#so i can't imagine how much it's gonna hit me in twenty or thirty years

[gingerslemonade]

Sometimes you just have to stumble the block from the restaurant to your apartment kind of tipsy in absolute awe of all the grace that God has given you throughout your life and wondering what He wants you to do with all of it, y'know

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ I NEED YOU MORE ❜

with Nestor Oceteva, and teen!reader as his daughter.

Request: Hello! A Imagine about Nestor's daughter? A teen girl who hate Miguel,maybe cause she ils scared by him ? And that's cause some problem between Nestor and his daughter. And she thinks he gonna kick her ass out of the home like with her mom or in intership (not sure of the english word... I mean school where u sleep here during week) . Maybe with Mayans apparition ? 🙈 Ending fluff ? ❤❤🙏

BY ANON

Word count: about 4.1k and I'm not even sorry.

Warnings: angst af, minors consuming alcohol and stealing a car, slightslightslight mention of violence (this sounds too bad just to warn you of a slap) and I don't know what more. Actually, I don't even know if these are warnings, or need to be warned. I'm a clown.

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: @angels-reyes

Masterlist.

“Dad, you promised me”. 

Nestor sighs closing his eyes for a second, before turning around to face you, wearing the holsters over the black shirt. He doesn't know what to say, seeing the letdown gesture on your face.

“Dad…”

“I know what I said, (Y/N)”. He just says, checking the guns and the loaders before keeping them on both sides of his body. “But Mikey needs me”.

“I need you too”. You reply cross-armed with a broken thread of voice.

Turning on your feet, you leave the room being followed by the mexican, who is trying to find the most adequate words to say. But he knows that you are right, closing the door onto his nose. Falling down on your bed, you can't help but finally break in crying. Your father can hear you and that really breaks his heart, but he has to leave much to his regret. Miguel said some days ago that he would be free this weekend and you were ready to travel to Los Angeles tomorrow morning. As always, that wasn't something to happen. It's the third time you've delayed the trip, being alone for the rest of the week, because surprisingly Nestor has to work. And you understand his job and what he does, but sometimes Miguel looks like he's jealous. Of you, of your relationship, of whatever. Maybe he is his best friend, his brother, but his boss first. So your father has to obey his orders.

When you're sure he's gone, you step out of your dorm, going downstairs and cleaning the tears on your shirt. Maybe you're on time to call some friend and have a beer in that bar that doesn't care about your age because ‘you are Nestor Oceteva's daughter’. It should be the other way around, but who are you to question those kinds of decisions. Typing by heart your best friend's number, you place the phone on your ear, opening the fridge to find something to eat.

“Hey, babygirl”.

“Hey, corazón. Where are you?���

“Home, watching a documentary”.

“What 'bout?” You ask, grabbing yesterday's thai leftlover, before closing the fridge.

“Charles Manson. That… fucking guy was fucking crazy”.

“Yeah, I've seen something about him”.

Taking a fork from the main drawer, you jump over the counter to sit on, putting the speaker on your phone to leave it by a side of your legs.

“So, what's up? Are you exc—”.

“My father canceled it again”. You interrupt her, eating a bunch of noodles. “Do you… want to hang… out? I think he left the car here”.

“Are you gonna drive your father's car? Without license?”

“Do you want to hang out or not?”.

“Yeah, yeah. Give me… dunno, twenty minutes?”

“Thirty, I'm having somekind of dinner”. You reply, looking at the box between your hands with an incredulous gesture.

“Okay, amor, see you here”.

Hanging up the call, you hurried up to finish the box and get ready for a girls night. It's not the first time that you do it and of course it's not going to be the last. But even if you try to convince yourself that you're not trying to call Nestor's attention, you know you are doing it. And you know it at the exact moment you find the keys of the black SUV. Miguel's car. The one he drives when he has to work. Probably, one of the other security men picked him up. You don't care. You're going to take this car, and not the personal one. Having one last look on the mirror, turning over the sneakers and putting well on the black skirt and the transparent crop top, you leave the house straight to the garage. Clicking the control remote to lift up the door, you lead your steps towards the big Range Rover.

Once that the engine is on, you speed up to see your house getting smaller through the rear-view, enjoying how easy it's to drive an automatic car without caring about the gears. And of course, Lara starts to freak out when you appear in her neighborhood with such a monster of four wheels.

“Girl, are you kidding me?” She screams as soon as she sits by your side. “Shit… Nestor is gonna kill you…”

“Nope, if he doesn't find out. We're just gonna have some beers, what can go wrong, ah?” 

“This car is… fucking amazing”. 

“He put me puppy eyes to drive him”. You joke with her, before continuing to your destiny.

Of course, it's not your fault. And if it is, you hush it by turning up the volume of the music, before you get out of control driving out of Santo Padre. Reaching the pub some minutes later, you're ready to enjoy the night. Shots of tequila sliding over the wet wooden bar, cheering with your friend and drinking them in one gulp, mixing it with the toasted beers. One after another. Your body dances following the rhythm of the rock music playing on, singing the lyrics as if you were in a concert and having some fun with your best friend. Lara and you have known each other forever, and sixteen years together have given for many situations. Some better than others, but always by your side whenever you have needed her, mostly when you have needed your father. You could give your life for her, and she could give her life for you.

But that good time ends up when your phone rings in your hand, showing the name of your father on it. Rolling your eyes, you decline the call, placing an arm on Lara's shoulders.

“What if we ha—have a bottle of tequila and we le—leave? I know a place…” Making the same gesture that the chefs proffer in some kind of kiss when a dish is really delicious, she nods energetically, ignoring the new incoming call.

At least this time, you have some care driving the heavy SUV, taking your time because of your blurred gaze. It's not the first time you drive drunk, but this car is different from your father's and he needs it to work. And maybe you're starting to think that it wasn't a good idea, but by the other hand, he earned it. It's supposed that you should be sleeping and resting for your father and daughter's travel, but he preferred to cancel it to spend some more time with Miguel. That's why he didn't take the Range Rover. Probably his best friend had another discussion with his wife. The crazy bitch who appeared from nowhere and tried to be your friend just because you were Nestor's family. You're not sure who you hate the most, if Miguel, or if Emily.

And you are so absorbed thinking about it that you don't see the stop signal, passing it away and colliding with another car. A cops one. Raising your head from the airbag, as Lara does cursing and complaining in spanish, you find out how fucked you are right now. Luckily, you just hit a side of the trunk, but when you see them stepping out of the patrol holding his guns and pointing at the SUV, you know that you're going to be much more fucked when they call your father.

“Get out of the car and put the hands on your heads!”

Of course, you two obey while one of the cops asks for another patrol and some help by the walkie. As soon as they recognize you, they put the guns down with a heavy snort. If you hadn't rammed them, they would let you go. But they need to explain why their car is a little destroyed. 

“Are you hurt?” Dylan looks at both, after giving the advertisement. Lara nods head in silence, so you do.

“Turn around, (Y/N), I have to arrest you”. Frankie says grabbing the handcuffs from his belt after keeping his weapon.

“Please, don't arrest her too, it was my fault”. You beg them, raising both wrists towards him. “Please… It was my fault”.

“Can you hire an uber?” The oldest turns at your friend, who nods again. “Do it”.

“(Y/N), I'm stayi—”.

“No, Lara! You're leaving. I will call you tomorrow, I promise”.

If you were drunk at some point of the night, you're not anymore sitting in the interrogation room, wearing a jacket that Frankie gave you of the police division and a cup of hot coffee between your hands, supported over the table. You're not sure how many time have passed since you came, but when a uniformed man opens the door you know by the gesture on his face that it's time to go home. From the other end of the police station, you can hear your father shouting like never before. Full of rage and really furious. Miguel doesn't look much happy when you reach them, assuming that he paid for the penalty fee of driving without license and drunk, for the patrol and the bond to let you go. You heavy gulp bowing the head to your feet, licking your lips about to cry. No, you're not trying to pity them, you're shaking because you have never been more scared in your entire life.

“What the fuck were you thinking, ah?” Your father leans forward facing you, with an angry whisper.

“Hermano, aquí no”. (Brother, not here). Miguel mutters, placing a hand on his forearm, hoping that he calms down. But he doesn't.

“I'm talking to my daughter”. He turns for a second, before giving you back all his attention. “Mírame, chamaca”. (Look at me, girl).

“Dad, I'm s—”.

“Don't you fucking dare to say that you're sorry, 'cause we both know you're not”. He urges you to look at him, grabbing your chin with more strength that you can deal with, pointing you with a ringed forefinger. “You took my fucking car. You drove drunk. And you ran over a fucking cops car. Are you fucking stupid?”

“Nestor…” Miguel calls him again, but he doesn't reply to his brother back.

“Do you thought just for a fucking second how I felt when they called me, to tell me that my daughter had a fucking car accident and that she tripled the allowed alcohol rate?”.

“That's all you cared about?” You speak then, slapping his hand away from your face, shrugging your shoulders. “The car? The shame of… being living this situation?”

“Ah, ah. I'm not falling into your fucking game of emotional blackmail, chamaca. Not this fucking time”.

“This wouldn't have happened, if you had been at home. Sleeping. Getting ready for our trip. But… your work is always more important than spending some time with me!”

“That's not t—”.

“Oh, for god's sake! Just for once, Miguel, can you please shut the fuck up? If you paid for me, good! Thank you! I'll give it to you back, but don't fucking call me liar!”

“Watch your fucking mouth!” Your father yells at you, grabbing your left forearm and shaking it with a strong pull. “You're gonna be grounded until you're eighteen, ¿me oíste?”

“Jeez… Of course... I gave you the perfect excuse to keep hanging with your ‘best friend’ forgetting that you have a daughter… You're the worst fath—”.

You can't finish the sentence, when the back of his hand crosses your face to the other side, feeling a slight stinging stab running through your lower lip, before tasting the metallic flavor of blood. 

“Brother, don't”. Too late to stop him, Miguel. “Don't do that again”.

You're shocked with your gaze on the floor and a hand on your cheek, trying to figure out what just happened frowning slowly. 

“I hate you…” You say in a low thread of voice, with some tears falling down from your eyes.

Three words that you didn't think you could say, but here they are, pressing the sleeve cuff against your lip to contain the red liquid starting to walk right to the exit with the clear intention of getting away from him.

“No, no, no, hermano. Déjala”. (Brother, leave her). Miguel stops him again, grabbing his arm again when you begin to run, pushing the street door to go downstairs. 

Your cry gets somewhat louder, standing in front of your father's mate for a second and looking at they're disappointed gesture, before continuing your steps to the right side of the street not knowing where you want to go. You just need to walk, even if it's cold outside and the jacket it's not enough to keep you warm. Turning the corner you hear the cars engines coming closer, but although you think they're going to stop to pick you up, they don't. Nestor is driving the first one and he doesn't look at you passing you away. The pain increases, oppressing your chest and concentrating in your throat. Now you're starting to regret what you did, but it wasn't a reason to treat you like he did, hitting you. Slapping you in front of everybody. And it's worse the fact that he hit you for the first time, than the fact of who was looking at you. 

The next time you raise up your eyes from your shoes, you find yourself in Marcus neighborhood, guessing that your brain was working for you this time. Knowing that it's your only option. Knowing that he's not going to judge you, but try to understand you and give you the best advice. Ringing the doorbell when you reach his house, you stand on the porch with both arms crossed around your chest, rubbing one leg against the other trying to find some warmth on every move until he welcomes you.

“Te andaba esperando, mija”. (I was waiting for you, girl). He says with a soft smile on his lips, opening his arms to hug you tight. “Come in, you're freezing”.

In silence, you practically obey crossing the door to the inside, taking off the cops jacket to hang it on the coat rack. It's not the first time you go to him looking for some appropriate words for the occasion, and he never complains. You know him since six years ago, and he has always been so gentle and helpful.

“Why don't you have a shower while I prepare you a sandwich? Are you hungry?” He asks, placing an arm over your shoulders.

With a fleeting smile on your lips, you nod. 

“Okay, hurry up”.

Following the hallway to the guest room, you close the door to open the wardrobe, finding there your bag with some comfy clothes from the last time you had to stay there. The shower doesn't take you too much, feeling better after getting warm and clean, fixing up your lip as soon as it stops bleeding. You meet the one that is like your tío on the main table of the living room, with a sandwich, a napkin and a glass of milk. Sitting on, the man rests his arms over the wood, looking at you devouring your food.

“Nestor told me what happened”.

“Did he tell you about the trip?”

“Not tonight, but the whole week. All the time, mija”.

Shaking your hands above the dish to clean them from the bread, you raise an eyebrow towards him.

“He was very excited to go with you to Los Angeles”. He explains, as if it was necessary. “He told us everything that he wanted to show you. Hollywood, the Griffith's observatory, Santa Mónica…”

“It's the third time he leaves me on the road like a pinche perro, tío”.

“Yes, I know. And I know that he was disappointed with himself for not being able to take you to. Have you thought about that?”

You keep silent, bowing your eyes to the nibbled sandwich. No, you didn't. You were too busy being egoist, not asking how he felt about it.

“We have a… different job from other men. It's risky, complicated and we never know if we're going to come back home. But the time that we spend with our families, it's the most precious time for us. I talk with my daughter every single day by video call. And I take advantage of the minimal time to drive to Oaktown, to see her. To have lunch, a coffee… Whatever”. He says, holding your hands over the table to intertwining his fingers with yours. “For you is easier. You live together. And I'm not asking you to normalize how much he works, but to understand that everything he does, he does it for you, mija. To give you the life he couldn't have”.

“I just want to be… some time with him, tío Marcus. This is not… because of the trip, I swear. But, I can be for days without seeing him at home. And… And… everything I can think of, it's that something wrong happened to him”. You're crying again, trying to express your feelings and your emotions, while the mexican listens to you attentively. “I know I didn't have to take his car, nor another. I didn't have to drink, or escape from home. I was just… feeling alone, and sad, and…”

“Alcohol it's not the solution, mija”.

“I know…”

“And Miguel isn't your enemy”.

Yes, you know that too, but acknowledge it out loud it's not an option. You feel stupid enough for tonight.

“You should talk with Nestor, tell him how you feel and, of course, tell him that you are sorry. I'm sure you didn't, did you?”

“I don't think he wants to… hear me, or see me right now, tío”.

“(Y/N), never forget that you are his daughter. The most beautiful gift that God gave him. Nothing, and no one could change that. Never”.

With this hangover, the last thing you want to do is front facing what you did last night. But Marcus thought that you shouldn't waste more time. Stepping out of the SUV, when it stops in front of Miguel's house, you take a deep long breath with your heart racing. Your hands are sweating and your legs are trembling, walking towards the main door being slightly pushed by your tío. Coming in, you follow your father's voice, sounding tired and upset, talking with his boss about a trip to Washington. Washington D.C., where your mother lives.

“I think it's the best option, brother. It will suit her”. 

Through the opened door, you can see them giving you their backs. Miguel is standing up behind your father, pointing something on the screen of the laptop, while Nestor is sitting at the desk.

“Please, don't”. You just say with a broken tone of voice, about to cry.

The men turn around facing you.

“Dad, I'm so—sorry for what I did… I'm sorry fo—for crashing your car, Miguel… but do—don't send me to Washington… please”. You beg taking a step closer.

Miguel narrows one of his shoulders, before leaving you alone and closing the door of his own office. Nestor gets up from his chair, resting his body against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Then you notice that he looks so different as he usually does. A bump tying his curly hair, wearing sweatpants and a shirt, and two black bags under his eyes. Now you know what Marcus was trying to explain to you. 

“Dad, it will never gonna happen again, I swear. I pro—promise… I promise you. No car, no alcohol, no going out, no nothing. I will stay at home. All the ti—time. I promise”. You continue begging with all your efforts, while he keeps silent. “I get it, okay? You ha—have to work. You have to work a lot and I promise I will ne—never complain about it again… I will settle with… hav—having any time with you. Por poquito que sea”. (No matter how little).

He doesn't say anything, rubbing the bridge of his nose, uttering a heavy sigh. You're getting more and more nervous. Your whole anatomy is shaking, tasting the salty tears that flood in your lips.

“Lo—Look… this morning I fo—found a job that I co—could take this summer”. Your father looks at you, taking off your phone from a pocket to unlock it, offering it to him so he can read the offer. “It's in a caf—cafeteria… Eleven dollars per hour. It's not mu—much… but I could pay Miguel for everything”.

While you highlight everything you have to pay for, you make some gesture with your fingers counting them under his attentive gaze. He looks surprised, even if he's trying to hide it from you.

“I will do an—anything, dad. I wanna be with you… Please, don' leave me”.

You have never felt so desperate, so broken, so sad. You can't barely breathe, not knowing if you're having a panic attack, an anxiety one, or you're just dying because of the pain imagining you're not going to see him for a long, long time. You never had a good relationship with your mother, and your father is the person you love the most in the world. You literally can't live without him.

“Papá, say something… please”.

The only thing he does is look at the broken screen of your phone, before giving it to you back licking his lips.

“I wasn't talking about the city, but about the county”. He finally speaks, grabbing the laptop as you come closer to have a look. “There's a campground on Mount Rainier. It's a national park surrounded by forests. People camp there and… go hiking, exploring nature. I was more into buying two trail bikes”.

“Aren't you…?”

“Seriously, (Y/N), who the fuck do you think I am?” Narrowing his eyes, he shakes his head, leaving away the laptop.

“I'm sorry… I just… hear yo—”.

“Nothing is what it seems to be”.

“I know… and I'm truly sorry, dad”.

“I'm sorry for hitting you last night. Let me see it”. Cupping your cheek into his hands, he takes a look at the small gap on your lower lip, leaning to kiss your forehead before hugging you with all his strength. “I'm sorry for setting you apart, mi amor. I didn' mean to do it”.

“I know, dad”. You whisper against his chest, feeling somewhat better when you're able to stop crying.

“You have to talk with Mikey, okay?” He says, pulling himself away and caressing your hair. You just nod clearing your tears.

Going out from the office, clinged to your father's waist, he leads you to the kitchen. His friend is there, having a sip from a mug of coffee resting against the counter. Leaving the drink over it, he stands up waiting for some words.

“Miguel, I am… sorry about last night. About taking your car and driving it after drinking… too much tequila”.

“It's okay, I accept your apologies”. He says then with a firm tone.

“I… ahm… I told my dad that I found an… offer job in a cafeteria, to pay you the bills”. You reply, showing him too on your phone. “Probably I will have to… work a double shift for… dunno, maybe ten years to afford it. But I will give it to you back”.

“You don't have to do it”.

“Yes, I have. I crashed it and I was arrested. That's a… lot of money, but I will earn it”.

Miguel looks at you father, visibly surprised because of your insistence and that you're being more responsible than they thought you will be. You sure they thought that you would set them on fire, or something like that. But here you are, swallowing your pride and trying to do the correct thing. 

“I want to make you… have clear the fact that I don't hate you, and that I am not your enemy, (Y/N). Your father is the only person I blinded trust in. We've been friends long before you were born and when he told me he was about to have a daughter, I was more excited than anyone”. Now, you are the surprised one, watching him grab an empty mug to pour some coffee into it before offering it to you. “He's my family, so you do. Sí lo entiendes, ¿verdad?” (Do you understand it, right?”

You nod pursing your lips, holding the drink.

“It's true that sometimes I forgot that he has a house and a daughter to attend to, but I don't do it consciously. I have a son too, I know how it feels to work too much, come back home tired and don't be able to spend time with your family. So, I had an idea”. He does a pause, raising a hand towards the close stook for you to sit on. “I need someone to help me to transcribe my countability books, look for money losses from the last years of my father's empire. And Nestor told me you like… numbers”.

“Yes, I… I do”.

“So, what if to pay my bills, you help me with that? It's a way to show you that I trust you too and that I want you closer too. Everybody wins. You will see your father more often, I will solve my… little problem with the accounts and maybe we can start to be friends”.

Jumping off from the stool, you hug him. You hug him like you never thought you would do one day. And now you're seeing how wrong you were about him.

“But first, enjoy the week with your father and try not to kill himself riding through the forest”. He chuckles, palming gently your back.

“A week?” You frown confused, pulling yourself away and turning to your father smirking with both hands inside the pockets of his pants. “Like… a whole week? From Monday to Sunday?”

“Actually… from Sunday to Sunday. We're leaving tomorrow”.

Not knowing when you have began to cry again, Nestor surrounds you with both arms against his chest, feeling a little more stupid after finding out what they were doing before you came to the house. Leaving some kisses on your head, your father urges you to look at him.

“Let's prepare the trip, okay? I also need to sleep for some… long, long, long hours”. Taking off from his right pocket the Cartel's phone, he leaves it on the counter. “I'm not gonna need it”.

“You sure?” Miguel jokes with him, grabbing it to keep it.

“Fucking sure, hermano”.

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[meshugana1]

Another idea, Rich's(28) girlfriend is tired of all her friends having babies and kids and wants one of her own. Rich disagrees. She ends up cursing him as he finds himself getting dumber and childish as he regressed to her little 3 year old toddler girl trapped in diapers he can't help but use while he can no longer read or do math or even speak properly.

   “Come on Rich, let’s just be mature and talk about it,” Ricki said. Her head hung low and her hands wore out the couch she sat on.“Babe, I really can’t talk about this, not again. I don’t care if all your buddies are doing it. I’m not ready to be a dad.”“Well, when will you be ready? For Christ’s sake your almost thirty, how much longer do I need to wait? Or are you hoping I’ll hit menopause before you’re ‘ready’?”“Don’t play that card, you know what my childhood was like.”“That excuse wore itself out a long time ago, Rich. I want a baby, I need a baby, why can’t you understand that?”“I do, I just don’t care. Do you forget just home much we earn? How much our car payments are? Our mortgage? And you want to drop a baby on top of that? I know you’re a woman and all but why don’t you take a second to actually think things through for once in your life?”“You think this is just cause I’m a woman? I can’t believe you! I told all my sisters you were different, that you really cared, but you’re just a sexist pig like all the rest!” Rich had had this conversation many times with countless women. The ending never really varied, they all leave him and find someone better.

   He braced, letting her vent, it always went over better that way. But all he heard from her was her irate breathing. “I try, goddamnit I try so hard Rich. I just wanted to talk, that’s all. But you and your damn stupid attitude, well fine. You don’t want to talk? You don’t have to talk ever again!” Rich felt weird energy about the room as she screamed at him. He was used to the yelling, but it almost felt like the room was hotter. It was a penetrating heat, the kind that drains you and makes your eyes flutter. Rich felt that as his head started to swoon, he slumped into his chair and saw Ricki grab her coat and storm out, not five minutes later he was asleep and elusive dreams played out in front of his eyes.

    Rich woke up to the smell of burning bacon, a trademark of Ricki’s cooking. He bristled, surprised she had stuck around unlike so many others, but expecting she did so only because she had much more to yell. Sitting up, something about his clothing felt just the slightest bit off, but sleeping in a lazy boy will do that. He carefully opened the door, finding Ricki at the stove. That was concerning enough, but she also hummed a lighthearted tune that didn’t really seem to fit the tenor of her rage last night. “Oh good, you’re up. I was worried that you might sleep right through breakfast.”“Um, thanks? But aren’t you like, mad? You were yelling pretty loud last night,” Rich said. He shifted from foot to foot awkwardly, rubbing his arm expecting the hammer to drop. Instead, she smiled, a motherly sort of smile. “Oh sweetie, it’s all water under the bridge. You were right, I was getting a little emotional, but I’ve taken some steps to fix everything, don’t you worry.” Rich was stunned, this was new. He smiled and practically felt like dancing. He nearly skipped to the table as Ricki brought him a platter of eggs, hash-browns, and various meats.

   Usually Rich didn’t go in for such lavish breakfasts, but this was apparently her form of apology. She didn’t wait for him to grab his fork and speared a healthy amount of scrambled eggs, bringing the prongs near his mouth. Still unwilling to rekindle the rage he saw last night, he opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him. It was surprisingly relaxing for him, there was a small part of him that said that this was emasculating, but it was much quieter than it normally was. He was also surprised by the quality of the food she was giving him. Typically, she could only produce black charcoal to eat, she must have been practicing lately. The thought of her, slaving away at a cookbook, working hard to improve herself, made a pit of guilt for in Rich’s stomach. Before he had time to apologize or truly process that guilt, his meal was done she ushered him to their room to prepare for the workday.

   He donned his usual business casual outfit, he didn’t vary too much in his work attire. This morning, however, his clothing didn’t quite sit right. His shoulders seemed almost narrower and his shirt sleeves rubbed against his wrists. His belt even required an extra notch to hold his pants up, that one was at least welcome. But, once again, before he had any time to process these laundry accidents, Ricki had handed him a bottle of water and a lunch and encouraged him into the car, which in another uncharacteristic move, she drove.

   “Have a good day, Sweetie! I’ll pick you up later, just going to do some shopping.” Ricki said.“But, I can drive myself—” Rich began.“Don’t be silly, this way saves on gas and time. Now march on up there and make me proud.” Ricki said as she sped away, leaving Rich with very little choice in the matter. Rich stared at the tall building, feeling alone. His cuff chaffed his wrist, his bag lunch felt heavy in his hand, and he felt an odd sense of being out of place. His feeling was only compounded when he stepped through the threshold of the office door. The firm was already crawling with activity, which only served to unsettle Rich more. Everything seemed larger, not just in the physical sense, it almost seemed like everything here wasn’t meant for him. His awkward pace wasn’t peppy enough for someone, and he soon heard his name, followed by several expletives, and was commanded to join the others in the boardroom.

   “Alright everybody, I’m only gonna say this once, we’re in real deep shit. Our clients are pulling out, controversy after controversy has desensitized the public and they’re more litigious and organized than ever. If this advertising company is gonna survive, as it has managed to do for the past hundred years, we need a fresh new take. Something that will appease those whiny fuckin’ millennial and our diehards. I am not gonna be the one at the helm when this company goes down, so if anyone has an idea, you better speak up now.” Rich only feigned attention. He was a supposed to care, he wanted to care but something, a hazy sense of boredom held him back from it. It was as though the CEO were miles away speaking to him. An intern, especially one as hungry as he was should’ve leaped at the opportunity, sunk his claws into it and never let go. But instead, Rich sat quietly and doodled in a yellow legal pad. His scribbles were nothing a twenty-eight-year-old should be proud of, but in his mind, he was crafting a masterwork. Unicorns danced in fields, ballerina knights slew smelly dragons, and princesses adorned themselves with the prettiest dresses imaginable. “Who the hell are you?!” The CEO called out, directly at him. It was so loud and so jarring that it snapped him back violently to reality and his head swirled trying to regain his bearings. “M—me?” He said.“Yeah, you. This is a staff meeting and I certainly didn’t hire any teens recently. Are somebody’s kid or what?” Rich darted his eyes to and from each coworker, silently asking for help of any kind. “Um, I’m Rich, the intern?” He said, as unsure as everyone else seemed to be.“Bullshit. That guy is almost thirty, you little missy don’t look a day over sixteen. Now tell me who you are or get out, I’m not in the mood to play babysitter.” Sixteen? Missy? What was he talking about? But as Rich stood up and his shirt cuff swallowed his hand, and his pants nearly fell to his ankles, he had an idea of why he said what he said.

   Rich did as he was told and shuffled out of the boardroom, retaining his pants to his waist with his hand. His cheeks felt hot and his eyes were growing misty with anxious confusion. His first instinct was to run to the bathroom as fast as his small legs could take him. Is it secured hand slammed and locked the door. He approached the mirror cautiously, his boss hadn’t even recognized him and though there was no reason for it his legs moved like weights and his dress shirt dad is misty eyes preparing him for what he would see. In the cheap mirror, he could find almost no trace himself. His angular features had softened, his cheeks were puffy, his eyes were red, and here it lost and no less than a foot and a half of his former 5 foot 10. He watched his bottom lip quiver as his eyes search for any sort of answer. His shirt hung limply on slender shoulders and his hands could not be seen, but they felt delicate as if never having seen a day of work. His belt was all but useless and his pants fell to the floor. The elastic band of his underwear still did its job, but even beneath that had not been spared from whatever was happening to him. His cock was nothing to write home about before, but now it’s imprinted in his underwear is barely visible and to his distraught eyes seemed to grow even smaller.

   His legs panicked and he ran back to his desk giving no thought to his state of dress. He scrambles for the receiver of his office phone neither caring nor aware of the eyes watching his diminutive form. He punched in the numbers for Ricki’s phone, he knew the number by heart. At least he thought he did. Instead of his beautiful girlfriend, a crotchety old man answered the phone demanding why he called him at such a late hour. Rich apologized, claiming the old excuse or the wrong number. His finger must have slipped, so he tried again and of this time connected with the New York Museum of Natural History. He tried a third, fourth, and the fifth time, failing each. His eyes were no longer misty and full sorrowful tears cascaded down his soft cheeks. He sat on the floor using his sleeve to wipe his eyes, his shirt now functioning more like a dress. His coworkers around him stood confused, wondering just who have brought their daughter into work today. Before anyone else could take charge of the situation, someone strode in from the main door and kneeled down near the distraught 28-year-old man who sat in a small puddle of fear induced urine. “Shhh, it’s alright sweetie, mommy’s here.“

   “Alright now raise those arms!” Ricki said with a smile, feeling a purer joy that she could recall. The tiny, wet little girls arms shot into the air excitedly, happy to feel her mothers warm embrace again. The towel collected every stray bit of water that’s still clung to her body. “Okey-dokey sweetie, is my big girl ready for her diaper?“ She didn’t wait for an answer as she collected the supplies to change little girl. It was a well practice procedure by now and she already laid on the changing mat ready. She squeals excitedly as the powder tickled her thighs and covered her exposed bottom. Each noise of excitement fills Ricki with happiness that just days ago she felt she would never hear. Once the tapes are secured, the excitable little girl hops up and latches onto her mother’s leg. She doesn’t see the soft tear escaping from her mother’s eyes. “I didn’t want it to go this way Rich, but I’m so happy it did,” she said she lumbered into the kitchen, the happy weight still clinging to her leg, to prepare a beautiful steak dinner for herself, and a sliced hot dog for her beautiful daughter.

The End. Hope Y’all like it!

[let-them-eat-rakes]

RED REALITY (part 2)

…

…

[Dr. Scranton's voice is noticeably distorted now. Hypothesized to a combination of both him and the control panel finally showing signs of reality breakdown.]

Robert… cold. I can't… I can't feel my legs anymore. I think… I'm beginning to… Hitting that point I… talked about… Low Hume Field… Diffusion… Equilibrium… bunch of… stupid… garbage…

I don't know what's real in here any more. Hell, I'm not sure I'm real. Or… something… something close to it… If… If I really am going out like this, I… I… I don't want to die yet. I don't want to die yet. Oh, god I don't wanna die yet…

I ran up in one straight diagonal line, for six months. I went down in one… no I just went down again… for… eight. There's still no bottom, red, there's still no bottom.

What have you been up to, Red? Have you been listening for me all this time? You're a stubborn little guy, Red…

Lucy.

Huh, Red? Sorry, I must have fell asleep. What did you want? Oh… sorry, I-I'll try to remember…

Lucy. That's what we wanted to call our kid if we had one. Lucy Scranton, Lucy Lang, Anna and I both thought it would have a nice ring. I-I- No, Red, I… I don't remember picking out a boy's name…

"Good morning… good morni-i-ing. We've talked… the whole… through…"

Man, I really suck at tap-dancing. Can't feel my feet at all. Okay, you try then, Red.

Kejel's Law states that Hume Fields diffuse, Kejel's Law states that my balls will eventually fall off if this keeps up.

"Anna… Anna bo banna…" Heh, she hated that song, and I loved to tease her with it. "Anna… Anna bo banna banana… banana, banana canna…" It actually became a joke between us, did you know? We made it the words that turn you on. [Pause.] Come on, red, act your age, don't be immature. [Sighs.] Fine, guess you have a sense of humor after all, maybe!

Heheheh, we're gonna have to fuck with so much science when we get out, this place breaks apart rules like my hand is breaking right now.

Spiderwebs. My left hands. Spiderwebs.

There was a reality-bending spider at Site-120 once. I should crush it. Red, would you crush it for me when we get out?

Average ten, fifteen kilometers a day, plus a few breaks. Thirty, two, thirty, ten, no, eleven, no, no ten, I think. At least, three hundred left, and… and… shit no, was faster going down… Fuck it, I'm saying about six hundred kilometers down. Took a hell of a lot longer coming up.

Far down. Bottomless? Infinite? And beyond. Shut up, Robert, you're not funny.

Hume Field, boom field… breaking down at a rate of… shit, what's the constant of Modified Prommel Relations? Ten to the fourth? No, no… fifth… fifth, I think…

One year. Maybe add a few more months.

Red, how does David sound? David. You know, you asked about… yeah, yeah, that. Sorry I woke you…

My… my hands. I… my hands are going through each other… Red. Red! RED! Red, help, help, please, my hands, I can't feel my hands, they're going through each other like… like… they're like ice water, Red, I can't, oh god, oh god…

Huh… huh… huh… Red… You know… you know that… that stupid magic trick your uncle would show you where he'd pull his thumb off, but it was really just his other one tucked under?

I just did that. With my real thumb. It didn't even hurt, it just came off. I think… Oh, god I'm gonna be sick. I-I- [Sounds of retching.] I think… I think it's just floating right now, and I can't even pick it up, my hand just passes through it, oh god, oh god, I-I-

My left pinky feels like… an onion.

Yeah, it's separated.

NICE TRY HELL, ring's on the RIGHT hand, nice try left.

I can… go… right through myself… I can… feel inside me.

It feels… warm.

But also cold.

When I sleep… my hands go in my head. I'm sleeping on my back now.

Static. I'm like static on a TV.

Chhhk. Chhhhk. Chhhk.

Ha. Hahahaha. Hahahahahahaha. Well, I-I-I only need one kidney, right? RIGHT? RED, RED LOOK AT THIS! Haha. Hahahahahaha…

Let me keep my heart, just my heart, that's all I want.

Lucy. David. Are you there? I want to see you.

Lucy. David. That's not fair. Come on, hey, quit messing around, I was joking when I said that, I was joking. COME ON, THAT'S FUCKED UP, I WAS JOKING.

I'm a man, be a man, Robert, you're a man, WHAT THE FUCK.

Anna… Annaaaa…

Four years, six months, eighteen days.

I'm not… I'm not even doing it myself anymore. I can… feel it happening on its own… Finally. Finally, I can… I still can't say it… I'm… I'm still scared…

I… definitely won't eat anymore now…

Still really hungry.

That is fucking disgusting, Robert, and you know it. NO. SEE, RED THINKS SO TOO. NO.

This little piggie went to market.

This little piggie went… somewhere.

This little… foot. Foot… RED?!

Five years, 13 days.

Haha.

Hahahahahahaha

Hahahahahahahahahaha.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Five years, 14 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Five years, 15 days.

Stop it, you're hurting me.

Five years, 19 days.

I'm feeling better now, red, sorry.

How do you do it, red? Keep it together? Spill it out, I need some help here… I need some help…

Red. Come on. Don't do that. Don't go. I know it's hard. I know it's dark. But-but- it's dark and we're together still. Come on. Red. No. No. You-you can't. RED! Come on, buddy, stay with me, Red! Come on! I can still touch you! I CAN STILL TOUCH YOU LOOK AT ME RED YOU ARE NOT DYING YET NO RED NO!

[No audio is recorded for the next 9 months.]

Five years, nine months, two days.

…

Red?

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

Five years, nine months, three days.

[Automated message repeats 97 more times.]

You little shit, I thought you left me… [Dr. Scranton's voice is barely audible/coherent, as if through a heavily distorted, muted radio.]

…

Sorry to say, red, but… there's not much left here… I… it's been hard. I've… 184. I've tried to kill myself 184 times. It didn't work. …None of them worked. I'm… I don't even know how much there is of me anymore. At least one foot, because I can move. Probably a few leg muscles too, but I'm wobbly. Insides are… insides are shit. Still a heart, maybe a lung. This place… really won't let me stop… Tired…

I… did die, red. Come on red, don't look at me like, I don't want your pity and I don't want shock, or anger, or fear, or, or… I can't… When… 224, I miscounted…

One, two, three, four… [Dr. Scranton counts from one to 220-245 several times over for the next 13 hours.]

I died. I died, a lot. I tried to suffocate, I tried to snap my neck, I tried to bite myself apart. And… and… This place. It's not real. I left, I saw myself, on the ground and I couldn't— I couldn't— I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't leave. There's no way to leave, I just floated back down, and each, damn, time, there was less and less of me. I-I- oh, god, how much more can I take away and still live?

So why are… why are you back now? What do you want to tell me?

Five years, nine months, twelve days.

Heh…

This place is getting smaller. Red, did you somehow do this? I… there's an end here for sure now. It's gone from… god knows how long to… There's like a veil further out and when I touched it hurt like hell. Red, what's going on?

It's… it's not dark. That border or whatever is getting brighter and, I mean, it's still fucking dark but… oh god, I can actually see something now. I…I… oh, god, what the fuck is this? I… oh, god, I didn't know I was this bad. Oh, god, oh god, oh god, there's so much gone—

Five years, ten months, ten days.

Red, you're solid. Like, no, you're really fucking solid. You're… you're real. And… and… I'm real too when… only when I touch you. But… Red, it… it really hurts when I do. I… I think that if I touch you I might fall apart…

You — really fucking hurt, Red, Jesus Christ, you hurt, what the fuck is going on?

About three kilometer in radius, and closing. Is this… is this something like Kejel's Fourth Law? But… but… what the hell is taking it? Hey! HEY! I'm in here still stop! You're causing a collapse! HEY! HEY!

Two kilometers. Oh god, what's gonna happen when it closes? DAMMIT, RED YOU HURT!

Not collapsing. Waves. They're… waves… What?

Robert, you are a goddamn genius. Not walls, windows. Open windows.

Five years, ten months, twenty-eight days.

Anna, Anna can you hear me? These waves… this place… Okay, imagine, two realities as two pieces of paper stuck together. This place is the space squished between. There should be only two realities, parallel, but this place is a tiny, but infinite third… third… in-between, like what would happen if you fell into a hole crossing a bridge from Point A to Point B! Remember Class-C Wormholes? Those theories about a wormhole that was full of goddamn holes. I think… I think this is where one of those holes leads. It doesn't lead to a different universe, it leads to nothing. A dead end. This place is a dead end. Class-C "Broken Entry".

These waves. Wherever they're coming from, they're from some parallel reality interacting with this place, displacing this in-between place every so slightly. And they're all… pushing on me and red, because since we still have some level of reality, they're pushing, or… or sucking us towards them, gradually creating a new wormhole towards… towards… home.

…

What's going to happen to me when I go back? When the window closes?

Think, dammit, Robert, think. You've got to think! Think harder! THINK HARDER!

Red, I'm gonna, ah, I'm gonna have to, Jesus- gah, I'm gonna have to move away from you, you, I don't know, you're sick or something, you're really messed up right now. Call me when you're feeling better.

…I can't… I can't think… right… Blood. Blood. There's… way… too much… ha…

Drip, drip, drip, where does it allllllll…. gooooooooooooo… [Retching noises.]

I haven't… [Retching noises.] tasted barf in forever. Not even when I threw up after my… my… you're a man, Robert.

Oh, god. Oh god not again, not again, not again— [Retching.]

…

[Voice breaks.] How…? How…? How can I be throwing up this much, red, tell me… I don't… [Retching.] I don't even have a stomach to hold it in anymore… And the bleeding never… stops… [Dr. Scranton breaks down into crying for the next two hours.]

Be- [Retching.] better… now. Thinking.. straight…

Red, I… I don't know if I'm ready to go back anywhere yet…

Five years, eleven months, three days.

No, red, I'm not being selfish, it wasn't you, it was these goddamn waves coming in. I can't be near them. Red, look, look at me. See this? Red, look at me. LOOK. I can't be near them, they'll kill me. I passed the three years quite a while back, remember?

Because, even… even after all this time… I don't want to die, red. I'm still scared. [Voice breaks.] Red, I am scared, okay? You wouldn't understand, you're not… you're not human, red.

Oh I'm sorry for offending you, red. No, red, come on, I didn't mean it like that. Red, look at me. You're my friend, do you get that? You are, my best friend. But… let's face it, you've got a much better chance of getting out of here a—…. Just leave me alone, please, red? Just for a bit… I'm sorry, okay? I really am…

Can you… hear the waves coming in, red? That little hum and shake as it hits your ears? I can. And it's getting louder every time, and it hurts so bad. [Begins to sob quietly.] It hurts so bad.(4)

No… No, no, no, no, no… NO. NO. NO. Why? Why?! Just let me go, let me go… LET ME GO DAMMIT, oh god… [Sobbing.]

[Sobbing groan.] Another five years. Five more years. If this keeps up, I'm getting re-stabilized for another FIVE FUCKING GODDAMN YEARS, RED WHAT DO I DO?!

[Over the next five days, the control panel does begin to pick up a low frequency hum that comes in pulses. The volume increases steadily, and as it does, Dr. Scranton can be heard screaming, crying, and speaking incoherently in the background.]

[Voice is noticeably shaky.] Red.

[At this point the background humming noise is picked up at a rate of 20 pulses/min.]

Five years, eleven months, nine days.

Help. [Loud splattering noise heard as something strikes what is assumed to be the control panel.]

[Complete silence for five days. Pulses increase in volume, as well as frequency to 30 per minute.]

[Loud splattering noise.]

Red. [Dr. Scranton's voice is extremely slurred, almost incomprehensible.]

Red.

Red, give me your leg, I need support.

Red, give me your lever, arm. HAND!

Red, I need to see better, give me your light, no sorry, no, no light needed, got it, sorry, something else.

Anna.

I want pretty eyes. Anna, Anna, give me your eye, I only have one.

Anna, Anna, give me your lips, I want to kiss you again.