happy sheep was Tom. Tom followed his people wherever they went and was a great help on the farm.

Tom didn’t have his manly bits, if you know what I mean, so he was used as a teaser sheep.

Put Tom in with the ewes and in a few months — wham-o! Everyone’s ovulating in sync. Tom heads home and a “real” ram replaces him. Ram does his job, if you know what I mean, and lo and behold — spring lambs.

Lovely story right? I would love to have a Tom sheep trotting in my kitchen. (Forget the fact that I don’t have a kitchen because I’ve been nomading for two years.)

Two years ago in Argentina, I met Oscar the lamb. He was just 6 months old and a fan of dog food. Dog food is very, very bad for sheep by the way. It causes all sorts of itchy, raw, terrible skin reactions.

Oscar was the lone sheep on a horse ranch I was volunteering on. I really loved Oscar. He was a funny lamb, very enthusiastic, very chatty, very attached to people. Not in the least bit concerned with the 10+ dogs on the property yapping at him through honeycombed fences.

Oscar was just so content to munch his clover.

Sheep are simple creatures, but I guess when given enough attention and human interaction, as opposed to a constant flock mentality, they can turn out right smart like.

Like Tom.

But one day, Tom wasn’t so smart.

Tom was keeping a flock company on the day the big truck came to escort the sheep to the slaughterhouse.

Tom was just happy to be part of the group. Go where they go. Do what they do. Tom jumped onto the truck.

Nobody noticed he was missing until it was too late.

I hate this story.

I never met Tom but I feel immeasurably sad all the same. Our Kiwi host family (we were volunteering on a Scottish Highland cattle hobby farm) knew the couple who raised Tom, and they were all very distraught for weeks after this tragic accident.

It’s rather like The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, isn’t it?

It makes me wonder though — why it is so tragic for Tom but not the other sheep?

We think and rightly so, “Well, Tom’s different. Tom’s loved. Tom’s smart. Like a dog, and we wouldn’t eat a dog.”

Maybe all sheep could be loved.

Maybe all sheep could be smart.

Tom was only different because he was pulled apart for a different way of life and so he learned a different way of being.

I know sheep are raised for food and milk and wool and it’s all a cycle of life and healthy and normal. Seemingly healthy if raised and slaughtered humanely that is.

Few people do the humane part and the sheep farms I’ve seen out east in Colorado near where I grew up, are very depressing and completely disgusting.

Anyway, I have these nagging thoughts about the cycle of life.

Just because something has been a cycle, does that mean it must stay a cycle?

We are, after all, evolving.

I am not a vegetarian, but I think about vegetarianism often.

I don’t have full answers and won’t be putting away my steak knife just yet.

Here’s what I’m wrestling with:

If I — or we as a collective whole of evolving people with new options available for nutrition that weren’t a good option ever before in history — if we have the option to be meat free…shouldn’t we be?

If we can healthily and readily be come vegetarians and choose not to kill, is that not a higher road?

I am playing the devil’s advocate in a way. I have arguments for and against that question.

I am trying to confront both the discomfort I feel at watching life and breath taken from an innocent, defenseless animal and the desire to consume a fragrantly roasted leg of lamb that was marinated in wine and rosemary, olive oil and sea salt.

We eat living things to live. I know.

It’s been happening for millions of years and I get that some animals cannot survive as herbivores. They will continue to be predators it seems, at least until prey is scarce, and then they will die off, or they will evolve to be able to survive on plants, nuts, or other forms of food.

But humans actually can survive and thrive on a vegetarian and even vegan diet.

Not necessarily in all areas of the world of course. Veganism seems to be another form of white privilege. However, I am a proponent for eating close to the earth and at times that means to eat — meat.

In Greenland, whale and seal and narwhal are common fare.

You just can’t grow much in the way of green things up there, and the fat in the sea animals is full of good nutrients and essential vitamins and trace minerals. Those people should continue to eat sea life especially because it is part of the native history, heritage, and culture.

It would be absurd to endanger narwhals anymore though and ship them around the world for consumption.

So it’s a dilemma. And I have not yet found peace with it in my soul.

I do think the U.S. consumes an inordinate and unnecessary amount of meat.

That people are obsessed with, say, bacon because it has become a sort of identity and source of pride.

“You’re a real woman if you like bacon! More men will want to date you!”

Seriously? Where did this message come from?

Bacon band-aids. Bacon Christmas ornaments. Bacon wrapped bacon.

Advertising makes us obsessive.

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I like bacon. But I don’t eat it every day. I don’t even eat it every week.

And this is where I think we as a nation, as a people, as humans, can and must show more restraint and moderation.

Too many of us are way out of sync with the way the world works.

Chicken comes in a package at a grocery store. We never see the feathers. We never even see the dirt or the poop on the eggs that were most definitely there at one point.

We live separated from nature, animals, and this cycle of birth and death.

We all too readily avoid death at any cost.

We don’t confront the uncomfortable.

This is not a strength, but a deficit. It is unfortunate.

We have made meat-eating an identity and I think that’s dangerous.

We should not take so much pride in this. We should respect the life we consume.

If we had more awareness of what it takes to raise and kill an animal, we would not eat so much of it.

But it is very easy to forget this in a supermarket.

The older I get, the more sensitive I feel about life. All life.

I don’t kill spiders. I don’t take pleasure in crushing ants. I’m sad for the pigeons swept up in car wheels.

I didn’t use to be this way. I didn’t use to think about these creatures. I lived from a gut reaction. I suppose I lived with little awareness and in response to patterns I learned from my family, community, and world at large.

In the end, I still struggle with eating meat and yet I still eat meat because I’m not sure foregoing meat is actually the answer or the answer I am looking for.

Maybe I am simply looking for more respect of life, more awareness of how connected we are to each other, and more self-control/awareness when it comes to how we treat our bodies and the bodies of creatures around us.

The meat industry is not a pretty business. It is not sustainable and it is not kind.

Eat local. Buy from farmers you trust, from farms you’ve visited. That’s a pretty good practice when possible.

I challenge you to think about how many times you eat animal products in a week. I bet you think it’s not a meal unless there is a meat protein. That’s propaganda. That’s false advertising. You don’t need to eat meat to get enough protein in your diet.

So why not cut back a bit? Get creative in vegetarian meal planning. For some reason, people think eating vegetarian means it’s boring and there’s no flavor. My god…use some spices people!

At home, I mainly eat vegetarian meals and never think twice about it. I haven’t reached a place where I want to impose my diet on other people though. I will eat anything anyone puts in front of me when I am a guest in their home, and I will eat it in gratitude.

I remember the night our New Zealand hosts cooked up corned beef from one of their highland cattle. It was incredible. Absolutely delicious. I was so thankful for that meal. It was hard though because I’d bonded with those cattle, but I also knew they had a good, good life and their lives were not taken in vain. The family ate from their organic garden 90% of the time.

The next weekend the family cooked up some sausages from their pigs who use to walk the orchards but had been in the freezer for a few months by the time I arrived.

Pigs are pretty smart too you know. People keep them for pets. What makes it OK to eat some animals and not others?

Now that is another can of worms for another blog.

In the meantime, let’s be uncomfortable together.

It’s OK to consider and discuss these things. But let’s take identity out of the issue for once. And by that I mean the stereotypes and judgments we place on what “kind of person” a vegetarian is, or a vegan is, or a meat-eater is.

And instead, let’s just talk about what being a good caretaker of the earth is.

Cheers,

Aša Ricciardi

#vegetarianism #meat #bacon #bigquestions #evolving #collectiveconsciousness

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