#suicidal remark

[henriiiii-1001old]

for your canon v fanon thing: ruth or mark :D

IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!!!! i got really busy as well as have been dealing with a slight artblock tbh :(

i hope you like them tho!!!!

[zukosdualdao]

i don’t like it when people call zuko stupid/dumb, etc. for many of the same reasons other people don’t (it’s generally ableist to make fun of people for lack of intelligence, but it makes me especially uncomfortable when part of the abuse zuko has suffered is specifically being treated like he is by ozai (and azula, who obviously learned this behavior from her father and seems to delight in being able to manipulate zuko so well when that is, of course, an effect of trauma.)

but i ALSO don’t like it because it doesn’t actually match up with what we see about him in the show. zuko, at multiple points, is able to logically assess information and react accordingly, use his bending and general combat skills and environment creatively, and when he is actively trying to grow and change, gets a lot better at emotional insight with both himself and others.

(moments that come to mind re: some of these abilities are when he’s looking for iroh in the first winter solstice episode, one of his crew members sees the spot where iroh was taken and assumes there was a landslide, and zuko is immediately like “no, land doesn’t slide uphill, he was taken by earthbenders.” also i think about him sliding the table between him and jet before their epic sword fight all the time. LOVE a character who is resourceful in their fight sequences. another is in boiling rock when they escape the prison but still need to get off the island, and zuko stops and deduces that azula must have gotten there somehow and then quickly finds the airship that they use for the rest of their escape.)

i think part of this idea comes from iroh telling zuko he doesn’t think things through and zuko later taking that to heart, and there is an element of truth to this, but i think it’s actually somewhat of an oversimplification on iroh’s part (and therefore in common fandom interpretation of zuko as a character.)

the thing is, some of the things zuko does that people deem ‘stupid’ are actually just showcasing that the tunnel vision he succumbs to when desperate makes him not only cause harm to others, but himself, because he becomes actively careless about his own life and general well-being.

for instance, a scene i see people attribute to zuko not being smart a lot is when he breaks into the nwt by following the turtle seals under frozen pathways. and i disagree! this is simultaneously really clever (zuko is #very good at breaking and entering) and very reckless. (he is very desperate by this point, even moreso than he has been all season, because his resources have pretty much vanished, with zhao having his ship exploded and commandeering his crew.)

and the line he has here shows that he actually is thinking about the logical consequences of this potentially very dangerous course of action: “they have to be coming up for air somewhere.” it’s not that he doesn’t think about what could happen next, it’s that to him, the risk seems worth the reward. and when he gets desperate enough, he decides his options are “figure it out as i go” or “die trying.”

and like. that is, to me, a more interesting trait, and also deeply concerning! i don’t read zuko as actively suicidal in the show canon — the comics are a whole different beast we won’t talk about today — but it is certainly risky, self-destructive behavior that is like… just to the left of passive suicidal ideation.

that’s also why i think iroh probably knows he’s oversimplifying a little in his assessment of zuko not thinking things through. because it’s a lot easier to tell himself that the nephew he loves dearly just isn’t thinking things through than actively devaluing his own safety to this degree. it’s also part of why he becomes so adamantly, deeply concerned (to the point of sounding almost stern) when zuko despairs that “there’s no hope at all” in book two. because once you give up on there being any hope left in the world or in your own life, it becomes a lot easier for those semi-passive self-destructive behaviors to become a lot more active.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 09: Obsession

"Pin me up on your wall just to keep me out of trouble"

2898 Words; Spiritshipping AU

TW for mentioned death, mentioned suicide

AO3 ver

There was a new ghost in the Cursed Realm.

Not that that was anything noteworthy—new ghosts popped up, well, not exactly often, since most of them went to the Departed Realm or got stuck wherever they died—but it wasn’t just the violent and the damned who ended up here, either. Any ghost with enough turmoil in their hearts was barred from the Departed Realm, and if they weren’t strong enough to stick around in the land of the living, they ended up here. Of course, warriors that fell in battle had a tendency to go to the Underworld and become Skulkins instead, but those souls never became ghosts and the Cursed Realm did not accept Skulkins.

Whatever. The point was that Morro normally didn’t care who ended up in the Cursed Realm—he wasn’t the warden or the nanny or whatever. He had his group, and he had better things to do than greet the newly dead.

But the Mother had pointed out this new ghost to him, and while she hadn’t actually compelled Morro to go find this new ghost just pointing them out was enough of a hint. So here Morro was, picking through the wastes where new ghosts tended to show up, because it wasn’t like there was much else he could do. There was no way out of the Cursed Realm—

(Yet, the Mother had crooned, tendrils creeping through Morro’s soul like breezes flitting through trees—)

And Morro was one of the few spirits here not locked in some kind of eternal suffering, so he had time to kill.

Time he wouldn’t have had if he had never gone in that cave and twisted his ankle—

Morro shook his head. It was fine. So what if destiny had turned its back on him? He wouldn’t be bound to it.

There.

Morro followed the pull of the Mother’s voice, his gaze tracking to the ghost sitting down in a dip in the ground, leaning against what might have been a rock in a realm that wasn’t the Cursed Realm.

They were smaller than Morro expected, curled up against the rock. Quieter, too. Most ghosts tended to freak out when they first arrived—either at realizing they had died or where they ended up—but this one was just… sitting there.

Morro frowned. Why would the Mother point this out to him? He knew she was leading him to a conclusion or action, but what was she trying to lead him to?

Morro came to a stop next to the figure, his feet grazing the ground before he landed fully. They—no, wait, it looked like a he, and the tiny bit of the Mother still lingering in Morro’s chest seemed to agree—didn’t do anything to acknowledge Morro’s presence, so Morro took a moment to just… look at him. He was young, his build bulkier than Morro’s, dark hair falling over his eyes in a way that looked unkempt. Morro couldn’t see any signs of what had killed him—was it something that didn’t leave an obvious mark, or had he figured out how to hide it already? Morro didn’t recognize his clothes—it looked like a school uniform, maybe?

Ugh—enough standing around! Morro kicked out, not quite hitting the boy with his foot while the wind picked up to ruffle his hair. “Hey, newbie.”

The boy’s gaze slid over to Morro, though his expression didn’t change. He grunted, which Morro figured was as close to a greeting as he’d get.

“Why’re you just sitting around?” Morro scoffed, “Is the Cursed Realm not exciting enough for you?” He leaned in and poked the other ghost in the side.

“Go away.” The boy mumbled, burying his face in his knees. Not that that really did anything, when Morro could still see the glow of his eyes through his knees.

Morro scoffed, leaning in closer—

Patience, sweet Zephyr.

Morro scowled, but pulled back. The Mother knew what she was doing.

“Fine, then.” He muttered, turning around. “Stay and rot here, for all I care.” With that, he left. It didn’t matter to him what some random ghost was doing—he’d find something else to do.

+=+=+=+=+

The ghost boy was still sitting there when Morro returned later—had he moved at all? Probably not. He didn’t exactly have a body—sitting in one place for eternity couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Morro landed beside him, and the boy’s gaze tracked over to him. That was the only greeting Morro was offered, though.

“Soooo are you ever gonna do anything interesting?” Morro asked, scuffing his feet on the ground.

No response. Morro rolled his eyes, hopping up into the air to float over the kid. Fine then, he could wait. The Mother insisted that this ghost was important, so here Morro was, waiting for something interesting to happen.

But the boy remained still—

(Still, like the golden weapons Wu had all but promised would glow in Morro’s presence, because he was meant to be the Green Ninja—up until destiny decided fuck Morro and Wu nodded his head and went along with it. Still, like the stagnant air of the Caves of Despair, too heavy and cut off to carry Morro’s attempts to free himself—because oh, yeah, fuck Morro!)

Morro scowled. He rolled over, lying face up in the air, resolutely ignoring the ghost sitting below him. The ghost ignored him back; Morro had half a mind to just leave.

Patience, sweet Zephyr.

Yeah yeah, Morro flicked his hand, eddies of wind ruffling his clothes and hair. The Mother wanted him to stick around? Fine. It wasn’t like he was needed somewhere else.

They continued to ignore each other for a long while.

+=+=+=+=+

Morro was laying on the ground, his head behind the other ghost’s back. Dust floated above his fingers, dancing in the air spiraling around Morro’s hands. Thoughts floated through his head—mostly memories about his life leading up to his death. Frustration ground its heel against his sternum as Wu’s face flashed through his mind—he’d done everything the old man had asked of him, he’d conquered every challenge and test in a way that no other student could, he’d so clearly been the one—

And yet destiny had still turned her back on him. And so had Wu, the coward—

(But Wu had given Morro clothes and shelter and food and training, he had lead Morro through the motions and taught him so much—)

Morro groaned, covering his face with his hands and slamming his heels against the dirt. After a moment, he turned his head to look at the other ghost, sitting up so he could poke the other ghost in the back. “Hey.”

Morro needed a distraction. He needed something to do—and hadn’t the Mother told him to talk to this lameass ghost? So he might as well start talking. “Heyyy.” Another poke. The other ghost’s shoulders hunched slightly.

“Oh, yeah,” Morro had never really… introduced himself, had he? “I’m Morro, by the way. The Green Ninja.” And the Master of Wind, but that probably wouldn’t mean anything to the other ghost.

Silence.

Morro huffed. “Okay, whatever, keep ignoring me.” He glared at the back of the ghost’s head. “Rude.”

“Cole.” The other ghost said softly. “My name’s Cole.”

“What, like the rock?” This kid’s parents must have hated him; coal was dirty and dark and dusty. Or maybe the kid didn’t have parents, like Morro, and had picked his name himself when he was young and stupid enough to think it sounded cool.

Cole turned to stare at Morro—his whole upper body twisting around, arm unhooking from his knees to rest on the ground as he stared over his shoulder at Morro, brows drawn. “No, like the name.” He said, sounding horribly unimpressed.

It was the most animated Morro had seen him. “So you can move,” he pointed out, feeling smug. He’d done that! He’d gotten this useless brick to say something more than a few grumbles! Because of course he did—it didn’t matter what it was, Morro would never settle for anything less than being the best.

Cole continued to stare at him, expression unchanging. “Ugh, whatever.” He turned back around, leaning against the rock, but his hand remained on the ground instead of pulling back to wrap around his legs. “Just leave me alone.”

Do not do that, Zephyr.

The Mother’s response was so immediate, crawling over Morro like so many buzzing flies. His shoulders hunched. He wasn’t going to, dammit, but thanks for the reminder.

The silence stretched on.

+=+=+=+=+

“What do you even want from me, anyway?” Cole asked, having turned so that his back was leaning against the not-quite-a-rock, legs still folded in front of him.

“Depends.” Morro replied breezily, from where he was floating in the air, arms folded back behind his head as he reclined. “You got anything to give?”

Cole stared at him for a long moment. The marks around his eyes resembled tear tracks, Morro had noticed. Which probably explained why he spent most of his time sitting around like a very morose rock. Then, “Probably not.” His chin rested on his knees, head tilting as he regarded Morro. “Unless you like theatre.”

Oooo, that was a lot of words. Progress! Morro sat up, still floating, criss-crossing his legs and putting his hands on his knees. “You’re an actor?” Was that why the Mother was so insistent on Morro talking to him? Because he could lie convincingly? Pssh, Morro could definitely lie way better.

Cole snorted. “Dancer, actually.” His expression darkened. “Well, I used to be.”

Morro shrugged. “Ghosts don’t lose the skills they’ve learned in life, you know.” He pointed out. “Part of the whole dead and unchanging thing. You can still dance.”

“Don’t wanna.” Cole muttered, bringing his arms up to wrap around his legs.

He needs to dance, Zephyr.

Morro could think of a few ways to force Cole to “dance.” None of them were what the Mother was talking about, though. He floated down, thinking hard. Was Cole meant to have been some great dancer, only to have it all cut short? Did destiny turn her back on him, too?

“Were you any good?” Morro asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

Cole stared at him. “Everyone else said so.” He said, which probably said a lot about whatever he’d had going on in life that Morro was too disinterested to really think about.

Well, Morro did need to get Cole to dance. “I bet you’re terrible.” Morro challenged. “I bet you’re so bad that you died from embarrassment.”

Cole glared at Morro, unimpressed.

“Go ahead, then, and prove me wrong.” Morro offered, smirking. “Unless you can’t, because you really are terrible—”

“You’re really blatant, you know that?” Cole’s voice was sharp, sharper than Morro had heard from him. Blank green eyes bored into Morro, face pinched in frustration. “I’m not going to dance for you just because you said some pretty words, dumbass—I’m not dancing ever again!” He slumped back, all of the prior energy leaving him as he buried his face in his knees with a sound bordering on a sob.

“Just leave me alone.” Cole urged, face still buried. “What do you even want from me.”

“I’m really only here because the Mother told me you’d be important.” Morro admitted. He couldn’t care less if some new ghost decided they wanted to spend eternity rotting in their memories.

Cole lifted his head and stared blankly.

“You know, the Mother?” Morro swept his arm back to gesture roughly in the direction of the center of the realm. “The giant primordial preeminent holding this whole realm together?” He crossed his arms. “I know she’s been talking to you, too, I can feel it.”

“Oh.” Recognition flashed in Cole’s eyes. “That.”

He didn’t say anything else, despite Morro’s efforts.

+=+=+=+=+

“So why are you even in the Cursed Realm anyway?” Morro asked. He didn’t quite care how rude it was, to allude to another ghost’s death—it wasn’t like he owed Cole any politeness, anyway. “We don’t usually get,” he gestured vaguely towards Cole, searching for the right word before settling on, “dancers.”

Cole stared at Morro for a long moment. “Because I killed myself?” He asked, voice dry and blunt as a rock.

“You—huh.” Well. That would explain why Cole was in the Cursed Realm. “So you were so embarrassed by your awful dancing that you died.” Morro said—only to immediately regret it. Really?

Zephyr…

Even the Mother felt disappointed, rot creeping along Morro’s arm.

“Whatever.” Cole mumbled, curling in on himself. “Think whatever you want, Morro. I don’t care.”

Okay. Morro called the wind to his hands, using it to scoop up some dust and dirt from the ground to tumble between his hands. Well, that certainly explained why Cole had barely moved at all. Morro thought to his own death, to the slow decay of his own body as he was still in it. He had managed to stave off dehydration for a few days thanks to water trickling down the cave walls—

But death had still come for him in the end. His nonexistent stomach hurt at the memory of starvation clawing at his body.

But Morro had tried so hard—he had never meant to die. He’d wanted to live, because he needed to get out of those caves alive and find the First Master’s tomb if he wanted to prove destiny wrong, prove that he was worthy—

Morro swung his hand around, flinging a sharp gale at the ground to his side. The rush of air blasted a divot into the ground.

Destiny had turned her back on Morro, casting him away from all that he had rightfully deserved and worked so hard for—

But destiny hadn’t turned her back on Cole. No, Cole had turned his back on her. That was cool as hell, actually. Morro said as much, and Cole stared at him, eyes wide with quiet disbelief.

“So I doomed myself to being stuck with you.” Cole groused. “Great.”

Morro barked out a laugh. “I’m not having fun babysitting you, either!” He giggled, “You threw away your destiny and doomed us both to an eternity of sitting here while you rot!” There was nothing funny about this, about Morro sitting here waiting for Cole to stop being useless—but Morro laughed anyway, winds swirling around him.

Cole stood so suddenly that Morro floated backwards in surprise. “Then why don’t you just leave?” He snarled, swinging a hand around as though he was about to punch Morro—

A bit of the ground broke off and smacked Morro right in the face. Cole faltered, surprised, as Morro tumbled backwards and down onto the ground.

“Oh.” Morro said weakly. He’d only met her briefly, before setting out to prove himself in the wake of destiny’s rejection. She had been a girl, then, one of Wu’s newest students, young and rowdy and flinging mud and rocks how she pleased. Though even if he hadn’t met Lilly, Morro still knew about the other elements, about the all-important Elements of Creation. Wu rarely hid anything from Morro in his lessons. “I get it.”

“I…” Cole was staring at his hands like he’d never seen them before. “Did I do that?”

Morro sat up. “Of course you did, dumbass.” He stood, grabbing Cole’s hands to look at them. “You’re an elemental master.” Apparently. “Fuck, you look like her, how didn’t I notice that?” Sure, he had only known Lilly for a few days, but the resemblance was strong—she and Cole were definitely related. How, Morro didn’t know or care—what mattered was that Cole was—or was going to be—the latest Master of Earth.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Cole yanked his hands back. “I look like who?” His whole posture screamed defensive, and Morro scowled.

“Lilly.” If that was actually her name and Morro wasn’t misremembering it. “You look like one of the students my master took in before I—” He swallowed, suddenly very aware of how much a lot of his memories stung— “left.”

Cole backed up, eyebrow raised. “You did not meet my mother.” He accused. His shoulders hunched, and Morro felt something shift beneath his feet.

“Yeah I did.” Morro shot back, “barely.” He added.

The Mother must have spoken, then, because all of Cole’s vitriol melted away suddenly, shock and something sickeningly close to hope replacing the disbelief. “You—” He cut himself off.

“Look.” Morro stepped forwards, offering his hand before thinking better of it. “We don’t like each other. We barely know each other! But the Mother wants us to work together,” He almost slung his arm around Cole’s shoulders before pulling back, “And you’ve got nothing better to do. So why don’t you quit all this useless moping, and let me,” he summoned the winds to emphasize his point, swirling them and the dust they carried around his hands, “show you what being an elemental master is all about.”

Cole looked at Morro’s hand dubiously, arms crossed. “And what do you get out of it?”

Morro smirked. “Something more interesting than watching you rot.”

Cole snorted. He stared at Morro’s hand for a long moment—Morro made the winds swirl in intricate knotted loops, the dust outlining the complex path—then sighed. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.” He said, reaching out his own hand.

Morro dispelled the winds and took Cole’s hand. “Welcome to the Cursed Realm, newbie.”

[segretecose]

being vaguely into someone immediately fills me with so much rage this shit is so fucking humiliating im literally fantasising about skinning them alive with my teeth meanwhile im sitting there like 😐

[variantoutcast]

I'm just so embarrassed by my 2 bosses picking up on the fact that my body is shutting down and my brain is on fire because I'm 2 seconds away from crashing out at any given moment at work but continue to trudge forwards anyways

[worldruins]

I have to wonder what the ancients were THINKING creating the iterators. it seems self-evident that maybe not all but *some* of the canon iterators had social needs (not to mention people’s iterator ocs lol) that can’t be met in the longterm with their cities abandoned and communications between different cans precarious at best. Of course a bunch of them want to die, you created soul-crushing loneliness for robots.

[queerunpleasantdanger]

.

[kasumingo]

We really went from "if you ever sent a death threat in your life you're an absolutely fucking loser" to "if i tell someone to kys and they talk how suicidal they are, it's actually THEIR fault and they're suibaiting me!!" huh

[will80sbyers]

:(

[hartxstarr-art]

I’m Awful-Glad We Met

warnings: canon-typical violence. abusive relationship. child abuse. referenced suicide.

notes: also on ao3. 1.5k word count. pre-canon. spike plays the piano and he is NOT having a good time.

He was thrown to the ground. Everything hurt. His shattered ribs and broken nose—and it didn’t matter that he was a child. It never mattered. He was ten, plucked out of the gutters like a stray, blood dripping down his chin. A month ago, he buried his father. Last week, he had found his mother, hanging from the rafters.

He couldn’t even manage a tear anymore. “What do you want?”

“Ah...” A noise of disappointment, Mao looking down at him from around his desk. “You’re making a mess of the carpet.” And he had said it so sincerely, so directly, that Spike decided to follow him for the rest of his life.

---

He manned Annie’s register, occasionally. He sat there for more hours than he could count, during his off-days, earning honest money, for her honest business; selling pinups, and porn, and periodicals. It wasn’t official—he had been only twelve, after all—but she still paid him for his time.

It was good for him, Mao had said—customer service and money-handling. Spike just thought if he were there, on the rare chance he didn’t have a task to accomplish, he wouldn’t have to practice the piano for hours at a time. It’d be a few more years until he’d start to spend his free time down on Earth, soaring across the dusty sky, after all.

Business was slow, most days. He often filled the hours working through text after text, hungry for literature; life writings, and reviews, and short stories. Mao said that was good, too—it was good to train the mind. Spike took that to heart.

---

He told himself he would run away. That was how he came across Doohan’s shop, stationed out in the middle of nowhere. The work ethic was grueling, but the heat is what got to him; and in the end, after only a week, Spike had packed his bags and reluctantly returned home. Back to Mars, to his own apartment, to his own bloodied life, and that damning office. He kept up visits though, whenever he could—accomplishing the tasks that were given, without complaint, silently pleading for a vacation—learning more about machinery, and how to fly, and the man who taught it all.

For his sixteenth birthday, he had made the trip back out, just to get away from everything; dragons, and bullets, and burns. When he came back home, pulling up in Swordfish, Mao had been unreasonably upset. “If you had wanted a racer, all you had to do was ask.”

Spike hadn’t wanted to ask. He hadn’t even expected to bring it home in the first place. In fact, he was certain he never would have gotten a ship from his captain, even if he begged for it—and he’s learned how to beg the man by now.

He kept the keyring held tight in his palm.

---

“Happy birthday.”

Spike stood there for a moment, silent, in the entranceway of Mao’s office. He didn’t need to look at the calendar on the wall. He knew what today was—his birthday had been last month. It had been years since he stopped correcting him, ages since he came to the realization: the day Spike was born didn’t matter to Mao, at all. Today was the day he got picked up. That’s what was important to the man.

Spike turned—using the opportunity to sigh—closing the door behind him, before stepping further into the room. “Thanks.”

“Eighteen, now,” Mao mused, and leaned back into his chair. At least he got the number right this time. “How does it make you feel?”

Younger than you, Spike thought, but bit back the response before it could leave him. Instead, he shifted his weight, standing in the middle of the room. It felt like there was a spotlight on him. “…Fine.”

“Here,” Mao gestured. “Make some tea. It’s your special day, I wont give you any tasks. Let’s spend time together, instead. It’s been a while.”

Spike made his way over to the kitchenette, where he prepared the kettle. He took a moment to scan the horizon, outside the window, grimacing. He didn’t wake up early and dressed up, to report, just to sit around and drink tea all day. When he was a kid, Mao had assured him that he would one day come to appreciate the taste. Spike was still waiting for that day.

He rummaged around in the cabinet, looking for the blend that tasted most like nothing. Letting it steep, he turned back to his captain. “Y’know,” he tried for casual. “It’s just a day. There’s nothing special about it.”

Mao’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, but there is.”

Spike frowned, and finished preparing the tea. Carrying the tray over, he made his way to the desk, and placed a cup carefully in front of the man, on a coaster. He put his own on the other side, near the edge of the desk, where he stood, and tucked the tray beneath his arm. He almost didn’t bother with a coaster.

The sentiment wasn’t lost on him—serving tea, on his own apparent birthday, stuck in the office. With Mao.

He watched Mao sip it with a sigh. “You always do it best, Spike.”

Spike didn’t think so. But he also didn’t think it was the tea he was praising. He was no longer a pup, trailing after his heels, seeking his approval—no, he’s long since grown out of that phase. Despite the fact, something inside of him stirred back to life at the words. Again, he shifted his weight. Then, as if it had acted on its own, his head inclined slightly in response.

“Tell me,” Mao sat back once more, interlacing his fingers together before him. “Have you been practicing?”

Head still lowered, Spike froze.

“Ah…” A noise of disappointment. “What have I told you? If you don’t play, you will lose it.” He gestured to the standing piano, tucked into the corner of the room. “Go on.”

Spike’s eyes flickered between Mao and the piano. He felt twelve again. The stirring grew louder, pounding against his ears until it was all he could hear. Slowly, he raised to full height. It’s true—he hadn’t played in a while...

Making his way over to the corner, the spotlight burned brighter. He set the tray down on the lid, taking a seat and flipped over the fallboard. Exhaling, his shoulders sank. He worked his jaw, sitting there for a spell.

“What—ah,” he tapped at a few keys, idly. “What do you want to hear?” He turned his head, only a bit, in Mao’s direction. The notes formed a melody, slowly; familiar and safe. He continued on, trying to keep it upbeat—but it was hard. The spotlight felt heavy, his fingers not extending as far as they should.

“This is why you need practice,” Mao sighed. “You’re rusty.”

Coming from any other person, Spike would have been on his feet in an instant. But then, if it were any other person watching, Spike wouldn’t have felt so tense. He swallowed, and focused on his hands and where they landed. He allowed himself to be silent for only a moment, before carrying on with the tune.

A celebrated man amongst the gurneys…

“None of that,” Mao cut him off. “I don’t know where you got that from, anyway. Play something different. Something good. Something real.”

“Well,” Spike felt himself clenching his jaw. “What do you want? Give me a request.” When he got no response, he bared his teeth. Keeping his back turned, he glued himself to the bench; the stirring flickered, flaring up before it collapsed onto itself. It left his shoulders tense, losing control of the notes once more.

“You’re hurting my ears now, Spike.”

Spike stopped completely. Hovering over the keys, his hands clenched into fists. “Then tell me what to play.” Again, no response. He remembered why he only ever came in here to report, nowadays. It never mattered—the money, or the rise, the lives, his own blood flooding out like a constant river, screaming, always on his knees—he never got what he truly wanted. Exhaling, sharply, he started a different melody. He didn’t breathe. His entire attention honed in on the keys before him, unintentionally increasing in speed, incrementally, the metronome inside his head ticking faster and faster.

This was a mistake, I’ll take my leave—

He only got about halfway through the piece before the hand coming down on his shoulder shot him back to the present. He looked up.

“Breathe.”

That one word prompted the inhale into his lungs, ceasing his thoughts instantly; nearly wiping his mind completely, leaving only him and Mao. The stirring crept up again, the embers burning, still. Despite the churning in his stomach, the revulsion at being touched, always, always, always—the one truth remained: no matter his age, from one person, he wanted to be praised. Catching the eyes of his captain, he sat, trying his hardest not to heave and failing miserably in the process. Embarrassingly. Obviously.

“It’s alright, Spike. Try again.”

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to tear his gaze away, and he turned back to the piano. Again, he worked his jaw. Distantly, Spike knew Mao was only letting him play this one because he had never heard it before—this was the first time he’s ever tried. He exhaled, once more, and tried again; humming the words under his breath, to help him along.

Can you read between the Morse code lines...?

After he was done, he looked out of the corner of his eyes, reflexively, back at his captain. Mao still stood, hovering over his shoulder, arms behind his back.

“That sounded better,” he had said, and Spike needed nothing more to feel ten all over again.

[sastielsfandom]

It's a bit hard for me to fully understand how bad first grade was for me. Not because the schoolwork was difficult, because I felt too challenged in a academic sense. I struggled, but not because the work was difficult, but because of the racism I dealt with.

My biggest problem that entire year had to of been my teacher. Starting from mispronouncing my name and refusing to say it properly. Accusing me of cheating on my projects because of how well they were done. While I did get help, she assumed my mom had always done all the work for me.

She liked to try and embarrass me, looked for opportunities to call me a trouble maker and would loudly announce my "bad" behavior, despite her simply mixing me up with students with similar names or appearances. Never apologized to me when she was wrong, which was every time.

Called me slow, would make comments about how long it took me to do activities, especially writing.

There were so many things she did that entire school year that added up. But the most disrespectful thing had to of been when I asked her for our Thanksgiving classroom play, if i could be one of the natives rather than the pilgrims. I'm native american, I'm the only native american in this class, I don't want to be a pilgrim. Guess who was a pilgrim?

And she made sure the native men were loud and ruthless and the native women were scared of everything and screamed and shouted in fear so easily. While the pilgrims were calm and collected, from the men to the women and they helped these poor natives.

My mom and me shared similar opinions on the play and she even talked to my teacher about how harmful it was to teach kids our history like that. The she should do better and emphasized the proper way to say my name. Which she pretended she just didn't know, I never corrected her. (My mom knew this was a lie as I was known to be very quick to correct people and sometimes hostile if they didn't quickly amend it. So yeah... Also, she continued to mispronounce my name unless my mom was there.)

I almost forgot, I am a very quiet person, especially then. I only talked if I had to or liked you enough to talk to. She said even though I met the curriculum for the next grade, in fact, she had kept lowering my reading level until she got in trouble, that she wanted to hold me back for a year. She got an earful from my mom for that one, and I didn't get held back.

So that was what it was like in the classroom. Outside of it, I was often physically assaulted by four girls.

There was this one who was in my class and she made it her mission to stand next to me in line so she could force me to talk. I never did, so she would twist my arm, pinch me, punch me, try to bend my hand back, saying I just had to say something and she'd stop. She never got in trouble for it and it's not because she never got caught, many times I caught my teacher's eye while she was physically harming me, she'd smile and look away.

While I was outside of the classroom, outside of line, there was a group of three girls. They come up to me, make comments, grab my stuff, my belongings, corner me. I remember one weekend I got my nails done, they were yellow with glitter. They saw my nails asked if they were real, and proceeded to rip off every single nail. My best friend saw, alerted her mom who did work there. Not much came from that, they continued to harass me, they just made sure my friend wasn't around and her mom.

So yeah, it was really traumatic, dealing with so much every day at school. I remember walking to the bus one day, it was really windy, and I thought about how much I wished it would pick up more and knock me into the wall. Enough to hurt and kill me. I thought about death a lot that year. I didn't realize until I got older how much it truly affected me.

Also, fun fact, I ended up going to school with those girls again, we moved but in fifth grade I went back to that school, that teacher still taught there, and one of those girls was in my class. She never talked to me, she did give me dirty looks for getting questions correct if she didn't.

And later in middle school I ended up having several classes with all of them. I could tell they recognized me, but never said anything about it. No apologies. Nothing.

The one who twisted my arm, I never saw her again at the very least. But yeah, what a fucked up year, huh?

[awestruck-atrophy]

i am coping with the fact that i want to die by pretending to be dead

[yogurt-boat-69]

So it seems like there are two possibilities:

One possibility is that the person who did the shooting changed his jacket right before the shooting- but into a different jacket that was remarkably similar (a puzzling choice! He brought two almost identical jackets with him? He changed his jacket to avoid detection into a jacket that looks very similar but has subtle differences? Puzzling!), shaved his unibrow (the better to shoot with, I guess?), then executed a plan so well thought out that the police had pretty much no leads, but was then caught (with both the murder weapon and a manifesto conveniently on his person! And the unibrow now regrown with long hairs) at a small town McDonalds five days later thanks to a random person recognizing him (and is a random McDonald's employee thinking you appear similar to a partial photo of a criminal enough to get you detained?)

OR

A police force with a budget bigger than many country's entire military, in a country notorious for having corrupt policemen who routinely lie and believe themselves to be above the law, realizing that it would be supremely embarrassing to have no leads, and likely facing immense political pressure to make sure the public doesn't think people can get away with this kind of crime, feeling motivated to peruse the many many records available to their giant counter-terrorism unit and using it to find someone who was in the vicinity, with an established online record of extremism, who has a jacket that is reasonably similar, and straight up planting some evidence on him so they can wrap this up with a neat bow and all of the ceo's who run the politicians who run our country can breathe easier?

As a random person on the Internet I will never find out the truth but some of this is not really passing the sniff test, and if there is one thing you can count on in this country it's that cops lie and cover their own asses. If he mysteriously dies in prison from "suicide" then we will know it's definitely not him

Edited to add: for those confused I do think it's possible Luigi is the guy from the hostel. It's just that based on the jacket and the eyebrows I'm not convinced he is the shooter. There was never anything solid linking the hostel to the shooting other than a similar (but actually different jacket)

[interstellarvacuumcleaner]

and on top of all things, sims 4 has updated

[bae-p-d]

Nothing builds character more than being a depressed, suicidal teenager, and your mom being mentally unwell, believing you are possessed by the devil after sharing with her that you are actively suicidal, then her following you around, yelling at you "Satan get out! Get out Satan!" Over and over, despite your pleas for her to stop, actively trying to run away from her, but she keeps going until you wrap an electrical cord around your neck and she finally stops before you hop off the chair, and then a few weeks later she sees your cuts, asking why you did it, and then after you tell her you do it to keep yourself from trying to die, and that life feels overwhelming, she asks, "Well, why don't you do it then?" And when you confront her about this as an adult, she says, "Oh, I was just trying to get you to realize that you didn't actually want to die."

[wolfprincesszola]

Kill yourself

no thanks, the universe already tried that tactic. think of something more creative <3