#or a sense of impending doom if you say something particularly distressing

[four-two-six]

sometimes i look at a post, especially an art post, and go "oh this has like a crap ton of notes! i bet theyve gotten a lot of love for their funny joke or awesome work!" and then i click and its 90% likes and 0 replies and 0 tags on the reblogs

[hailing-stars]

@febuwhump: day two - I can’t take this anymore 

no screens for the concussed 

summary 

“Is he broken?” He heard Happy’s panicked question from somewhere out of sight. “He can’t be broken. We can’t return a broken kid to May.“

“Relax, Hap, Peter’s taken rougher falls than this one,” said Tony, his voice still calm, even if his eyes were panicked. “Right, kid?”

Peter’s stomach lurked, and finally, he knew how to say what he needed to say. ”Trash can.”

“What?”

“Throw up,” said Peter. “I’m gonna.”

OR

A flight goes wrong thanks to turbulence causing Peter to take a blow to the head.

Peter gripped the straps of his overnight bag, and stared at the Stark Jet sitting on the tarmac, waiting for them to board it. It wasn’t his first time on a plane, or even on one of Tony’s, so he couldn’t explain the dread, the tight knot sitting in his stomach, wound and ready, it seemed, to snap him in half.

That morning he’d woken up anxious, with a slight nauseous feeling and an ache behind his eyes. All day the anticipation built, built and built, by no single thought in particular, though the plane gave the anxiety a target, a threat in which to spiral and to tighten.  

“What’s the deal with the sunglasses?” asked Happy, once the three of them got settled on the plane.

Tony chose the seat next to Peter. “Leave the kid alone, Hap, he’s obviously learned his fashion sense from the best. Sunglasses inside will always be hip.”

“Don’t say hip,” Happy told Tony. “You’re old just like me.”

“Old and hip, right, Pete?” Tony nudged him with his elbow, and the plane moved, at least it did for Peter. One look out the window told him that they were, in fact, standing still. “You okay, kid? You look sort of  pale. And disturbed, like that time you were arguing with that film critic on Twitter.”

“He wasn’t a film critic,” said Peter. “Just some guy on the internet, and he got Star Wars completely wrong. Probably didn’t even watch it.”

Tony chuckled, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket and began to scroll. Peter was thankful for the distraction, redirecting his anxious, now angry, thoughts towards the people on the internet, until Happy made a move to pull his overnight bag from his hands.

“I want to hold it,” said Peter, clutching his bag, embarrassingly aware of how similar he probably looked to a child hugging a bear.

“Okay,” said Happy, giving him a suspicious stare. “You sure you’re alright? You’ve been acting weird all day.”

“I’m fine, Happy.”

“Just making sure.” Happy backed away from where Peter and Tony sat, and sat down at the table on the opposite side of the plane. “May would kill me if you collapsed before we even got to the conference.”

“What he really means is May will make him sleep on the couch.”

“Can we please not talk about that,” said Peter, quickly, before Tony took the conversation to awkward, uncomfortable places.

Happy grumbled in Tony’s direction, before sinking into his chair and pulling headphones out from his pocket, plugging them into his phone and ultimately, pointedly sticking them in his ears.

Peter thought Happy sort of had the right idea.

Headphones were what he needed for this flight, and he needed to get to them before the plane roared to life and they shot up into the air. He unzipped all the compartments of his bag, his search becoming more and more frantic as it had started to become apparent his headphones were missing.

“Shit.” He pushed his bag off him, and when it landed to the floor, his wallet fell out of the smallest pocket.

“Kid,” said Tony. “Take a breath. What’s wrong?”

“I left my headphones at home.”

“What? Conversation with me that unbearable, huh?”

Tony smiled at him, but Peter wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He turned his attention back to the floor, where his bag still laid with the contents spilling out. He kicked at it, and Tony gripped his forearm.

“Pete?” asked Tony, his voice low and quiet, making it clear his words were just for Peter to hear. “What’s up? Something’s clearly bothering you. Something a little deeper than headphones.”

Peter sat up straighter in his chair and looked straight ahead, his thoughts racing and spinning out, about the plane, and about having to confess that he was Spider-Man and that his anxiety was getting the better of him.

“It’s not a big deal,” said Peter. “Just feeling a little anxious.”

Tony frowned at him. “About the flight? You’ve flown -”

“I know, look, I know, alright?” Peter’s words left his mouth sharper than he intended. “I’m sorry, I’m just -”

“-Anxious.”

“Yeah,” said Peter. His arm flew to grip the armrest as the plane shifted beneath them. “And I don’t have my headphones.”

“I could steal Happy’s for you.”

Peter sunk down in his chair, and gripped the armrest even tighter. “Please don’t… please don’t turn this into a big thing.”

Tony raised an eyebrow at him.

“You know, like freak out about it, and call May, and discuss it like I’m not here, and get all concerned and worried and helicoptering.”

“Doesn’t help much, does it?”

And because Peter was too stressed to lie, he told the truth. “Not really, no.”

There was silence between them, until the plane started to roll forward, and Tony pulled his laptop from his own bag, placed it on the table in front of them.

“I have just the distraction,” he told Peter. He clicked a few buttons and the titles of movies appeared on the screen, all Peter’s favorites. “Thought I’d start working my way through the list.”

“What is this?”

“Everytime you make some off the wall movie reference I have FRIDAY add it to the list, if I haven’t already seen it,” said Tony. “So, how about it? No better time to knock one of these out than a flight.”

Peter nodded, allowing just a small smile, and distracted by his tightening anxiety by the revelation that Tony actually listened to him when he talked about things. The opening credits began, and Peter could do this. He could survive this flight.

*

Peter couldn’t do this.

It had been fine for a few minutes, once they got up in the air, and Tony had started the movie, and it had been easy to pretend they were anywhere else.

But everything went to hell when the turbulence started.

Peter gripped his chair so tightly he was sure the armrests would be dented and broken once he let them go. He imagined outside the plane was being tossed around like a ship on an angry sea, and once or twice, he watched Tony’s reaction, knowing he didn’t have to worry if his mentor wasn’t displaying any signs of distress.

And he wasn’t. Neither was Happy.

They were tense, clearly uncomfortable, but overall, not anticipating their impending doom the way Peter imagined being violently ripped from the dark, angry clouds.

Happy looked a bit like the time May forced him to come to a Decathlon meet and sit in the uncomfortable folding chair, and Tony frowned, the way he did whenever Peter mentioned hanging out with Harry Osborne.

“We’re good, Pete,” said Tony, after a particularly nasty bump. “All normal.”

Peter nodded, too nervous to be embarrassed by his anxiety. And he would’ve been fine, would’ve gotten over his draining feeling of doom that twisted his insides, if it hadn’t been for the nauseous feeling that came with it.

He tried to ignore it. Pretended that the only thing bothering him was the plane being tossed around, but then everything went still. The turbulence stopped. And it did nothing to improve the turbulence in Peter’s stomach.

He bolted from his chair.

Peter ignored Tony yelping in surprise and yelling at him to sit back down. Yelling that things were probably about to get rocky again, and because the universe always had to spite him, because Tony Stark always had to be right, that was exactly what happened.

The plane shifted, and Peter was knocked off his feet and sent stumbling towards the left wall, where his head caught the corner of a cabinet. It was sharp, blinding pain on the top of his head, so splintering that his eyes were dizzy with stars, so disorientating that he hadn’t realized he’d fallen to the ground until there was a weight on his shoulder and Tony’s head floating in the space above him.

“God, Pete, are you okay?”

Peter mumbled his words, unable to get them out in a way that made sense.

“Is he broken?” He heard Happy’s panicked question from somewhere out of sight. “He can’t be broken. We can’t return a broken kid to May.“

“Relax, Hap, Peter’s taken rougher falls than this one,” said Tony, his voice still calm, even if his eyes were panicked. “Right, kid?”

Peter’s stomach lurked, and finally, he knew how to say what he needed to say. ”Trash can.”

“What?”

“Throw up,” said Peter. “I’m gonna.”

Happy brought a trash can to where he was laid out on the floor just in time for him to stick his head into and throw up. Once he finished, he rested his head against the plane’s carpet and shut his eyes, until he couldn’t ignore the nudging on his shoulder any longer.

“Stop, Tony, tired.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t go to sleep.”

Peter opened his eyes and stared at him. “Why?”

“Because your hair is getting crusty with blood and you probably have a concussion,” Tony told him.

“Not a doctor.”

“Nope,” said Tony. “But I have Google, and I’ve known you long enough to have had cause to look up these symptoms at least seventy-two separate times in the past.”

“Can’t be that many,” said Happy, still somewhere out of sight.

“Have you met Peter?” asked Tony. “The kid attracts accidents and illnesses so often I’m starting to think it’s another side effect of the spider bite.”

Peter groaned, as his stomach lurched a second time, and as the plane shook some more. When things went steady again, Tony got up and left him, only to return minutes later with a warm cloth he used to gently attack his hair with.

“That’s a pretty nasty cut,” said Tony.  

The mention of blood was too much for Peter’s weak stomach, and he stuck his head back in the trash can and threw up some more, with the added bonus of smelling and splashing around his puke from the first time.

“Hap,” said Tony, taking the trash can away from Peter when the second round was over. “Flush this.”

“Why do I have to be the puke dumper?”

“Would you rather flush the puke or clean the blood?”

Happy marched over and took the trash can with him to the bathroom, and Tony stayed with him on the floor, gently dabbing at his head between spurts of turbulence.

“This really sucks,” said Peter. His eyes were heavy, and sleep felt just inches away, beckoning him, willing him to just shut his eyes and give in. “I hate this. I want off this plane. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You can,” said Tony. “Because you have to, so you will, and we’re almost there. Just a few more minutes.”

“Never flying again.”

“Yes you will.”

“Will not,” said Peter. “Let’s take a train next time.”

“I don’t see how that’d be any different,” said Tony. “You’d just find a way to injure yourself on that, too.”

The plane shook again, shook the inside of Peter’s head, which already felt as if it were on fire. It shook the inside of his stomach, which still felt like he still needed that trash can.

Happy, as if he could read his thoughts, reappeared with the now empty trash can. Peter took it, and gripped the edges, but thankfully, the sick feeling went away. He was left hugging the plastic container, just in case, as the plane blazed through the clouds.  

*

They went straight to the hospital once the plane landed. After being blinded with flashlights, and put through MRI scans, the doctor agreed that he had a concussion, but a mild one that allowed them to leave the hospital and check into the hotel.

Tony kept the lights dim in the suite. He pushed him into a bed, and ordered him to stay there while he went downstairs to the lobby to buy him ridiculously overpriced gatorade, ginger ale, and crackers. Happy stayed behind, and stared at him from the armchair in the corner.

“You still remember your name, don’t you?”

Peter made a big deal about looking up at the ceiling. “Uh, umm, it starts with a P, right? Something about a park maybe…”

Happy’s alarmed expression was enough to spin the entire trip, both the flight from hell and the visit to ER, in a brighter light.

“Chill out, Happy,” said Peter, the hint of a laugh in his voice. “I’m fine.”

He still didn’t look convinced.

“It’s Peter. God, I know my name.”

“That’s not funny,” said Happy, standing from the armchair and waving an accusing finger at him, at the same time Tony walked into the room with a bag filled with sick people remedies. Happy brushed past him, and grumbled, “I’m going to bed.”

The door to the adjoining room opened and closed, and Tony dropped the bag on the bed by Peter’s feet.

“Alright, what will it be?” asked Tony. “Glacier Cherry gatorade? 7up?”

“Uhhh,” said Peter. “...I’m good.”

“You have to drink something,” said Tony. “You’re getting the gatorade. I don’t wanna find out what dramatic thing happens when spiders get dehydrated.”

“I resent that,” said Peter, but accepted the frosty, cold drink anyway, knowing Tony wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if he didn’t at least sip on it.

He worked on taking slow drinks while Tony buzzed about the room, messing around with their suitcases and putting all the sick person snacks away. Finally, he sat down on the other bed, and looked at the TV they couldn’t turn on.

“Worst conference ever,” said Peter. “I’m rating it one out of ten.”

“Wow. That’s historically bad, bud, considering it technically hasn’t started yet, and we won’t even be attending anymore.”

That had been Tony’s call. Over protective, really, like refusing to turn on the TV and taking Peter’s phone away. No screens for the concussed. It was completely unfair.

Tony had declared on the ride from the hospital to the hotel that they’d stay in and rest the next day.

“I’m sorry I ruined your trip.”

Tony laughed. “It’s a technology convention, ran by people years behind SI, Peter. We weren’t going there for me. We were going for your college application.”

“I’m sorry to my college applications, then.”

“Don’t be,” said Tony. “There’s still plenty of time for that. Other conventions. Better ones. Truth be told, just wanted the time to hang out with you and Happy.”

“Could’ve just invited us over for pizza.”

“Nah,” said Tony. “This was more fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Pizza, huh? That mean you’re getting through your pukey phase?”

“Maybe,” said Peter. He hadn’t noticed the bad feelings in his stomach had become less pronounced, had almost disappeared completely. “Hopefully.”

“How’s the anxiety?”

“Better,” said Peter. He chuckled, despite himself, and his concussion, the way the motion hurt his head. “Don’t really know what it was about, actually.”

“Anxiety doesn’t need a reason,” said Tony. “Or at least one that’s obvious.”

That idea of randomness, that anxiety would always be around, lurking, might have really fucked him over earlier. But it was a little easier to take knowing he had Happy providing trash cans and dumping his puke, and Tony to help him through it. Two extra people in his corner on bad days, so it was alright. Everything was alright.

[finleyjayne]

Everyone is Sad Sometimes

Steve Rodgers x Reader

Summary: During a depressive episode the end of the tunnel can seem impossible to reach. Your therapist says that you are not alone in your feelings but you don’t believe them. They don’t live in a compound with superheroes. After a run in with a certain super soldier, You can’t help but wish to bask your sorrows in your secret stash of icecream, what will happen when someone else has the same Idea?

Warnings: Angst, Panic Attacks

A/N: Sorry not sorry, Thank you for the photo Google. Also I’m going to tag @captain-rogers-beard​ because I am new and I want at least one person to read this.(Thank you Mimi)

Depression hits everyone at one time or another. That's what your therapist keeps telling you. It's just hard to see how the literal superheroes around you are dealing with depression. Like sure Tony locks himself into his bubble of work, Natasha goes missing for a week every month, and Bucky... don't even start with Bucky. Even Thor could be seen putting himself into the line of fire more after his brother's death. So maybe Dr. Pronce isn't wholly wrong. 

At least that was what you were starting to believe. Until Steve walked into the small breakroom, you were currently using to meditate. Steve was a God among men, and he had yet to have an "off" day in your presence. Compared to your increasing lack of good days, Steve was perfect. Even now, he was whistling a jaunty tune, his steps bouncing as he set up his sketchpad in front of the windows. 

Sitting in the corner, obscured by a stately, wingback chair as you were, he didn't even notice you. Which was great for people watching. Even better for you to get a nonpartial read on how the imposing, and reserved man before you was really feeling. Keeping quiet, you watched as he smiled to himself. A relaxed, carefree thing., full of contentment. You fought the urge to sigh. 

How could he be so happy about what was going on outside? It was overcast, all the trees were dead, the snow was murky because of all the combat drills that had been done throughout the field since it had last snowed. Even the cardinals and squirrels that found their homes in the nearby trees were absent. Probably hunkering down for before the next storm was supposed to hit.  

Your frown deepened at the thought. The winter storms did nothing to help your increasing hopelessness; in fact, they seemed to do the opposite. Not only did they make the impending sense of doom that you usually could keep at bay absolutely unbearable, but the dramatic pressure changes also made your very human body ache from all of the past abuse you've lived through. 

Before you can realize how it would give you away, you start to rub at a particularly sore scar on the side of your forearm. Even after the Captain was staring surprised at you, you continued to stare at him.

"I hope you realize it's impolite to stare." He says casually, his eyes barely flickering to you before going back to the window.

You startle slightly at being noticed. "I've heard that before. I've also heard that it's impolite to do a great many other things, Captain. Most of which the population of America does every single day." You respond, continuing to stare.  

Steve chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest as he takes the armchair across from your hiding place. "Oh, really? What would this list consist of?"

"Crossing your arms." you deadpan, pulling your knees closer. 

"Touche," he states, leaning back into the chair, relaxing his arms. Going back to his leisure surveillance. His hands twirling a charcoal pencil between their lithe fingers. 

After what was probably too long a silence, words pop out of your mouth. "What are you looking at? There are better views out of the other windows. The snow isn't even clean." 

"Sometimes, the lack of beauty is where true beauty lies." He whispers, his voice convincingly soft. 

"Who are you quoting, my mother?"

"Not quoting anyone. Just trying to remember what a friend. If I was to quote them, I would've said, 'Ugliness is just a failure of seeing.'" His voice wavered a bit as he continued to stare out the window. Turning to you, he cleared his throat. "What are you doing behind the chair instead of in it?" 

You laugh sardonically, "Meditating. I'm a bit of a claustrophile."

He gives you a strange look. "Oh? Are you sure you aren't hiding from something."

"Steve, not that it's any of your business, but I am always hiding from something. It's daily life for me," you say. Not wanting to answer any more questions, you stand lithely make your way to the door. 

He looked startled at your abrupt movement. "You don't have to go. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Look, Steve, I know you are just trying to be helpful. I also know that you can't really stop being yourself, and I don't really want to either. But I really can't handle being in the same room with your positivity right now. You're too happy, and it's not making me feel any better about my lack of happy. So stay, enjoy your sketching, see you at training tomorrow." You turn around before you could see the hurt playing over his face.

Later that night, you still felt awful at your inability to be content with any of the blessings you have been given since becoming one of the Avengers. Even when in sleep, the unending hopelessness caused your sinuses to burn until you woke yourself up with your tears. Finally, giving up around two in the morning, you make your way to the secondary kitchen in search of your hidden stash of comfort icecream. 

To your surprise, the light in the kitchen is on when you round the corner. Trying to act like you aren't dying on the inside, you circle the island cupboards to see the weirdest sight of your life.

Captain America, sitting on the floor, eating a bowl of Kellog Flakes, talking seriously into the phone. "I don't know what to do. I ran into her today. She blatantly told me tha..." he looks up and freezes midword. You could faintly hear the other person on the line calling for him, but couldn't care less. Staring straight ahead as you got your icecream and a spoon as quickly as you could manage. Fighting off the new wave of tears.

Gods, what were you going to do? Your depression was going to lose you your spot on the team? Was it really that bad? You went to every training session, you made it a point to listen to all direction, and worked extra hard every mission to prevent this from happening. What would you do if you lost this too?

Your thoughts tore violently through your brain, leaving you unable to pay attention to your surroundings anymore. You were just outside of your door when a calloused hand caught your arm. The forlorn wail you were holding just behind your teeth severed the still night air, pulling the ripcord on the tears fighting to be free. Your distress shredded any sense of coordination you had as you collapsed into Steve's rock-hard chest.

"(Y/N), (Y/N), please, let me explain."

"NO," you sobbed. "Let go of me, If you wanted to get rid of me, all you had to do was ask. I'm a big girl, I can take a little tough love."

That seemed to shock Steve. "What?"

You yanked your arm harshly from Steve's stunned grip. "That's what you were talking to whoever that was about, wasn't it? You finally realized that I am not worth it. That I don't belong and weren't sure how to break the news to me since I'm so depressed. Well lucky you, you don't have to worry about it anymore. I'll have my stuff packed and be out by the end of the week." You turn away as tears waterfall down your face. 

Before you can get a decent grip on the doorknob, Steve's hand finds its place on top of yours. "No. I don't want you to leave." He states confidently. "It's quite the opposite actually. I like you. I was asking Clint how to handle my feelings since you clearly don't feel the same."

That stops you in your struggle for the doorknob. You look up at the imposing man beside you through bleary eyes. "What did you just say?"

"I like you, sweetheart. I was worried about you, and I didn't know what to do. So I called Clint. He seems to know the most about women."

You stood there, shocked for a second. "You like me."

"You make it really hard not to."

"What do you mean?"

"Sweetheart, you are a gorgeous, strong, independent, caring, hardworking woman. I'd be stupid not to have feelings for you."

"But I'm so grumpy, and when I'm not grumpy, I'm sad," you argue, scrunching your eyes together in confusion.

"Everyone gets sad. You are just less adept at hiding your feelings than some of us are. That's okay. I know you don't see it right now, but you haven't always been this way, and even if you stay this way, I know that you are worth every ounce of love and respect that I've given you."

You just stare at him. Trying to find any hint at the lie. He just stood there, staring right back into your eyes and, you couldn't help the tiny flutter of hope that settled deep in your tummy. A slight twitch, like the flick of a cat's tail as it basks in the sun. You missed her, and you knew that if Steve continues to look at you like that, you were going to be feeling more than just the flick of her tail.

"You quoting my therapist now too? Or is it just more of your friends?"

[drjackandmissjo]

I am not afraid to keep on living, I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

Immortal Husbands Fanfiction

Chapter 1 --- Ao3 --- next chapter

1099, just outside of Jerusalem. Everyone says it's a miracle, a sign from God. He partially agrees, but the true miracle is in his dreams and heart.

TW! Internalized Homophobia

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!

During his studies, he had been taught that Heaven was a quiet and graceful place where he would find all the answers to the questions that might populate his mind and that he would also be completely and utterly at peace with himself, in the light of the Lord. One could enter through its doors after repenting his sins in Purgatory, but those who lead an exemplar life in the Lord’s name would be able to walk right in, to simply follow the Light to his Grace and be joyful.

On the other hand, the fiery Pits of Hell were a place of eternal damnation, torment and madness. They were filled with screams and pain and misery. In order to be sent there one would have to commit heinous crimes, monstrous actions that weren’t atoned by the sinner and that could not be forgiven by Him. They were full of murderers and traitors and thieves and heretics and infidels and pagans and blasphemous people. And, of course, they were populated by the sodomites.

If there was one thing his seminary made clear, it was that sodomy was a disease, an illness of the body that only His Grace could heal. To follow such crude and unnatural instincts was to shy away from His Light for eternity.

Out of all of the groups of people that filled the Pits simply because of their existence and their immoral livings, it was definitely the sodomites that were mostly persecuted, especially while they were still alive. Many were forced to amend, to forgone their sinful ways and to beg the Father for forgiveness.

Niccolò was twelve years old, almost in adulthood yet not old enough to hold his own thought, when he realized how wrong he fundamentally was. His friends, the boys he played with around the streets of Genoa since he had memory, were starting to grow into maturity, were starting to be interested in girls and in the glory of war. Niccolò did not like the way their dialogues would turn, one day their mouth full of bread they had wrongly stolen and the other their eyes preying on the passing ladies that pretended not to see them and not to be bothered.

He liked the way they dressed, their colourful clothing and the modesty of their dresses. He had told his father as such one day, not understanding why it had become such a scandalous thought in his mind to be caught staring at one, but he was only regarded with scepticism. “You are still young, you will understand soon,” his father had claimed.

But the years went by and he still could not comprehend all the commotion around women. Especially after his friends returned from private adventures that made him want to claw his eyes and ears out when they retold them, way too descriptive and not penitent at all. He had believed that their recounting of them was a way to show amend, to reveal their impurities to repent them, but he quickly saw the error of his thinking. It was a sin to commit to the flesh before one’s wedding, that much was very clear, yet here his friends were, not particularly caring that they would burn for eternity.

He decided to begin his studies young, as soon as he figured how impure and blasphemous his mind was, when his eyes began to linger too long on the wrong person and when his traitorous heart moved towards the wrong sentiment. He decided to cut the wrongness inside of him as soon as it appeared, a weed needed to be eradicated before it infected the entire field, to abstain his flesh from any temptation. After all, it was when sin took physical form that the soul was lost. He could still be saved.

He moved in a monastery near Genoa, despite his father’s protests, knowing that his destiny laid in there, and focused on his work with zealousness and goodwill, never once straying from the path the Lord must have wanted him to follow. It was certainly what He had intended, when He made him. He had to repent, to be penitent.

Niccolò took his vows when he felt his soul was cleansed, purified from all of the improper thoughts. His demons had left him in alone, had stopped tormenting him with their impurities. For the first time, he was free of that internal turmoil that devastated him. He began living peacefully, working in community with his newly found brothers, ignoring the way his heart twisted as if something was missing. He didn’t have an answer for that pain he would occasionally get, sharply reminding him how utterly wrong and alone he was, whenever he was left alone to his own devices for too long or, on several occasion, even when he was surrounded by the other monks, but he had found a solution: the pain would quiet down with work and with the prayers. After all, their motto was ‘Ora et Labora’ for a reason, he rationed. If their forefather had elaborated that concept, it must have meant something that held all of the keys to tranquillity.

Years went down quietly, peacefully. He was in agreement with the environment surrounding him and he was pure, untouched by the external world and its temptations. The day he accomplished his priesthood was his most cherished one: he had never felt such tranquillity in his spirit, had never felt so close to Him. His head was void of compulsion, empty of longing. His only desire was to shine in His Light and, for one moment, he had felt utterly in harmony. He had found his purpose, helping lost sheep to regain their path under His Grace, and he could finally understand why He had given him such a burden to shoulder. If it had not been for his impure mind, he would have not followed His Plan, failing to complete his vocation.

There was peace, or as much as there could be, in the little routine he created between his personal prayers, mass and the communal work he did in the monastery that he called home.

But times changed and his serenity got disrupted. The world was in uproar, the infidels conquering and disrupting the world, threatening the empires in the East with their brute way of living. Words ran of the Pope inciting French nobility to aid them, to cleanse their souls with the servitude and the help to their brothers in distress. Constantinople was in danger, words went, and Jerusalem, the Sacred City, had been compromised and taken away from the Lord’s Light.

His superiors were fretting as untrained soldiers began their march. For in the beginning, it hadn’t been the nobility or the military to answer the Pope’s call: peasants took part in a pilgrimage, with their wives and elders, only to be massacred just after leaving Constantinople by the Turks. Then came the turn of the real soldiers, trained and ready for war. In the following two years they managed several victories, but Jerusalem was still far and in danger.

His own bishop ordered all the monasteries to lend aid to the bellicose efforts to regain back control and they could not contradict the order. Niccolò himself was shipped away to Yafa alongside his people from Genoa, bringing aids and engineers to finally, after three years, end the bloodshed. He was not a soldier, he complained, he was only a devoted priest, yet it did not matter. Their order to fight came from Rome directly and the Pope’s will was the Lord’s. Clearly they were in the right.

As soon as the fleet attracted to the shores of Yafa, he could not contain his stupor. That was not the ruined and wounded land they were made to believe, devastated by the infidels and the pagans. It was fertile and pure and tainted with the blood of the dead. Niccolò prayed for their souls as he helped dismantle the ships for wood and prayed at night for his own, dreading the moment he would have to bear arms against an enemy. He was terrified of what it would mean for him, to take a life so willingly, for what in his eyes were futile reasons.

Perhaps, if he believed more in the cause, he reasoned, it would be more bearable. Yet he had made vows and he was forced to break them. He prayed the Lord would look with kindness at him, at his ruined soul that had seemed to just have mended from its turbulent past.

It happened on their tenth day there, the hot summer Sun shining down at them. He had awoken that morning with an impending sense of doom looming over his chest, the night tormented by nightmares of blood and dirt. His usual prayers didn’t calm him down, didn’t bring him their usual clarity.

His team had to help in the constructions, to supervise and act in case the infidels attacked. It had already happened once, a surprise ambush to one of their teams that culminated in a massacre, and no one was willing to repeat the scene, thus the monks and priests armed to the teeth, ready for the slaughter. Niccolò hoped that he would not have to raise his sword, that he would not take a life that day, but he knew deep down that if it was fated, it would happen whether or not he wished for it.

Once midday came and went, the tension in his shoulders eased a little. Surely they will not attack anymore, having wasted the morning.

But they still came, scimitars drawn as they ran towards their little assemblement. He and his companions had just finished their small meal, already moving back into their positions to complete the work they had left for the day. The heat made everything slow down, unaided by the full stomachs and the empty minds.

They were told to expect an attack yet were still caught by surprise.

It was a blur, all of it. It happened so quickly, that Niccolò wasn’t able to remember how it began truly, only able to recall the important things that happened during the fury of the ambush, or so he told his superiors when they questioned him, weary and visibly terrified.

He shouldn’t have remembered anything at all. But he did.

He remembered the sand under his sandals and between his toes, grounding him to that Holy Land he was to die protecting. He remembered the way his companions screamed and shouted orders to the engineers and the workers to scramble away, to save themselves, that they would hold them back, that they would protect them. He remembered the way the Sun reflected off the enemy’s armour directly into his eyes, the way their capes flew in the wind behind them, readying the air for the turmoil, their feet scraping the sand, readying the soil for the bloodshed. He remembered the air turn dry and cold in his throat, words dying in his mouth as he unleashed his sword and brandished it with both hands, unable to stop the tremor. He remembered the weight of his own armour, his own helmet. He remembered sending a prayer up to the Heavens, knowing that He would listen. He remembered taking a life and having his life taken in return.

That was all he told when asked, all he could say. He didn’t wax poetry of what he had felt as a sword passed through his heart, for he felt nothing. One moment he was upright, fighting, and the next he was on the ground, his vision blackening as the Sun shone above him, one last vision of His Power. It was emptiness and quiet and it was terrifying. It was all but a dream, one he would have never woken up from.

Except that he had, by some miracle the archbishop claimed, calling the Lord’s Mercy a good sign for the imminent battle. He had jolted up, hands immediately searching for the Cross he carried on his neck and for the sword he was supposed to always have by his side. Instead, he grasped dirt and sand, his eyes registering the setting Sun as his ears heard something heavy fall on the ground, followed by terrorised screaming.

He looked around himself: he was lying on the empty ground, his clothes still matted with his own blood; bodies were cold next to him, eyes closed and hands clasped over their unmoving chests, sacred ointments making their way off their foreheads and into the earth; there was a body in front of him, eyes vacant and grey hair, he wore simple robes and a cross at his neck, a little bottle open next to him, spilling its content on the ground. He couldn’t understand what was the commotion about. He had been stabbed, had been killed. This was supposed to be Purgatory, the place where he would be able to finally be free, or, worse, Hell. The place he dreaded the most. Yet it didn’t seem like either places, it was humid and hot and welcoming.

But he had been killed, he had felt the life leaving his tired body, had felt his legs give out, had felt the peace that he had been told would claim as Death laid its fingers on him. Then why was he still alive?

“It’s a miracle!” voices screamt around him as a bishop rushed towards him, making his way violently to witness what had just happened. The priest that was giving them their Last Rites had simply dropped dead, they said, as one of the dead rose! All the while Niccolò was still seated on the naked earth, unable to comprehend what had happened to him or why everyone seemed to have a newly found interest in him. He was only a devoted priest from a monastery in Genoa, after all.

But the voices still chanted in joy, in jubilee. Other called scared to sorcery, demons and blasphemy.

Niccolò held his breath as he examined his own body, expecting to find it disfigured and bloody and hollow. Instead of the wound that he was certain he had been inflicted, there was smooth skin, untouched by a scimitar that had passed through his body and exited on the other side, leaving him to gasp for breath as he bled out. He tried to speak as men rounded around him, blocking the view of the Sun and forcing him to explain something he had no explanation for.

He was forced to recall everything in the following days, passing from priest to medic to priest again. He was examined, he was exorcised, he was punished, he was gratified. On the third day, his superiors had finally reached a conclusion.

So close to the siege, they claimed, so close to doing what the Lord intended for us to do, He sends a sign. They began to treat him with equal part respect and fear, made him seat at their tables and burn his fingers to prove of His blessings.

He had recounted those moments to exhaustion, until he wasn’t able to speak anymore, everyone asking him how he died and how he survived. Nobody asked him who had killed him, or if he remembered the man in front of him.

But he remembered.

Niccolò remembered the scimitar piercing him, he remembered tasting metal as the man opposed to him closed his eyes by his own blow, the action seemingly perfectly timed as they both plunged their weapons through each other’s hearts. He remembered the way the man’s hair curled under his helmet, he remembered the stubble on his cheeks, he remembered the way the man’s nose seemed to round at the bottom, following a straight line unbothered by time, he remembered how deep and profound his eyes had been. He remembered the way the man’s lips moved silently as he had fallen to the ground on his knees, undoubtedly saying a prayer before leaving the world, just as Niccolò had done himself. He remembered thinking that if that was the last thing he saw before passing away, that it might have been worth it. The man looked like an angel, like a painting, like a dream he shouldn’t have asked and have answered.

Niccolò had to pry his eyes away from the fallen soldier and to force them to look up, to remember his path.

The nights following the miracle, he still dreamt of him. He was surrounded by infidels, his own people Niccolò realized, as they analysed him the same way he had been examined. A small part of his mind screamt at him to look away, but how could he when all he could see whenever he closed his eyes were the way the moonlight reflected off the man’s jaw as he polished his armour during a sleepless night. Worst was that he didn’t want the dreams to stop.

He knew it was a dangerous line he walked and so he kept his peace. Nobody had asked him about the man that had killed him, nobody cared about another dead enemy. And he didn’t have to tell anyone.

But when he was alone, lying on the ground as he tried to sleep, he prayed for that man. He didn’t know whether he had been saved as well, couldn’t know. It would have been blasphemous, to believe that He had saved an infidel, a pagan. It would be sinful to hope for his safety. Despite a strange feeling in his stomach telling him that he had somehow, miraculously, survived as well, he couldn’t be sure and could not risk finding the answer. And so he prayed, wishing ruefully to be able to see him again outside of his dreams. Niccolò knew that was wrong, terribly so, but he couldn’t help himself.

He was lost in the way he could see the man laugh in front of a fire, the way his hands moved on a piece of paper to draw something, the way he seemed to still be alive. He didn’t know if the dreams were real or just a way for his demons to torment him, but he didn’t care. He had died and came back to life, had the peace he had painfully worked on taken away from him.

A peace than was given back in his dreams, more effortlessly that he could have ever imagines, as he saw the man every time he closed his eyes to pray.

[dukeofriven]

I feel you on criticisms on John. Dude certainly has his flaws and his relationship with other people, particularly Roxy, have clearly been unhealthy. But the guy have apparently been depressed for years, and he haven't actually ever had much experience with real life on person relationships. He got issues he needs to work on, but he is not a bad person.

It’s the rampant hypocrisy that’s eating at me. “Let they who are without sin cast the first stone” y’know? Roxy and John are the only survivors of Game Over - even given the trauma that everyone went through those two went through more. Even Rose, with her vague sense of her alt-self in a doomed timeline, experienced what it was like to fail on such a profound scale: and to know that your failure is the one which the alpha timeline was aiming for all along. Your utter failure was not only pre-ordained, it was requirement for existence to go as planned.Both Roxy and John experienced this, but Roxy got to move to a universe where her friends were still alive, and their formative experiences were identical: Roxy lived through, what, 24 hours that Dirk and Jake and John’s Hot Mom didn’t? Less? Dirk is still hurtling through space when John and Roxy arrive in Post-Retcon world, just as he was before Game Over broke bad. Roxy has to live with the horror of seeing her friends die - but her ‘replacement’ friends are functionally indistinguishable from the old ones. Which I’m not saying to be callous, but to contrast her with John. John moves to a universe where his sister shares almost none of his memories of years spent together on a golden ship, growing up together, bonding as closer friends, as siblings.We don’t talk about that enough, I think. Jade gets shafted in several ways in the final hours of Homestuck: she gets no chance to speak to John and say “you were dead” - to come to some kind of understanding, some beginning of healing. What must that be like, to meet someone - your own brother - who mostly knows a you you never were? John has all these memories of Jade and Jade has only a fraction of the memories of John.And for John there are those issues that he would have encountered anyway in the OG timeline had things gone well. His other close friends (heck, I’d argue he was closer to Dave and Rose pre-Sburb than he was to Jade; he calls Dave, at least, his best friend) had all spent years forming closer bonds with one-another and new people. In the OG timeline, had Game Over not happened and they’d won, John would still have had to bridge that gap of space and time: but he would have had his sister there for support, and companionship, and close bonds. The Jade he instead ends-up with is practically a stranger who spent three years mourning him (AND HER BOYFRIEND BIRDFRIEND WHO IS PART BOY (thanks @technicallynotanon for the reminder that retcon Jade didn’t date)) alone save for a bunch of none-too-bright animals and her ghost clown grandmother.It’s tragic - and to make it so much worse things seem to have been easy for everyone other than John. They all fell in to new things. Relationships, mostly: Dave and Karkat made room for Jade, Rose got married. Relationships tend to tax friendships: the singular I struggles to compete with the plural we. Only Terezi - with her endless capacity to understand the paths of mind - might have understood him: but she left, taking the blackrom crush with her as she did so.John was isolated. John was more isolated, more alone than any other person: even Callie, who had an intermission of eternity being dead, returned to a world full of friends who remembered her well, and she snagged a don’t-yet-have-the-label-for-it-partner in the process. She too had someone to turn to, and that someone was the only other person John shared his trauma with.Sometimes its hard to talk to people. Sometimes it is harder still when the shadow of a life-partner looms over everything.So John didn’t talk to Roxy. Why does that shock us? Why are we the least surprised? Why are we acting like his actions are so unconscionable? For all that they were so darn cute together that cuteness comprised a relation of several hours over which one of the top two greatest traumas of John Egbert’s life occurred.The other was the death of his father, who was murdered, and whose brutalized corpse John had to witness. A murder - as far as we know - that never had any closure. A murder - as he may have come to realize with some reflection - that occurred largely through the manipulations of the same troll girl his only other crush fucked-off to go find and be with.We keep minimizing John’s trauma. We keep not putting it into perspective. We do him such a disservice.We say, instead, that his not talking to Roxy - that brief surge of anger and shame that threatened to break through his crushing anhedonia, his envy of one person who found another when he did not - we say it is some appalling moral failure. I’m a depression sufferer with a life of regrets and an embarrassing number of long years full of singledom and opportunities that were missed accidentally, but just as often avoided on purpose because self-sabotage is a way of life for people like me.Self harm can be as simple a matter as seeing something you want and letting it slip away, watch it slip away, watch yourself watch it slip away knowing you could do something and then… just… not. And afterwards struggling to explain your actions to other people, and even to yourself: if only I’d… if I had just…why didn’t…?You let it happen because, deep-down, you know you don’t deserve it. The paths not taken, the paths heavy with bitterness, shame, self castigation - paths such as these I have in spades, and hearts, and clubs, and even diamonds.But I, of course, could NEVER see myself acting like John does, and I am sure that no one on Tumblr calling John a creeper has ever done something like it either. I am sure their reaction is born of pure and moral rectitude, and not fear and revulsion at seeing themselves reflected so completely in so unflattering a manner.Surely not they. Surely not I.John Egbert doesn’t need a reason to be depressed. Nobody does. But his depression is not solely an accident of brain chemistry: it is rooted in his sense of self, and his sense of self is a failure. He couldn’t save his dad. he couldn’t save his friends. He couldn’t win Sburb and he couldn’t build the universe he was allegedly destined to build. All of that happened only because Terezi knew how to use him: left to his own devices, nothing would ever have gone right. John couldn’t save anyone.Or so it must seem in the haunting privacy of his thoughts.John has lived with that failure circling around and around in his head since… oh, I’d say about thirty minutes after everything settled down on Earth-C, about an hour after the party ended and his friends went to their new homes and their new lives and he was alone for the first time with the things he had done and the things he failed to do. It probably started the moment he first noticed the silence of his house, the house that was essentially an exact replica of the house he had lived in on the very day his father was murdered and his litany of failures began. It probably began when he sat on the couch in that big empty house and stared at the door that his father was never, ever going to walk through and listened to deafening roar of being the only person there.That was when it started: with a hollow emptiness in the stomach. With a skull that every-so-slightly seemed to be pressing in on his brain, a feeling he’d never felt before. The sudden, sharp, jarring flashes of memory: his father’s body ripped eight ways to Sunday, Rose breathing her last in the dust of LOPAN, that awesome expanse of Skaia local alight with burning worlds and desecration. It began when the Heir of Breath found himself short of his own element for no reason at all, save that he simply found it hard to breathe, hard to make his body continue to breathe.He didn’t say anything at first.He made excuses.He didn’t want to bother people - told himself he was actually enjoying the alone time, enjoying having nothing to do after what felt like a lifetime of doing: although, really, the events of his life comprised little more than two sets of 24 hours spaced three years apart. And that bothered him too - “all things considered it’s not like you went off to war, John, and spent years away” he told himself. Retirement after two days of solid work? Most would kill for that. These and other good reasons not to say anything came and went: there was always a good reason not to say anything, and even those times when some semblance of human feeling  burned hot enough to produce genuine emotion he quickly suppressed it. It’s amazing how quickly depression is something you normalize, how quickly you find reason not to disturb it, to upset the status quo.By the time he realized even dimly that he should have said something to someone, anyone - about Roxy, or about that hollow feeling that now comprised his insides, about how nothing caused him joy or distress, that he could feel his youth rushing away from him in a torrent of time that he could do nothing to stop - it was too late. Perhaps it was always too late. This too, perhaps, was something that always had to happen.Perhaps.There is a moment at the end of Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead where Guildenstern, standing on the gallows, faced with his impending doom and the absurdity of his existence muses “There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said ‘no.’ But somehow we missed it.”Then he dies.That line echos with me. I suspect it echos with many people like me. That’s the worst part of depression: the sense that no matter how much your condition explains your past you are never free of the feeling that there was a moment you could have done something about it all - but you missed it. The moment was lost, and everything since has been one long, unending chain of payment for that mistake.John Egbert doesn’t need our pity, and nor do I mean to say that he is free of criticism. Our depression contextualizes our actions, but it does not excuse our frailties. John Egbert, however, deserves better than the disapprobation of sinners throwing stones.

[marakama]

🟤 Brown - What is a headcannon you are particularly proud of?

Munday Color Meme

🟤 Brown - What is a headcannon you are particularly proud of?

“proud of” is a strong phrase but one of my favorite headcanons for ankur’s vampirism is probably the one where the effect of religious items/sayings/etc is determined by the belief of the ‘wielder’ that such things are holy. an atheist flicking holy water from a silver cross to ward ankur (or another vampire) off would be mildly amusing at best. meanwhile, some random person praying under their breath for protection would be sufficient in distressing him. a related headcanon is that these things don’t make it so he physically can’t approach something, they just fill him with increasing distress and discomfort. at best he feels a terrible sense of dread and impending doom, at worst, it can feel physically painful/like. this is largely bc i consider vampirism (in ankur’s lineage at least) to be contrary to the natural order, caught somewhere between death and life, physical and abstract, etc. bc i also consider religion (in this context) to be a means of describing and manifesting the natural order of the universe, being confronted by the “reality” of the universe is thus distressing to those that are against it. 

this also affects ankur personally! though he used to be pretty devout (though for him it was definitely indistinguishable from culture and it wasn’t particularly organized) as a human, he has abandoned any idea of such as a vampire. it was very upsetting to him to find himself unable to pray for guidance or approach temples/shrines or even shiva linga without feeling like this, and it really attributed to his feelings of being lost/alone/cursed.

[lolzcollz]

M I N D L E S S

I was seventeen when the world went to shit. I grew up in a time where people loved to talk about the end of the world. It was everywhere, you couldn’t escape it. It was on TV and movies as made up scenarios of alien invasions but also on the news as real scenarios like global warming. I tried to ignore it as much as I could but sometimes a thought snaked its way down into my brain and I wouldn’t be able to let it go. I would lie awake some nights and think about the impending doom of the end. It made life pretty hard for me, that’s why I preferred to ignore it. Just sweep it away and under a rug and don’t pay it any mind. That I was able to do. I went to school I came home from school, skirted through the internet without looking too close at the bad stuff and rinse and repeat. That’s just the way my generation dealt with stuff.

I noticed something weird was happening when I walked into school one day. Nothing out of the ordinary particularly stood out but when I looked back I pinned it as the beginning of the end. I went to public high school and just my class alone had over five hundred students in it. Add that in to the other three classes that shared the school and we had roughly two thousand students in total. In between classes, the hallways were packed with kids running this way and that. It wasn’t unusual to be bumped into every now and again just based on how many kids were trying to move at once. That morning though, it seemed like everyone had lost their sense of balance. Students were running into each other, teachers were bumping into students, people hit lockers and open doors. It just seemed like everywhere you went, someone was running into something. Sometimes it was hard too, not just a little bump or a small shove. No, I watched a kid slam head first into the doorway of Mr. Rald’s class room. He hit it so hard he got a bloody nose and had to go to the nurse’s office. It seemed weird but I didn’t pay it any attention because well, you just didn’t pay attention to things, that’s how it was.

Over the course of the next couple days I noticed it got worse and worse. The coordination of the whole student body plus the staff was declining rapidly. I went to the bathroom during math and I saw a few kids just wandering the hallways and it was strange. They were slowly walking around, dragging their feet, bumping into the walls or each other, and their eyes weren’t focused at all. It was like they had checked out and their bodies had taken over. They just kept moving and it didn’t matter what they ran into. I walked past one of the kids and stopped in front of him. He didn’t even notice I was there. I waved my hand across his eyes and snapped in his ear, trying to pull him out of whatever trance he was in but it was no use. It wasn’t just happening at school either. My little sister and my parents were noticeably off balance, too. My dad would be setting the table for dinner and drop a plate, shattering it to pieces on the floor. He didn’t even know he did it, either. He kept setting the table. He walked over the pieces of the ceramic plate on the floor and cut his foot wide open. He bled all throughout the house only stopping when I drew attention to it. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding.

No one talked about what was happening to the world so I figured I shouldn’t either. Maybe if I had I could have helped fix whatever it was that was happening. By the time someone finally did say something, it was too late. A report came out a couple months later that finally drew attention to whatever the fuck was happening to the world. In those months it got way worse. There were clips all over the internet of people just mindlessly wandering all over the world. People in the mall, at work, on the beach, you name it and you could find a video. It seemed the majority of people were like this. It got to the point where whenever someone entered one of these trances you didn’t ever know if they were going to snap out of it. My sister got into a trance a month in and she still hasn’t come out of it. My parents went into a trance not long after she did.

The report that came out was from a group of scientists who noticed this all happening. They all met up and worked together to figure out what was happening. It’s a lot of scientific mumbo jumbo that I only understand every other word but essentially they discovered there was a hidden gene that was somehow getting turned on. When the gene got turned on, the brain processes went dormant. They didn’t die but their brain’s electrical impulses stopped firing. Something was causing the blockage of the neurons which put people in these trance like states. The scientists claimed they were working on finding some way to reverse the gene and turn it off but that was almost three years ago. There really hasn’t been any news since then.

I haven’t seen another person who’s not in a trance in nearly that whole time. Sometimes I think it’s just me that’s left and if I’m the last of humanity then I feel real sorry for us. At first it was alright, there was no one around to stop me from doing anything I wanted. I would walk down to the beer distributor and drink all night and when I woke up the next morning I’d walk down again and grab more beer. I entered a different kind of trance, an alcohol induced one. It was fun at first but with no one to share it with it got old pretty quick.  I haven’t really been doing much. I feel as mindless as those people out there wandering around some days.

Recently, I’ve been able to pull myself out of that feeling. I’ve been putting all of my effort into finding other people. Out of the seven billion people on this planet I refuse to accept the idea that I’m the last one left. So I put myself to work. I went out and got an old school radio that I’ve been using to send out distress calls for anyone in the area. Everything’s basically been shut down at this point. Phone lines, internet, and electricity are all done. But thank God for battery power. Eventually, sure, I’ll run out of batteries but when that happens hopefully I’ll already be with other people or I’ll be in a trance myself. I’ve been going house to house on my bike, too. I’ve been knocking on every door in hopes that someone opens it. No one has yet but I still have plenty of houses to try.

I was doing this for a solid month before I started noticing I was blacking out. I would be knocking on the front door of someone’s house one minute and the next I’m six streets down and in the middle of the road. At first, I was terrified. But now it’s happened to me three times this week and I figure now is just my time. I bought this tape recorder and I’m telling my story in the hopes that someone finds it, someone who’s still walking around consciously, someone who can help save the rest of us. I’m going to attach it to a string and wear it around my neck and hope when I’m out there wandering around like the rest of them that someone notices what’s dangling around my neck. I don’t know when the next black out is going to happen or if it’ll be the last one before I’m perpetually in a trance but I feel at peace. I’m not scared anymore. With whatever time I have left, I’m going to be hopeful. Hopeful that you can save us. So if you’re listening to this, my name is–

Colleen Burke

10.2.2019

[solarflarefanfiction]

Solar Flare 6

AN: So there’s some timeline stuff in here, which may not be perfect. In terms of Paul, in particular, the information seems to disagree. I’m pretty sure he is mentioned as being one of the wolves present to rescue Bella (or at least she remembers 3 tall figures, one of whom was Sam). But on the Wiki page it says he turned in 2006. Anyway, I find a lot of the timeline stuff in the Twilight Saga confusing/odd, so while for the most part I am going to try to keep it relatively canon, I’m might discard it whenever it doesn’t make sense. Or because I want to.

Thanks for reading, and I still don’t own Twilight.

-------

It was a few days later when the reality of Jacob and the pack’s fears was driven home for me.

Charlie’s harrumph over his newspaper drew my attention off of the novel I was reading. Charlie and I had reached a comfortable, if unconventional accord, which allowed us to avoid awkward breakfast conversation, when neither of us were really awake enough to appreciate the effort of making small talk.

While Charlie often huffed over sports losses, or a particularly frustrating current event, I usually took little notice, preferring my escape into romance, fantasy, or both.

But today, something about his wordless distress compelled me to respond.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“It’s this situation in Seattle,” He made the noise again, then looked at me across the table from him.

“I don’t want you going up there by yourself, you understand, Bella?” Since Charlie rarely attempted to curtail my activities in any way, I was surprised. A cold feeling of dread stirred in the back of my mind, like part of me knew what he was talking about already.

“Why? What’s going on in Seattle?”

“Well, it’s not just Seattle, really, Portland too, and-”

“Dad! What is it?”

“I don’t want to scare you too much, Bella, it just, it looks like they’ve got some kind of serial killer or something up there.” The cold feeling intensified. A serial killer…or something.

“They’ve had quite a few disappearances up there, the last few weeks. At first it was just some disappearances among the homeless, a couple runaways, so they couldn’t be sure if there was really something…going on. But now…” He sighed, and turned the portion of the paper he’d been reading so that I could see it. It was a picture of several young people, under a headline that read. Disappearances and Deaths Continue to Rock Pacific Northwest.

Charlie pointed to one picture, separated from the others.

“This boy, Riley Biers, he disappeared last year from Oregon, but a couple witnesses claim he’s been spotted in Seattle, near where some of the more recent bodies were found. Not that witnesses are necessarily that reliable on stuff like that. ”

Charlie looked sad and grim.

“Talked to the Department up there, not sure if it has anything to do with the missing hikers. Thought they were animal attacks, but the bodies they’ve recovered up there have some similarities.” He frowned at me in concern. “Now, don’t go telling your school friends Bella, we’re trying to avoid causing a panic.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, it’s not exactly good lunch room talk.”

“Just be careful, kid, okay.” Charlie said, carefully not looking at me, as he ventured onto the dangerous ground of emotional talk (now that I seemed to not currently be in a mental breakdown of any kind, we had gratefully returned to avoiding discussing overly personal topics). Much better to talk gruesome murder than to express emotion to your teenage daughter. I smiled fondly at Charlie, then glanced away.

“You too Dad.”

The upside of this rash of murders and disappearances being tied together, callous though it seemed to think it, was that Charlie and his deputies had officially ceased hunting for out of control wolves in the woods, making both them and the pack more safe.

On the other hand, seeing those faces was haunting somehow. Probably because I had a much better idea than Charlie how and why these people were dying. And why some of them weren’t dying at all.

In school I struggled to focus, thinking about the pictures of the missing persons. The relatively few, odd bodies.

I was very, very afraid that I knew what might be going on.

I said as much to Kim and Emily that afternoon

Kim looked surprised, but Emily just sighed.

“Sam’s been worried about this. It would explain a lot, actually.”

“Explain what?”

I glanced at the window, Quil and Seth were on house patrol today, and playing some wolfy game at the edge of the woods. Jacob, Sam, and Jared were on patrol, since them running patrol together made it easier to consolidate their major vulnerabilities, us, into one spot, which could be easily guarded.

“It doesn’t make sense, that the shifts kept happening, after…they... left. The one leech passing through, three or four wolves could have easily taken it out. Sam was a little surprised when Jacob showed signs that he was going to shift, actually, but he figured he was just so close already, it was too late for him. Plus, of all of them, he has maybe the best lineage for it.”

I felt cold suddenly.

“Even once we knew that the other one, the female, was here, was hanging around…It doesn’t make sense. Why do we need eight wolves, for one bloodsucker?” I could hear Sam’s voice, underlying Emily’s words. Leech, bloodsucker, the calm logistical sense, the instinct.

“The Cullens were here for almost three years. Sam thinks just one or two vampires, passing through the area, it wouldn’t necessarily activate the wolf genes, unless they were hunting nearby, or came onto our land. Which is rare actually, almost as if it might be instinctual...anyway...A large family, living nearby, you’d think it would have activated more quickly… Sam shifted for the first time a little over a year after the Cullens arrived. But Jared only shifted in spring the next year, about sixth months later-”

Oh, God.

“When the nomads came through.” Kim and Emily give me blank expressions.

“Victoria, Laurent, and James. They were a group of vampires, the Cullens called them nomads, came to Forks in March, last year- James wanted to kill me. The Cullens killed him in Phoenix. That’s why Victoria… and Laurent was the one they killed earlier this year.”

“Right. Well, Paul shifted about week or so after Jared, then nothing for almost a year, and then Embry shifted, then Jake, then Seth and Leah, then Quil, about one a month. It was spread out, but now this rapid increase. The Cullens are gone. It could just be some sort of flaw in the shifter genes, that it takes a while for it to get going-“

“Which doesn’t make any sense, because it’s magic, as much as it’s a gene, right?” asked Kim, suddenly, looking frustrated. “They turn into giant wolves to protect our land, and you’re saying they didn’t turn much when the Cullens were here for three years, but now they’re turning like crazy.”

“Because Victoria, or someone, is turning a bunch of people, and they are holed up in Seattle?”

“Yes, but why would pack magic care about Seattle. Unless…”

Unless they weren’t just in Seattle. Or unless there were so many of them that whatever mystical power or energy controlled the wolf transformations considered it a risk.

Or both.

They were here, or had been here, or coming here. Watching. Hunting.

To kill me. And anyone who got in their way.

How many vampires could the wolves really fight against and win?

I looked at Emily’s scarred, still somehow beautiful face. At Kim’s startled round face, which made her look years younger than she was.

They’d become my friends.

To Victoria they would only be "in the way”.  

I ran out of the house

“Bella!”

“Bella, wait!”

Why hadn’t I thought? This was all because of me, and now an army of vampires was gathering in Seattle. Because of me.  

I wanted to run and run. Not until Victoria wouldn’t find me, because she always would; I was pretty much doomed. But until she would never find this cosy little house, where they let me be quiet and alone when I needed it, or where I could talk and laugh over books with Kim, seek warm counsel over muffins with Emily, where Leah would burst in with her scathing attitude hiding her soft, damaged heart. Where the peace would be happily shattered by a rough and rowdy tumble of the overgrown wolf boys,  weary and too brave, filling the house with welcome and family. Away from Jacob, who’d somehow pulled me back from endless despair, and who made the future look beautiful and full of sunlight, instead of dark nothing.

I stopped on the front porch.

I had nowhere to go.

I couldn’t protect myself. I couldn’t protect anyone

The wolves would come, to rescue me, no matter where I ran, because they’d promised me.

Because Jake loved me.

I didn’t have to leave. Relief

But it was only because I’d already doomed us all.

I sat down on the front porch and stared off into the forest. Waiting.

------

Of course, the world refused to stop for the impending doom of almost everyone in the world I loved.

I tried to shake off the fears I’d awakened, or at least to not think about it, but that had never been my strength, and I felt myself slipping, not into the despair of last fall, but into a sort of vague melancholy, which made the world recede a bit. Now that I’d been without it, I recognized it as the odd numbing sense of distance between me and the world, like I was reaching to it through plastic wrap, or wrapped up in thick, stiffling, wool.

“Death Toll on the Rise, Police Fear Looming Gang War” the morning paper had announced. The article had detailed several homicides from the last two weeks alone. No one I knew. Not yet.

It shouldn’t have surprised me when I noticed the brightly colored flyers that appeared all over the school one morning. But the bright pink and black flyers still caught me off guard, because of one potentially terrifying word, spelled out in big, overly cheerful lettering (in which I suspected the hand of Jessica).

“Only 3 weeks to PROM!” the poster’s exclaimed.

“A Night to Remember!’ Don’t miss Fork’s High School’s Senior Prom. Saturday, June 3rd! Tickets for sale at lunch in the cafeteria!"

I stared at the posters, cheeks hot and throat dry.

“Bella!” said a soft, but cheerful and welcoming voice beside me. I spun around, blush deepening.

“Do you think you’ll go? Ben and I are so excited, and I know Jessica is already making a list of possible dates!" Angela asked, smiling at my flustered face.

“Oh, um, well. Dancing you know…"

“Of course,” she replied, comprehension clear on her face. “But you should come you know, senior year and all. And I think your boyfriend would like it."

“Jacob?”

Would Jacob like it? I had not considered that. The only time I’d danced with Jacob had been when he was still an awkward, non-supernatural human. Plus he’d been delivering a warning he didn’t understand. And I’d been dating--

It was almost an afterthought to push aside the thought of his name now. A familiar ripple of pain across a familiar worn path in my brain. Funny how it was almost comforting, compared to the thoughts I’d been keeping company with lately. At least he was, as far as I knew, safe.

“Bella? Bella? Are you alright?” Angela touched my shoulder gently.

“What? Yes! I…I never thought about it before, prom." Jake, smiling down at me. Holding me, Saving me.

Jake, dying for me.

“Well, no need to worry too much about it. But think about it?"

“Yeah,” I said, sounding vague and ditzy to myself. “I, um, gotta go."

Angela smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

-----

Two days later I slumped down on the couch at Emily's feeling exhausted. All aside from the possibility of impending disaster, figuring out what to do after graduation was looming more and more eminently. I hadn't applied to any colleges, or even spent anytime thinking about the future since even before the Cullens had left. And now that I was thinking again, it seemed clear that that had been a bad idea. I was tired, and the thought that if Victoria had her way it wouldn’t matter what I planned, was panic inducing rather than relieving, which was at least proof that I wasn’t totally lost.

“-Bella?” I heard, coming out of my unhappy reverie.

“Huh? Sorry...."

“I was just wondering if everything was okay. You seem distracted.” Emily looked concerned and I wondered if she knew as much about me as I knew about her, and thought she probably did.

“I just…” my eyes were stinging. I pushed away my more painful worries and instead asked “Do you think Jake wants me to ask him to prom?” It sounded so stupid.

“Prom?” Emily blinked at me, surprised.

“You know, dancing, badly decorated gyms…” I mumbled, feeling more and more foolish. “I’m not really a dance kind of person...but do you think...I thought maybe Jake might want…would he like it?”

Emily’s face softened, and she smiled encouragingly.

“I think Jake would love to go to prom with you, Bella. But I think he’d also love to not go with you.”

My face felt so hot. Why couldn’t I ever stop blushing?

“I know they’ve been busy, and that you’re worried, Bella. But you know he loves you.”

I nodded. Yes, I knew. The fears I’d entertained about imprinting, or my persistent sense of inferiority had been pushed to the background, and it gave me an odd clarity.

If I wasn’t so selfish, so needy, would I be able to push him away, to get him out of my life, of the fight? I wouldn’t. And I knew it.

And the worst part was, that I was glad that it was too late anyway, that Victoria would come and the wolves would fight no matter what I did.

No part of me was ready to say goodbye to Jacob Black. And if it came down to it. If I needed to say cutting things in order to keep him safe, like I had an infinite year ago to Charlie, well, I was pretty sure I couldn’t do it.

A tentative, gentle hand on my arm pulled me back to the present yet again.

“I think I hear them coming back.” A benediction and a curse.

Sure enough, a moment later the door banged open and four boys stomped in, laughing and shoving and taking up much more room than seemed possible.

It was a comforting distraction. It was hard to feel as afraid when they were here, filling up the kitchen, seemingly without fear, enormous and healthy.

Sam, sweeping in, his usually serious face collapsing into a boyish grin as he swept across the room to Emily.

Paul, making a beeline for the food, only pausing to wink at me, to tug one of Kim’s braids.

Quil, making a ridiculous bow and then sweeping me up into a bear hug.

And Jake, growling, but his eyes smiling, as he pulled me out of Quil’s arms, into his own.

“I’m not a doll, you know.” I protested, not upset in the slightest, raising my face for a kiss.

“Sure, sure, Bells,” he murmurs, bringing his burning lips down to mine.

Suddenly I was not out of step with the world, even if it was just for this moment.

I pushed my head into Jake’s warm shoulder. Even though he was the person I was most worried about, in moments like this I still felt like somehow...I felt safe.

---

“Do you want to go to Senior Prom?” I asked, out of the blue, blush safely concealed by the dark of my truck’s interior. I felt Jake look over in surprise, but kept looking straight ahead, eyes on the road serving as an excellent excuse to not melt in embarrassment.

“You want to go to prom?” he laughed, “Bella Swan, who hates crowds, dancing, and dressing up?”

“Well,” No. That was  the truth, so it doesn’t make any sense why I’ve asked. Except, they’d wanted so badly for her to go, last year, even with my leg in a cast. It made them happy, having me do normal things, even if I grumbled and complained.

I wanted to make Jacob happy. Wanted to give him all the happy memories he might want, just in case…

It felt like all the air had been violently sucked from the truck’s interior, like I might collapse in on myself, like a dying star. But I’ve had a lot of practice now, and I don’t want Jacob to know how I’m slipping to being...damaged again, so I managed to hold still enough that my hands barely shook, and when I gripped the steering wheel tighter, they couldn’t even do that.

“Bella…” Jacob murmured, gently. “If-if you want to go…”

I blew out a breath.

“I don’t Jacob, I just thought...you’re right, prom is kind of my least favorite things all rolled up together, but I thought...something romantic...you might...want...”

Oh crap, this was humiliating. What was I even saying?

Jacob laughed though, looking pleased instead of confused or annoyed.

“Awww, that’s sweet Bells.” he grinned at me, and I wanted to turn my head to look more fully at that grin, but familiarity with the limits of my own driving skills kept my eyes (mostly) on the road.

“You’re a jerk” But the tight discomfort in my chest fades.

“Tell you what,” he slings an arm across my shoulders. Holy crow his arms are long.

“Let’s do something that night. Just the two of us, or we can do something with the pack, or with your friends. But we won’t go to the dance. We’ll spare the town of Forks that much at least.”

I’m too pleased with this new scenario to care about the teasing. “Like a date?”

He’s grinning again, and just for a moment I turn to bask in that glow.

“Yeah, like a date. It’s about time, right?”

—

The warmth of that moment dispelled the half-gloom I had been stuck in, at least for the evening.

I saw something imperceptible relax in Charlie’s face at dinner, and I knew that he’d noticed.

I went to bed humming, hoping that this was one of those nights when Jake would sneak in during his patrol, waking me up in his arms.

Naturally, this was the night my nightmare came back.

It was dark, but not full night dark, more like a deep in the forest dark. I knew, somehow, that a battle was going on somewhere, in the distance. I needed to get there. To protect them.

A growl, behind me, and I spun. I recognized that growl.

“Jake?”

“Isabella”

I turned back and an angel was standing in front of me.

“Edward!” He smiled his angel’s smile and something in my heart (still) leapt.

“You shouldn’t trust them Bella. They’re animals. They can’t control themselves.”

“Who?”

The growl again, and this time when I turned A familiar red-brown wolf was there, muzzle curled back, teeth as long as my forearm.

“It’s for your own good.”

“Wha-“

“Bella” the wolf said, gasping and broken for a moment, somehow speaking human words without moving his muzzle. Still snarling at Edward, Who snarls back a lion’s roar.

Hurtling toward each other, with death in their eyes.

A too loud crash. Blood.

Jacob, falling.

“Edward, no!”

I jerked awake, panting, swallowing a scream.

There was someone in the room.

Before I knew what I was doing I was cringing back, curling my legs under myself. Preparing to- to run? Jump out the window?

Yes. Outside, away from Charlie. Away. Jake would find me.

Large hands caught me as I leapt. I started automatically, fruitlessly, to twist.

“Bella - Jesus. What are you doing? Bella!”

“Jacob?” I relaxed marginally, then all the way as he pulled me into his warm chest. I curled into him. Safe.

And started crying.

“Bella, shh, you’ll wake Charlie. It’s okay, shh, I’ve got you. Just don’t want to be murdered, Bella”

He kept up a stream of comforting nonsense, mixed with my name, his hand stroking down my back.

I raised my still probably splotchy tear streaked face to look at his. Reassuring myself that he was real, and here.

There was something in his eyes, something broken.

“Jacob? What’s wrong?”

He blinked down at me, shakes his head.

When he looked at me again, his eyes were clear of whatever I saw before.

He scowled,  still gently stroking one hand down my back.

“What were you thinking Bella?”

“Thinking? About what?”

Oh right, my aborted leap for the window.

“Someone was here. But I didn’t see you. I thought- I thought- ” I’d barely been thinking, the combination of the dream, the shock of feeling myself not alone.

I pulled Jacob more firmly to me, with all my pathetic strength.

“Can you stay?” I asked, pressing my face into his chest to hide my blushing. Even though what I was asking was totally innocent.

He sighed  against me, and seemed to sag a bit. All the wolves were getting tired, with this endless high alert.

“Yeah… I’ll stay.”

He moved easily toward the bed, lowering us both down, and the relief was so great that I no longer even felt embarrassed.

I was already drifting off, curled firmly into Jacob, still holding onto him, like I could keep him safe from my nightmares.

“I love you, Bella.” He murmured, and there was something, something I was missing…

“Love you” I sighed, and fell asleep.

—

When the sun made one of it’s rare, full appearances in Forks and La Push, it was hard to remember to feel worried, or haunted by nightmares.

I woke up as the sun was rising, completely warm, and with only the fading traces of pleasant dreams.

I was curled against Jacob’s side, in a way that should have been strange, but wasn’t, knees resting against his thigh, my hands curled between my chest and his side, and my forehead resting against his rib cage. I could feel his arm resting behind me, by the radiating heat.

I tilted my head up to look at his face, still relaxed in sleep, bathed in the unusually bright morning sun.

I’d told Jacob before that he was sort of beautiful, but in truth that was an understatement. I’d always found his skin beautiful, not only because it was a warm, sun-kissed rich brown, even in the gloomy La Push weather, so different from (and therefore interesting compared to) my own nearly translucent pale. But it was also so smooth and even (heaven forbid a supernatural creature ever suffer a pimple or dry skin). His face was a bit too broad, as was his nose, and his wide mouth and soft lips a bit too generous for the classic Hollywood beauty Edward had possessed. His high cheekbones could have made his face look stern, especially in combination with his straight nose, and his thick, dark eyebrows, but in contrast with his lush mouth and luminous skin, they made him breathtaking. It was a face made for emotion - meant to be laughing, talking, or as I’d realized lately- looking at me in the intent way that made my face flame and heat curl inside me.  

But then again, I was in love with him.

I knew when other people saw Jacob these days, they saw his body - ridiculously tall, prematurely mature, supernaturally muscled, usually shirtless- I ran a hand up his chest to cover his heart.

I forgot sometimes, or took for granted, how beautiful he was. Because he’d brought so much beauty into my life that had nothing to do with the strength of his arms and abs, or the masculine beauty of his face.

“Mm. Bella?” he mumbled sleepily, blinking his eyes at me in sleepy affection, their deep brown a shade or two darker than my own.

I leaned up to press my mouth against his. The dream the night before and this perfect morning stirred something in me, between peace and desperation.

His hand curled around my back.

“Good morning, Jacob” I said against his lips, propping myself up to brace against his chest.

His chest rumbled under my hand with laughter.

He picked me up, and sat my on his stomach.

“You can say that again, Bells. Watch out, I could get used to this kind of morning.”

“Me too”

I wanted him. I blushed hard at the thought but there it was.

I leaned down over him, pressing my lips to his chest. It was so warm, his heart beat strong and true.

Jake’s body stiffened beneath me and he closed his eyes like he was in pain.

His hands ran up my legs to squeeze my hips (such as they were) and he sighed.

Several interesting parts of me went up in flames.

I groaned and dropped my head against his chest.

“We can’t do this, Jake. Charlie.”

“I’m not doing anything, Bella, this is all you.” he chuckled again.  I kissed his chest again.

He sucked in a breath and his fingers spasmed against my hips. I smiled in satisfaction, not lifting my head.

“Charlie’s not here. Maybe he had an early shift?” He was still laughing at me.

I kissed him again, sliding lower on his body, until his hands caught me.

My brief fear of rejection was squashed by the look in his eyes.

He lifted me up as if I weighed nothing, my legs dangling down to the mattress on either side of him.

“Don’t you have to go to school?”

“Oh, shoot! What time is it?” I squirmed until he put me down, then promptly rolled off the bed.

“Ow!”

Now he was definitely laughing at me. He sat up and peered down at me. It really wasn’t fair that almost everyone I hung out with was supernaturally graceful.

“You okay, Bells?”

“Shut up, Jake.” I had about half an hour.

“Don’t you have to go to school too?” he stretched, sliding out of bed and rolling his neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah. Guess I should. Sam’s got me on patrol tonight. Again.”

“You won’t be in trouble for staying with me last night, will you?”

“Nah. I was done when I came by anyway.”

I pulled clothes out of drawers blindly, and remembered just in time that I couldn’t change while Jacob was in my room.

But I didn’t want him to believe this little bubble of safety and happiness we’d woken up to.

“Stay.” I told him, ducking out of my room to the bathroom, grateful to the gods of police department scheduling who’d gotten Charlie out of the house at the right time, yet again.

Jake’s laughter followed me to the bathroom.

We didn’t have time for anything fancy for breakfast. But Jacob happily bolted down the jumbo bowl of cereal I put in front of him, while I ate my own more modest portion.

He drove me to school (in my truck), despite my half-hearted insistence that he leave for his own school day.

So when I stumbled into first period, with just 5 minutes to spare, it was warm and still blushing from a breathless kiss he’d given me in the parking lot before melting into the forest.

Jessica smirked at me as I slid into my seat. I tried to bite back my smile. Smiling too much in pre-calc was never a good idea.

“Morning, Bella. You look happy today. Was that Jacob dropping you off for school?” Angela asked, too innocently. I tried to muster a glare.

“He stopped by this morning...yeah.”

“Oh my God!” Jessica replied, in a restrained shriek.

“Shhh”

“I really want to hate you sometimes, Bella Swan. Are you bringing him to prom? Can he bring some friends, preferably ones that look like him?” Apparently she and Mike were off again. He threw a disgruntled look at her, which she didn’t notice.

I laughed, imagining the chaos of the La Push pack descending on the Forks High prom.

“I think we’re going to do something else, just the two of us, or with some of his friends from La Push.”

“WhA-” but her exclamation was mercifully cut off, by the start of class.

It resumed promptly after, and continued, with more restrained but still supportive input from Angela.

“I think the kids from La Push are allowed to come, as long as they buy tickets, I think they have to be invited by someone from Forks.”

“Yeah, there was like totally a lawsuit or something.”

“I’ll ask Jake and maybe the others. But I hate dancing, and I hate dressing up, and I hate you guys.” I grumbled, walking into last period. They froze for a moment, looking at me.

“Did Bella make a joke, Ang?”

“She really did.”

“Haha.”

---

[lilibug--xx]

something good will come

This is a missing moments bughead fic for 2x06, Chapter Nineteen: Deathproof.

Read it on ao3 here! :)

Thanks to @strix for being my beta, much much love. And to @a92vm for reading over my stuff, like always, and providing me with so much feedback and encouragement.

Betty felt the world turning below her feet, but it was like she was moving in slow motion. The anxiety, the guilt, the anguish; it was weighing her down, grinding her into the dirt. Black Hood was catching up to her, and she needed to turn the tables. She was going to take back her power, her friends, and her sanity.

“We’re meant to lose the people we love. How else would we know how important they are to us?” — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”

 A sense of impending doom washed over her like a tidal wave. 

It assaulted her with such fervor that she dropped the wrench from her hand with limp fingers. Betty heard the crack of it against the pavement, but it was lost on her. Her lungs were burning with the breath she couldn’t quite catch, and she grasped her hand around her throat. Green eyes were clouded with the steady stream of her anguish, her chest constricting and stuttering as the world started to quiet. Everything was muted, the only thing Betty could hear was the blood pulsing in her veins like the beat of a drum, volume steadily intensifying.

Betty slid down the brick wall of the building, the chill of the stone and air doing little to bring her to her senses. Her legs had carried her outside, away from the auto shop, away from Jughead.

The look on his face had broken her heart, splintering it into even more pieces.

Betty, you did the one thing that could actually hurt me...

His words were burned into her brain; the tense lock of his jaw, the dark bruises on his face, his split lip, and hunched shoulders. The bite of his words were stronger than she had anticipated. The shake of his head as he turned away from her, crossing his arms, had her lips parting to form words that wouldn’t come.

She wanted, needed, to get him through this race. Had to keep up this façade for the Black Hood a little longer. But Jughead was making it so very hard.

It would have been slightly easier if they didn’t have to see each other, but Betty was the only one who could help. Reggie had offered his car for the race against the Ghoulies, and sure, it was a gem on the outside, but it wasn’t sparkling under the hood. Archie had volunteered her services immediately after getting the okay from Reggie, blurting it out as they had all left the jingle jangle den the day before.

The grit of Jughead’s teeth was audible as he brushed past her, leaving them all behind. The clench of his fists as he rasped out for her to meet him at the Riverdale Auto shop tomorrow — today.

Betty had put on a brave face and had started out resilient. Her resolve started to break at Jughead’s tone, his words pushing her to a point she wasn’t going to be able to hold. He was right, he was vehemently right, and there was no denying it.

She had choked out an, I’m sorry, Jughead, before trying to tell him that she would explain eventually, but of course, he didn’t quite understand what she meant by that. Betty didn’t blame him — it was her fault, or rather, the Black Hood’s fault. She was just trying her best to keep everyone safe.

It was exactly like Archie had said; the Black Hood was torturing her. They were playing this game of check-and-mate and Betty wasn’t sure which piece she was playing anymore. She hadn’t slept, at least not without nightmares since Fred was shot, little more than two weeks ago. Everything kept her up at night, particularly naming Nick St. Clair to the Black Hood.

Once that phone call had ended, Betty had felt this tremendous guilt well up inside, threatening to spill out of her in an anguished howl. It had ebbed a miniscule amount when she recalled Cheryl’s situation,what Nick had done to her, and what he deserved because of it, but it was still there. It didn’t leave when she had ran to his hotel room to find him alive and well; and it certainly didn’t leave after talking to the Black Hood again.

She was nothing like that psycho, Betty knew that. Still, his words had haunted her. She was deeply unsettled, right down to her very core, when he had called her true colors beautiful.

It was eating her alive, twisting and thriving in her gut — all these feelings and no outlet. Betty had explained some things to Archie, but not everything, not every fine grain detail. She was lucky to have him; lucky that the Black Hood hadn’t made her step away from Archie first. He would be able to comfort Veronica, at least. Betty felt incredibly guilty over the way she had spoken to her.

She had only gone to Nick’s party for an opportunity to cut Veronica out in a public setting; one where her friend would be less likely to question her motives, and instead feel humiliated with their friends watching. The sadness reflected in those brown eyes when she told Betty to leave if she was such a monster, was overwhelming.

Broken and feeling like she was falling down a hole she would not be able to climb out of, she succumbed to the pressure and confessed everything to Veronica when the other girl pushed in the right direction, prodding Betty with decidedly a no-bullshit-permitted type of question. There was no way she was going to survive this if she didn’t have another force behind her. She felt a little better, at least, with Veronica knowing the truth of her torment.

Betty cried every night, and suffered from seemingly a permanent headache. Her hair hurt to wear up in a ponytail — it was suffocating and she swore she could feel someone tugging on the strands when no one was around.

Blindly, her hand reached up and yanked the elastic out of her hair roughly, the bun she had tied her hair into falling out and around her like a golden curtain. Tossing the tie to the ground, Betty brought her hands to her face, covering her eyes. Her fingernails digging into her forehead as she heaved a sob into her palms.

Betty could feel the grime on her hands mixing with the wet tracks on her face,feel the deep indentations on her palm from where she had been channeling her anguish, transferring it into physical pain.

“Betty?”

Her ears were ringing. The name like whispered caress through her muffled senses. It took her a while to realize it was her name, that someone had called.

Hands were pulling hers away from her face. Betty’s lips trembling, fingers shaking as she looked up to Jughead.

“ Betty…”

There was a soft echo in her ear, like he had been saying her name a little while, more than the twice she had caught it.  

Through her blurry vision, his lips were turned down into an uneasy frown, eyes boring into her with a look of apprehension caught in their stormy mists.

Betty’s lungs were still burning, and she had realized now that she wasn’t even breathing her quick, shallow breaths anymore. Her lips parted in a rush and she sucked a gulp of air in, eyes going wide as she scrambled away and out from where Jughead had stooped down to her.

Shuffling on her knees away from him, Betty reached the edge of the sidewalk, leaning over it and staring into the loose gravel littering the road. She gripped fistfulls of the rocks, grinding them into her hands as she counted the little divots in the road, one by one.

By focusing on something else, Betty was able to better control her breathing as the dread eased back from its tight grip on her shoulders. She felt Jughead’s hand rest on her lower back gently, the bottom of his palm pressing against the skin of her back where her shirt had ridden up. The touch grounded her, the warmth of his skin a light in her blindness.

“Betty, breathe. Slowly, baby; in and out.”

His voice was raspy and despite everything, she could hear how distressed his tone was. She tried to do as he said; taking a breath and holding it longer, letting it out in a shaky exhale. She repeated it several times, all the while aware of the pad of Jughead’s thumb rubbing small circles into her back just above the waistband of her overalls.

Once the numbness went away from her limbs and her ears were processing normal sounds, did she realize she was leaning far into the road. He tugged her back and Betty released the rocks in her hands, sitting with a huff as her back collided with Jughead’s chest.

They were sitting on the sidewalk, Betty half in his lap with Jughead’s arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She had placed her hands on his thighs, gripping for purchase. Her head had fallen back onto Jughead’s firm shoulder, eyes sliding shut as she fought the sudden exhaustion she had been hit with.

The sound of his voice was soothing in her ear. Jughead was speaking softly, his lips hovering at her temple. The tips of his fingers pressing into her sides securely.

“On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars — Something good will come out of all things yet —”

Betty recognized the words; he had said them to her before. She had a similar episode when Polly had gone missing from the Sisters of Quiet Mercy, only they hadn’t been together then. Jughead had spoken them to her when she was cuddled into him in the backseat of her mother’s car, on the long and uncomfortably quiet ride back.

Betty had been on verge of a panic attack, but he had grabbed her hand gently within his own and slung his other around her shoulders. Jughead whispered the words into her ear, his breath tickling the skin of her neck. It had stopped her, made her think, to focus on something else other than her fears and her worry.

“—And it will be golden and eternal just like that—”

Jughead sighed against her, she could feel the gentle swipe of his fingers on her skin, sneaking under the edges of her shirt.

“There’s no need to say another word.”

He repeated the quote from “Big Sur” by Jack Kerouac again, the softness of his voice soothing the ache in her heart.

With her breathing back to normal, Betty turned in Jughead’s lap, her head nuzzled into his neck; she needed the physical comfort his arms brought. Betty breathed him in; the scent of pine, old books, a hint of aftershave — combined with the new addition of leather, eased her into a calmer state. Her hands tightly gripped the sides of the shirt he had borrowed from the auto shop.

“Juggie…”

He squeezed her tighter, hauling her against him. “It’s okay, Betty. We don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. I’ll wait.”

Betty’s eyes fluttered closed, her lips pressing softly against the hollow under Jughead’s jaw. She heard his audible swallow, felt his fingers twitch against her before he was clearing his throat and tugging her to stand.

“Let’s go inside, I’ll get you a water and we can take a break from the car for a while.”

She nodded, pulling herself, reluctantly, away from the warmth of Jughead’s body. Betty held onto Jughead’s arm as they walked back into the shop. The rest the day was a little bit different, but a little bit better.

It was still awkward, there was still tension; but Betty could see a light at the end of the tunnel. She wasn’t shrouded in complete darkness, there was a redemption at the end of this painful arc.

Andwhen Betty lay down that night, the tears didn’t come. The nightmares continued — she was getting closer to the Black Hood every night. This latest one was a crowd of people wearing black hoods and taunting her with the mistakes of her past; dangling her friends in front of her, just out of reach.

But each day when she woke, she was a little bit stronger. No matter the assault that the Black Hood was forcing on her, she was going to grow.

Betty took a cold shower to bring her senses out of their sharpened state before Veronica came over. They had searched her all too pink bedroom for something worthy of the unusually warm day. They decided on a pair of highwaisted denim jeans and white ruffled crop top. Veronica curled her ponytail for her and suggested a red bandana.

"Very Rosie the Riveter, I like it,” she ran a finger along the edge of the bandanna, smile lighting her face.

Veronica had clasped her hands behind her and smiled at her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “It’s a look, but you own it my little grease monkey.”

Betty shooed the raven-haired girl away, eyes rolling.

They rode with Reggie, Archie, and Kevin to the agreed meeting spot. Of course it wasn’t exactly as low-key as FP would have liked. Considering it looked like a street party gathered around a group of cars and motorcycles.

Jughead was there, leaning against Reggie’s car, arms crossed over his chest. As they pulled up beside the car, Betty was able to admire the stretch of the leather across his broad shoulders. She got out of the car slowly, trailing behind everyone.

Once their peace was said and Tall Boy had announced it was time to get this show on the road, Betty grabbed Jughead’s elbow.

“Wait,” she called, and thankfully he turned back to her. They were standing further apart than she would like, but there were people looking at them. Betty eyed the group of Southside Serpents staring at them as they crowded around their bikes. She couldn’t quite decipher the look on Toni’s face.  

Looking back up to Jughead, she began the words she had rehearsed.

“Before you get in the car, I need you to know…” she looked down at the gravel, toeing it with the edge of her converse. The intensity of his blue eyes on her was startling in this heat. Betty looked back up, wiping her sweaty palms on the backs of her thighs.

“I never stopped loving you, Jug. I’m not sure I can…” her voice was starting to crack and she gave a little shake of her head.

Jughead’s gaze softened then, his lip twitching as his eyes darted over to Archie a ways away. He brought his gaze back to her, not quite so dark as it had been before. The frown lines around his mouth eased up and she could see him hunch his shoulders into his slouched posture that was so familiar rather than the rigid stance he had been holding himself in.

“Also, remember…”  Betty trailed off, she wanted to tell him everything. About the Black Hood, about her, about Archie, Veronica, Cheryl and Nick, and the Sugarman. But this wasn’t the time nor the place.

She wanted to tell Jughead to kiss her, to take her away for real, like they imagined at Pop’s.

With a tilt of her head, eyes squinting slightly in the light of the sun, Betty changed direction.

“Don’t ride the clutch and don’t let it slip between gearshifts, okay?”

Jughead shook his head at her, eyebrows raising slightly, “You’re an enigma, Cooper.”

He shuffled, taking a step towards her. His arm reached out as if to grab her waist and his head started to dip towards her. Betty’s stomach started fluttering in time with the fast beat of her heart. But, Jughead must have realized he couldn’t kiss her because he pushed off to her right before anything else happened, barely clearing her shoulder as he walked away. Her eyes caught the clench of his jaw before he passed.  

Betty let out the the breath she had been holding. She had wanted nothing more for him to grab her and kiss her breathless, senseless. With a shake of her head, she turned around and moved to Veronica’s side. She tucked one hand into the pocket of her jeans and rested the other against Reggie’s truck.

She watched the cars rev their engines and she hoped she had done enough to give the car more of an edge that it had before. Betty was chewing her lip as Cheryl raised the flag with a flourish. They had all been cheering, running after the cars as they sped off. Her heart was in her throat as she stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a sharp whistle.

Betty shielded her eyes from the sun, standing with a hand on her hip as she watched Archie and Jughead, and the Ghoulies, disappear into the distance. Everyone had gone back to their spots, sipping on their cups of Trash Can punch that someone had brought in a big red cooler. She continued to stand there, in the middle of the road until she felt Veronica dragging her back towards their group of friends.

It didn’t last long, because Reggie’s car was coming back down the road — no Ghoulies in sight, but also entirely too soon. Something was wrong.

It turns out the police — Sheriff Keller — had been on the other side of the bridge. Archie had called the police prior to the race. Betty had winced, shaking her head. Of course, he hadn’t discussed that with anyone.

There was tension all around. Jughead and Tall Boy arguing, Sweet Pea getting in Archie’s face, Jughead and Archie standing chest to chest. The testosterone was a bit overwhelming.

They had to leave. Everyone was scattering and she saw Jughead heading for Reggie’s car. Betty turned to Archie with a look that she hoped he understood. Simultaneously saying this isn’t over, and why would you do that, Archie?, with her eyebrows as she pulled the passenger door open on impulse and got into the car with Jughead.

He glanced at her, but had opted against saying anything. Just peeled down the road and, yep, the car has some kick now, she thought as she pressed her back into the seat.

Jughead’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, ever so proper at ten and two. Green eyes traced the tight line of his arms up to his face. “Slow down, Jug.”

He relaxed at her voice, the tightness in his shoulders lifting as his lips parted in a quiet sigh.

“Let’s go home,” Betty offered softly, her hand reaching out and gently resting on his elbow. It was time for them to talk.

When they got to the trailer, they had settled in on Jughead’s couch and Betty took a deep breath. She welled up all the courage she had been saving during the car ride, her shoulders set strongly as she spun her tangled web of encounters with the Black Hood.

“...So, then the Black Hood told me to figure out who the Sugarman was. That if I could, he would stop, whatever this is, that he’s doing.”

Betty reached a hand up to wipe the tears that had started to fall from her eyes when Jughead’s hand grabbed her wrist.

She looked up to him, his eyes holding that soft look that made her insides melt. That look of vulnerability that always crossed his features when they talked about really serious things. Betty looked away, down to their hands.

Jughead had let her tell the whole story, her motivations and actions, her dealings with the Black Hood without interruption. He held her hand the whole time, thumb brushing her palm, over the scabs there.

Betty had started her story by turning her hands over for him. Jughead had kissed each one of her fingers and both her palms. Curling his hands around hers protectively, drawing her closer to where they were facing each other on the couch. She felt the tickle of Hotdog’s shaggy hair on her back where he was curled up behind her.

Jughead brought a hand up to cup her cheek, his fingers swiping at the wetness. Betty leaned her cheek into his palm, the comfort and warmth radiating all down her spine.

“I love you, Betty,” his voice flooded her ears, all soft and gentle, a tone reserved only for her. She opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them. Jughead’s eyes had that look of vulnerability so reminiscent of the precious times they had proclaimed their love for one another. Her heart felt like it was bursting from her ribcage.

“I love you too, Jughead, I told you, I don’t think I—”

His lips were crashing into hers, the words she had been trying to say swallowed between them in the sizzle of heat. Betty’s eyes fluttered closed, as she leant forward, pressing her lips more firmly to his. Jughead dropped his hand from her face to slid around her waist, tugging her forward and into his lap.

They shifted together, Betty straddling Jughead as he stretched his legs out in the space she had made. She leaned him back against the armrest, pushing their chests together.

The steady beat of their hearts were in sync, and the warmth from their closeness was so uplifting; Betty felt the weight of the whole Black Hood situation leave her and she felt breathless. She wasn’t sure if it was their kisses that had grown so heated or her racing thoughts and fluttering heart that was making her so dizzy.

She did know that Jughead’s hands were sliding from her waist down and over the curve of her bottom, pulling her toward him with unrestrained fervor as he grazed her lower lip with with his teeth. Betty moaned quietly against his lips, Jughead’s hands squeezed her in response.

They lay on the couch, just kissing for what seemed like forever. Eventually they had settled down, with Betty laying on the edge of the couch, Jughead’s arm curled around her as they napped.

She had woken to the sound of her phone buzzing. It was laying on the floor, Hotdog snoring softly beside it. Betty wiped the sleep from her eyes with one hand and reached for the phone with the other. It had only been a couple hours since the race, but she felt the most well rested she had in awhile.

Phone in hand she settled back against Jughead’s chest. Glancing back at him she marveled at his relaxed state when he was asleep. No frown, no tension in his eyebrows, his eyebags looked better. Her heart was swimming with a wash of delight at seeing him like this.

Betty smiled as she looked to her phone. There was a couple messages, but notably one from Veronica asking to meet her at Pop’s.

Chewing on her lip, she turned a little in Jughead’s hold. She nudged him with her nose, nuzzling his neck.

“Juggie, I’m going to meet V for a quick milkshake and then I’m going home alright?”

He mumbled sleepily and she nudged him in the belly with her elbow. Jughead cracked an eye open at that, lips twitching.

“Yeah, heard you. Milkshake, home. Just call me okay?” his sleepy and slightly confused voice was almost her favorite.

Betty smiled at him, pecking his nose and lips several times with short kisses. “Yes, of course. I love you.”

“I love you too, Betty.”

And so she wiggled out of his embrace and dropped a blanket overtop of him as he stretched out in the space made available. Hotdog gave a yawn, blinking at her.  Betty patted his head, running her fingers through his shaggy hair down his back.

“Don’t forget to make him feed you.”

“Hey, I heard that…” Jughead mumbled sleepily, swatting at her thigh.

Betty smiled, hand grabbing his and tucking it back to his chest.

“Bye, Juggie."

Later that night, her phone started to ring, as expected. Betty couldn’t help the smirk threatening to take over her face. The ring tone she had assigned to the unknown number making making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in response.

Their conversation went about how it normally did and then he asked for the name of the Sugarman. Betty’s hand clenched into a fist at her side. She held her resolve, kept her voice steady as she spoke about turning the name over to the police for real justice instead of facing the Black Hood’s execution.

“You’re playing a risky game.”

Betty shook her head, despite the fact he couldn’t see it. She walked to her window, looking out through the blinds to the empty street.

“Yeah, but it’s my game now,” her eyes scanned the dark points that the streetlights weren’t touching. Wondering if he was watching her. Her fingers twitched against the blinds.

“Which is what, Betty?” she could hear the indignation in his voice.

“A game that ends with me catching you.” Betty was confident, especially with her friends at her side. He wasn’t going to tear them or her, apart again.

“I found out who killed Jason Blossom. I found out who the Sugarman was,” Betty paused, letting her words sink in.

“You’re next, Black Hood. I’m breathing down your neck,” The inflection in her voice was unperturbed, chilling. She felt powerful; in charge of the situation.

“Can you feel it? ...Can you feel me?”

The phone clicked off and Betty let the smirk bloom on her lips.

Game on.

“Life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyse you, they’re supposed to help you discover who you are.” — Bernice Johnson Reagon.

[captainmortgage]

So for my creative writing class I had to write a story of a character I made up meeting a zombie for the first time. So that happened. Anyway, I kinda liked it so here it is under the cut

Allow me to describe for you the first time I encountered the undead. It’s a moment that sticks with you, not just because of how terrifying it is, but because of how often you’ve imagined it before. And how wrong you were each of those times. You see, I’d always imagined that someday I’d run into some slow, sniffling, mostly-dead-but-not-really mass of rotting tissue in a dark alley, slowly cutting off my only escape and dooming me to a final five or six minutes of pure terror before it eviscerated my sorry ass. Or, if I was feeling particularly confident that day, I’d imagine how it would feel to run into that same situation and beat the living shit out of it. Well, non-living shit. You get the idea.

           I’d imagine it cutting me off in the alley and slowly ambling toward me, my resolve hardening as the threat grew closer. Then, if I was feeling romantic, perhaps there would be a distressed, scantily-clad, damsel behind me, relying on me for her defense. Naturally, this fantasy would progress to me absolutely brutalizing this poor undead bastard, somehow without ruining my hair, and then the aforementioned damsel would be so impressed by my stunning display of masculinity and martial affinity that she would demand that I make love to her right then and there, undead corpse (is that superfluous?) notwithstanding.

           And then I would wake up and remember that, considering who I am as a person and the women that I typically keep company with, this situation would probably be reversed. Whatever woman was unfortunate enough to babysit my useless ass would go re-murder the creature while I hid behind a dumpster, taking solace in the fact that I wasn’t the only trash in the alley and letting out a few super-manly squeaks whenever a piece of the undead getting its shit kicked in happened to land near me.

           But, surprisingly enough, neither of these things is what happened the first time I met an undead. For one thing, we met at the Wendy’s drive through. On the other hand, I honestly didn’t realize what it was until I’d literally touched it. Now, I recognize, and freely admit, that I’m a grade A, FDA-approved dumbass. But this might’ve been the single dumbest moment of my life. Actually, I take that back. That thing with the C4 in the fireplace probably was (shut up, I needed to hide a birthday present). But this was the second dumbest moment of my life.

           As I said before, I was in the Wendy’s drive through. You’d think that a literal zombie apocalypse would close down Wendy’s, or at least the drive through, but you’d be wrong. Living dead in the streets? Fuck it, let’s get a frosty.

           The zombie had apparently had the same thought, and I ended up stuck behind him (them? Does gender carry over into zombieness? I kinda doubt it. I mean, I guess I could’ve asked them for their preferred pronouns but I don’t know how to spell argghghhgughghugh very well. Shit I just did. Ok, I don’t want to type that every time I refer to it. Or try to figure out plurals and possessives and all that shit. Fuck it, I’m just gonna use them. Or it. They/it can eat a dick-shaped brain if they don’t like it.) So here we were. Me, in my ’97 Toyota Avalon, in line for a Baconator and a frosty. The zombie, just standing right by the window doing nothing while a tired teenager who wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with this tried to convince it to go away. Now, I had the windows up and had some music on (Here I Go Again by White Snake. What? I’d had a shitty day and needed some motivation to go on. You try listening to that song and not getting motivated. Hell, it almost motivated me to order a chicken sandwich instead of the Baconator. Almost.), so I didn’t hear any of this. All I saw was delicious beef and bacon, and some stupid fuck standing in my way. So I honked. A lot. And when that did nothing, I did what any rational human being would do: I kept honking. Because I’m a problem-solver.

           After about thirty seconds of honking, my attention span was stretched to the breaking point and I decided to get out of the car (pro tip: NEVER GET OUT OF THE CAR EVER YOU STUPID ASSHOLE) and confront this idiot standing in the way of my impending lunch. Now, I’m not normally a very aggressive person, but when I get hungry, things change. Snickers had it right. So I walk up to the thing in my way, and with all the confidence of a 22-year-old who’s never punched anything before, but has played about 300 hours of Tekken, I grab the figure’s shoulder and say, “Hey buddy, why don’t you AGHH OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!!?”

           I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Wow, that was an unexpected way for that sentence to end. He went from bluster and belligerence to abject pants-pissing terror in the space of 3 words.” To which I would reply with: 1. You clearly don’t know me very well, that happens about once a week. And 2. Let’s see you almost eskimo kiss a zombie and not freak out. Quit judging me. Asshole.

           So yeah, the thing turns around and it’s a zombie. Right in front of me. About 3 inches from my dumb face. And this was honestly one of the most surreal moments of my life. It was like I was so scared I went all the way back around the spectrum to calm again. Like my body didn’t know what to do with this insane spike of emotion, so it just said “Fuck it. No emotions for you.”

           The zombie stood just in front of me. They were about 6 foot 2, just within the “kind of intimidating but not overly so” range of heights. They were wearing a large hoodie, which explains why I didn’t realize it was a zombie until I literally touched it. And its face was…weird. Like, really weird. Its mouth was open to a point that was unsettling without being obvious why. See, if it had been just slightly ajar it would’ve looked like someone breathing through their mouth, and if it had been wide open it would’ve looked like someone who was either really surprised or trying to catch some food in their mouth. Instead it was at an awkward in-between stage. Like the middle school of mouth openings. Like it couldn’t really decide what it wanted to be, so it decided to be half of all the things it thought was cool and that ended up being literally the worst choice it could’ve possibly made and all the other kids made fun of it and it had to sit at the lunch table all alone eating peanut butter and honey sandwiches on white bread and trying to pretend like it wanted to get picked last for kickball… sorry, what was I talking about? Right, the zombie. So its mouth was weird, we’ve established that. And projected a little bit. Moving on.

           Stepping back and taking in the whole face, everything just moved further down the uncanny valley. Their face held a blank expression, as expected for a zombie, but it’s hard to describe what kind. You see, there are several types of blank expressions. There’s the blank expression you have when you watch someone steal your parking space right in front of you. The kind of blank expression where you just sit there and blink a couple times, staring off in a random direction like you’re Jim in The Office and there’s a camera watching you. This is the kind where you have to take a second to process. To sit there and think, “Wow, did that really just happen? Does God really hate me that much? Is this payback for candy bar I stole when I was 9? Who knew God was such a petty bitch.” This is what I call the Angry Blank.

           There’s also the Confused Blank. This is the kind of blank expression where it’s your first day of college and you walk into your first class, all excited for this new journey you’re about to take and all the friends you’re gonna make, and you spend the first 15 minutes of class accidentally daydreaming about how great the next four years are gonna be and then you look up at the board and see a bunch of bullshit equations on the board and wonder what the fuck is going on, why are there equations in a first-year religion class, and then look around and see no one else questioning it, and then realize that you’re in the wrong room and this is a vector calculus course and your dumb ass could barely pass algebra 0.5 so you stand up and have to awkwardly step over about 13 seniors who are all trying to take notes and then the professor notices and stops talking for a second and you know he’s staring at you but you can’t turn around because it’s like you’re Frodo and the professor is the eye of Sauron and if you look at him he’ll steal your soul or some shit and you run out of the room and straight back to your dorm where you get on the computer and drop your religion class so you never have to go in that building again. That kind of blank expression.

           And there are a few other types, but they aren’t relevant here so I’m going to ignore them like I’m a GOP senator and they’re climate change evidence. The zombie had a strange mixture of these two blank expressions on their face, like they were angry and trying to process it, but then while they were processing the anger they forgot why they were angry. So now they were just walking around, angry, hoping to run into something that would give them a brain-blast or something and remind them of why they were angry.

           I took in all of this in about a second and a half, so terrified that I felt calm again, as I mentioned before. The zombie just stood there and looked at me, its dead eyes (both in the literal sense and the figurative sense) locked somewhere above my left shoulder, which was honestly the scariest part of the whole encounter. Either it was looking at something behind me, in which case I badly wanted to see what it was but didn’t want to turn away from the zombie in front of me because fear. Or it simply couldn’t focus its eyes on me and that was the best it could get, which is pretty creepy. We both stood there for a while, me not moving because I was afraid that its vision was based on movement like it was a goddamned T-rex and the zombie not moving because who the fuck knows? Eventually, the poor teenager working the window asked me if I was gonna order anything, drawing the zombie’s attention back to the window, and that was enough to break my reverie. I broke and sprinted the five feet to my car, got in so fast I slammed my head against the roof, possibly giving myself a concussion, and hauled ass out of that drive through, narrowly missing the zombie on my way out.

           I drove straight to the Wendy’s on the other side of town and ordered myself a Baconator and two frosties because I’d fucking earned them. I just stared death in the face and ran away like a little bitch. I needed the calories if I was gonna keep running like that. Endurance had never been my strong suit.

[disaster-goose]

“We have a special bond”

I need to vent, so congratulations followers you’ve all automatically unlocked part of my Tragic Backstory. 

When I was a little kid, my mom would tell me that we had a special bond that other moms and kids didn’t have with each other. Sometimes she called it a psychic bond. Sometimes she said we were just “in tune with each other”. 

My mom believed in a lot of mysticism and spirituality, like past life regression and clairvoyance. She often suggested to me that I was special, that I might be psychic, and that I was more “in tune” with the world than other people. When I had imaginary friends or talked to myself while playing, she suggested that they were ghosts and I was a medium. This was a pretty terrifying concept as a six-year-old. 

When I was 8, I was staying at my grandparents house for the weekend when I pitched a fit and demanded to go home. This was not at all out of character for me and it had actually happened several times before. But that night my grandfather had a heart attack and my mom told me I must have sensed that something bad was going to happen, and that’s why I wanted to leave. 

This is just one example of the many times that my mom would tell me that my anxiety proceeding a negative experience had been a premonition and was evidence that I was psychic. As an adult, I now realize that I had severe generalized anxiety from a very young age and it’s very likely that I was simply anxious before most events, good and bad. 

In addition to the idea that I could sense impending doom, my mom also reinforced the idea that she and I had a special bond through which she could tell what I was thinking and feeling. 

If I was having a social problem and trying to keep it from her, eventually the truth would come out an she’d say something like, “I knew it! I sensed that you were upset.” The phrasing always made it clear that she hadn’t figured it out because of my behavior or attitude, but that she had sensed my distress through our special bond. 

When I finally moved away for school I went from talking to my mom every day to calling her about once a week. I was so busy that I only really called her when I was upset about something. Every time I called she’d say, “I have been thinking about you all day. I knew something was wrong.” She knew something was wrong because I only called when something was wrong!

I’m thinking about this a lot right now because I called my mom a few days ago and she whipped out the old “I have been thinking about you all day” line. The funny thing was that nothing was wrong. I’d been having a pretty good day. I’d called her because I was feeling guilty about not calling more often. When I told her nothing was wrong she very quickly backpedaled on her usual “I knew something was wrong” routine. 

A few days after that, I talked to one of my cousins I hadn’t spoken with in a long time. Our conversation got me a bit nostalgic and I’ve been thinking a lot of our family vacations in Tahoe. 

Today I got a text from my mom. It’s a photo of me and that cousin as toddlers, on a vacation in Tahoe. 

I opened the photo and thought, “That’s so weird. I was just thinking about this. She must have known...”

So here I am, unpacking this emotional baggage and making sense of the damage it did. Whether this damage was intentional or not isn’t clear and doesn’t really matter. I was hurt by her actions and her choices whether she meant to hurt me or not. 

Leading me to believe that we had a special psychic connection and that I had some kind of psychic gift caused two huge problems in my life:

1) I tend to believe that my anxiety is an indication that something bad is actually going to happen. When I feel anxious, I worry that my anxiety is a premonition and I work myself up trying to guess at what horror is coming. When I was younger I believed that if I just tried hard enough, I could figure out what terrible thing was coming and do something to stop it. For a long time I blamed myself for my grandfather’s heart attack, believing that if I’d just tried harder I could have tapped into my psychic abilities and foreseen his heart attack. 

2) I have intrusive thoughts about other people (particularly my mother) being aware of what I am thinking. I don’t believe that people can read my mind. I’m not delusional, but my mom basically trained me to believe that she was so “in tune” with me that she would know what I was thinking or feeling. This left me with a constant worry that my most private thoughts and feelings are not private. Now that I’m older and no longer believe in the mysticism that my mom taught me, I catch myself worrying that she has found ways to intrude on my life and find out what I’m thinking or feeling. Right now I’m worrying that she’s going to read this blog post. 

I’m going to post it anyway, because I need to make sense of this damage and because I suspect that I’m not the only person who experienced this toxic emotional enmeshment with a parent. Maybe reading this will help someone else make sense of what happened to them.