#that was the reason that mum went for tests in March

[frekless]

Think I need to go to therapy again.

Problem is I really really hate therapists.

Been there done that. Hate the whole process.

Especially the emphasis on CBT. Does not work for me.

But I think I need to talk to someone about the last 6 months.

I have been running on adrenaline since the end of February and now that everything is starting to get back on track I am crashing so hard.

[kun-summacumlaude]

SUMMA CUM LAUDE? #18

I'm keeping my word, it's about 3 weeks since my last post and I'm already working on the next one.

Hello Peoples

So I've been telling everyone this is week 3 but for some reason I'm the only one that believes the convocation week (week 1) counts. Anyhoo, today is day 3 of week 2, and I've had only two actual classes. I should have stayed at home, but that's too late now.

Just to give a little update on how the semester started for me. I resumed last week (my own week 2) because I spent all of convocation on completing Breaking Bad. But last week I moved to anime, I thought being in school would get me serious again but that didn't work. What finally did the job was having my first lecture (online) but she was so serious about the class that I got serious right after that class.

The engineering student, Kunle, is back. *Sheds tears from suffering*. I already want to go home, I'm looking forward to the short election break. I hope it's like one week long. Jaja is as Jaja as ever and I want to go home for a breather. It seems I didn't fully recover from the intensity of the final push last semester until this week. I was so tired last week and I struggled to sit down and study for a significant amount of time. Feb 1.

Omo nawa o, February 16 today and I am very tired of school. Election break is three weeks long (God is good). I honestly cannot wait to go home, it's almost like I've pulled the student plug in me. My plan was to move with each lecturer as the classes commenced, this has worked well so far except in 3 courses where I have a lot of questions to solve. Last time I posted I hadn't seen any of my second semester results but as at the time I started this post I had seen about 1 or 2 but now I've seen 6.

Year 2, 2nd Semester SCL ?

6/6 As. Four to go, I'm hopeful. Super hopeful. Getting a 5.00 SGPA would be lovely. Regardless, these results are the Grace of God because three of those six As were a huge relief considering how the tests and exams went. I wanted to keep mum about the results until I saw everything but I want to take you through my emotions. Current mood: happy but slightly anxious.

Let me quickly return to present academics. After 6pm, it is such a struggle to study. Most of these past weeks I have slept off, achieving nothing in the evening and at night. 6pm I get dinner, after that I either go back to my room or the office and so far neither location has done the job for me. I really wish the library was 24/7 and allowed us take our stuff in. Currently , there's no toilet there, 9pm closure is way too early and not having my stuff with me inside is a problem. Sometimes you can't even charge your devices and all of my stuff is digital, doesn't work at all for me. I'm sure I've mentioned this before though, maybe in a much earlier post. I'll stop here for now, I really hope they release my the rest of my results before we go home for the election break. I want to know my cgpa while I'm grinding at home. Oh yes, my plan for the election break is to come back way ahead in all of the courses, so help me God.

Election Break

March 25, 2023. I returned from the election break on the 21st, the break about a month long. Nothing has changed, reading past 6pm is still a struggle, the four results left to see have still not been released and this most disappointing of all is that the only grinding I did at home was grind in my Clash of Clans. I'm even in a worse position now than I was before the break but I guess I have two months to get things in order. My election break would have gone well but I spent all four weeks worrying about how I was going to write a term paper on a course we hadn't had a single lecture on. That totally destabilised me and I lost all of my focus. An experience to learn from and navigate better in times to come because I'm sure another lecturer will give us a ridiculous assignment. That assignment was actually so ridiculous in hindsight, but I allowed it to have too much control over my actions during the break. To be fair to myself, I was very much invested in both elections and that itself was another distraction from grinding academically. I want to be in a good position academically so I can take out some time to participate in the next edition of ULES Games Festival so I'm ready to get the job done this semester by God's grace.

ULES GAMES FESTIVAL

We didn't have this last session because of covid, the strike and renovations for NUGA 2022. But this session it happened, and it just got concluded today. Metallurgical and Materials Engineering won more medals than any other department, congratulations to them. I only attended physically on the penultimate day but I absolutely enjoyed myself because I love sports. At some point I felt sad because one of my plans upon getting into university was to participate in sports. So far, I have done close to nothing in that area, and it made me sad, but I'll work towards it for 300 Level.

Academics

The next line of action is to assess the course outline and ascertain how bad things are, then improve on everything. I mean, what other approach is there to take?

I don't know if I should still wait for those results or just post. We'll find out eventually.

April 4, 2023

6.33PM, I'm at shop 10 eating my dinner when I open the class and see a text from Toki: "Results are out on lagmobile For those interested". Every rate in my body went up. To finish that food was a challenge, I kept on asking myself if I should check the results right there in shop 10 or wait until I got back to my room in Jaja. I eventually decided on the latter.

7.17PM, I open lagmobile to check my results. I quickly scanned through all the grades and didn't see a single B or C, at that moment it dawned on me. 5.0 SGPA!!!! SUMMA CUM LAUDE-ESQUE SEMESTER!!! It honestly felt surreal at that moment. I was like GOD! WOW! A 5.0 in a semester that felt so terrible for most of it, unbelievable scenes mehn. All Glory to God, because I cannot do such on my own, I would be a dirty liar if I said I could. I want to encourage you to trust in God when you pray, no matter how what kind of circumstances you're praying under, those things do no limit God. Today is April 8 but I'm typing like it's 4th, I just realised hehe. I'm reliving the moment; it was just such a good feeling inside of me. It's really lovely to achieve your goals, whew. More to come deo volente.

I guess that wraps up the first semester of 200 level, it was a lengthy ride to be honest. This wrap up is quite deep into second semester. Let me just mention that Dr. Ibhaze has come again, he gave us a test on physical electronics (EEG 226), 10 marks and we didn't know what to write. We can't catch a break with him, but I don't believe he'll use that test anyways, hopefully I'm not wrong (very hopefully).

For ease of calculating my cgpa, let me put the scores of each semester here. LevelSemester: TotalScore-TotalUnits Yr1S1: 66-14, Yr1S2: 78-16, Yr2S1: 100-20. CGPA moves from 4.80 to 4.88 (Huge!)

There's are so many social events going on in school at the moment, it's so easy to waste your time and then end up failing your tests. Dear reader, you cannot be everywhere. I won't say snub all events but be very picky with the ones you attend, select a few (very few o ejoor) and ignore the rest. You don't have that much time especially if you're behind in some courses. Don't set yourself up for struggle.

I'll end this post that has been pending for too long here, next time I'll probably have written a few tests, I pray I return to you with good news. Thank you and bye bye :)

Check the date I made this note:

God is good !

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 16: Tulips

With the possible exception of all of the eighth years getting along and actually becoming friends, regardless of their former rivalries, the first half of Draco's eighth year at Hogwarts was remarkably ordinary. Funny how it took a war to see that they were all just children and all being used as pawns in a bigger game.

There was also, for Draco, the realization that he had a bit of a crush on Potter. He found that he actually really enjoyed the other boy's company; he enjoyed his snarkiness and the way that Draco could see mischief in his eyes. He liked the way Potter listened, liked the way he always seemed to want to casually touch other people. He liked him, plain and simple.

But other than the unlikely truces turned friendships (and in the case of Potter, turned crush) nothing weird happened, no one tried to kill him (or other students), no prophecies were unveiled, there were no dementors, no psychopath teachers, nothing. It was almost enough to make Draco bored.

Almost.

There was nothing strange until one unassuming morning in March, when they were all sitting in the great Hall, eating breakfast, and quizzing each other for the upcoming test in Transfiguration.

Potter interrupted the heated debate that Draco was having with Granger with a blurted, "What the fuck?"

Everyone looked over at him, including Hermione and Draco, to see what had happened.

"There's a tulip in my coffee cup!" the other boy said.

"So there is," Draco replied in amusement.

Everyone chuckled and Potter tried to figure out who had put the bright yellow tulip there but Draco really didn't have time to think about that because he and Hermione were back to arguing about Transfiguration theory.

He probably wouldn't have thought about it again but that evening as they got ready for bed, Draco felt a strange twinge in his magical core, like you got when you were preparing to cast a strong spell.

Before he could really dig into what had happened, Potter's bed curtains flew open, "Alright, you lot," he said, a laugh ruining the stern look he was attempting. "Who put this here?" he asked, holding out a red tulip that he'd apparently found on his pillow.

(Read more below the cut)

Each of them denied having any knowledge of how the tulip could have found its way into Potter's bed, but a bit of unease settled in Draco's stomach. Potter put the second tulip in with the first in the vase on the windowsill and laughed it off.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there was a story he'd been told as a child. A story that he couldn't quite grasp but filled him with a bit of apprehension none the less.

Still, this was nothing like the sort of anxiety that Draco had been accustomed to forcing himself to sleep through for the past few years, so he put it from his mind and went to sleep.

And again, he might have been able to forget about it, if it weren't for the fact that the next morning he felt a tug at his magical core and then a few minutes later, Potter appeared with another tulip. White this time and he'd found it in the pocket of his robes. "Seriously, what the hell you guys?" he laughed.

Everyone else laughed too, but Draco frowned, the memory of the story niggling at the back of his mind once more, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He continued to try to remember throughout the rest of the week and Potter continued to get tulips. They showed up in his book bag, the showed up in place of his quills, they showed up on his plate at meals, they showed up everywhere and anywhere. One even replaced his loofa in the shower.

By the end of the week, Potter was getting a bit irritated and he'd had to enlarge the vase multiple times to fit all of the tulips. Draco wasn't sure why Potter hadn't just thrown them out, but it wasn't his place to say anything, certainly.

On Saturday, when everyone had gone off to Hogsmeade for the morning, Draco fire called his mother.

"Draco, darling," she said, smiling at him, "I'm so pleased to hear from you. How are you?"

He endured the predictable pleasantries before he said, "Listen, mother, the reason I called," he paused there because this was all a bit ridiculous. "Well, it sounds silly really, but there was a story you told me when I was little," he said. "Something about a wizard who had flowers appear out of nowhere? I can't remember it."

"Why?" she asked, her face serious. "Draco, why are you asking me about that story?"

"No reason," he said quickly. "It's just something that came into my head," he lied.

"Who's receiving tulips, Draco?"

"It's nothing!" he repeated. "And I never said there were any tulips."

"If I tell you the story, will you tell me the truth?"

Draco sighed but nodded.

"The story," she began, "was about your great, great, great uncle Silas. Silas was a difficult man, everyone always said so. He was haughty and rude; he was quite clever but not terribly gracious about it."

"Mother," he interrupted, his knees were growing cold and sore from kneeling on the common room floor, "could we just skip to the meat of the story."

"Yes, alright," she sighed. "Long story short, Silas fell in love with a muggleborn. His family obviously refused to let him get married, assuming that the love would fade eventually. There was an arranged marriage in there as well, but that's not really important. What is important, is that the person he fell in love with began to find tulips everywhere. Every time she went to pick up something, it turned into a tulip; at her home, her work, everywhere she went, tulips."

Draco felt something in the pit of his stomach drop. This couldn't be happening.

"He was pining for her, heartbroken that he couldn't be with her," she said. "Now, magic can't create something from nothing, so in each of the tulips was a little bit of Silas' magic."

"Like a horocrux?" he asked in horror.

"No, darling, nothing so sinister as that. But the flowers were slowly draining his magical core and he was growing steadily weaker." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "So, as the story goes, when he was so weak he could barely summon the strength to stand, he went to her to confess his love. What did it matter if he was going to die? When he told her of his love, she kissed him and his magic was restored. The family was convinced that it was true love and that the love that bound the two of them together was obviously stronger magic than that of blood status."

Draco rubbed a hand over his face, "So, this was a true story?"

"Yes, it's all rather well documented as it would have to be in the case of something like this." She gave him her most commanding look, "Now, I've held up my end of the bargain, so it's your turn. Tell me who's receiving tulips, Draco."

"Harry Potter," he whispered.

Her eyebrows rose, "You have to tell him, Draco."

"I can't!" he said, shaking his head, "You know I can't. He couldn't possibly feel the same way, he couldn't possibly love me, too-"

Something shattered behind him and he yanked his head back to see the boy in question standing there, bouquet of tulips in his hands. The vase had dropped and been smashed, water was soaking into Potter's socks but he didn't seem to notice.

Draco promptly ended the fire call with his mother and wondered if it would be possible to transfer to Beauxbatons to complete the year. It was either that or he should just go off to die.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Most of it," Potter confessed with a little wince. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop but then I heard her talking about how everything in that girl's life became tulips and I knew you were talking about me. I didn't realize how the story would end," he hastened to add. "I just thought that she might know something about a curse or spell that had been cast on me."

Draco rubbed his forehead, "Look, could you just forget about the whole thing?"

"Forget about it?" Potter asked, sounding a little hysterical at this point. "Draco, it turned six quills into tulips in the past three days. Six!" he shook his head. "No, I can't forget about it and I certainly can't let you die."

Draco stood up and balled his hands into fists, "Always ready to play the hero aren't you?"

"What?" the other boy asked, obviously taken aback.

"Ready to play the martyr," he sneered. "Well I won't have it. I won't have you tying yourself to me just because you're afraid that I'll die if you don't return the sentiment."

"But I already do return the sentiment," Harry said, sounding bewildered. "Sorry, maybe I should have said so, but I thought that was obvious from the story."

"What?"

"Well, your mum said that it was true love's kiss that restored his magic, true love that made it possible for the flowers to appear in the first place. I just assumed it was obvious that I was in love with you, too."

"You are?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe that this was possible.

"Yeah," Harry replied with a little shrug. "I mean, I thought maybe it would have been good to start with a date or something," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "It's why I'm still here, I wanted to invite you to go to Hogsmeade with me."

"You did?"

Harry nodded again. "But I'm glad to kiss you, for the unselfish reason that it will restore your magic," he said, glancing down at the flowers in his hands before looking back up, "And for the selfish reason that I would really just like to kiss you."

"You would?" he asked.

Harry huffed at him, "Are you going to stop sounding like you doubt every word out of my mouth?"

"Sorry, it's just-" Draco started but then Potter was across the room, dropping the tulips as he cupped Draco's face in his hands and leaned in until they were a mere inch apart.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked softly, his eyes flickering between Draco's.

"Yes," Draco breathed.

Harry gave him a little grin and leaned in to kiss him, his soft, full lips, gently caressing Draco's, and Draco felt like his heart stopped beating for a moment before a surge of magic, and joy, and love came rushing in and filled him to bursting.

He wrapped his arms around Harry's waist and pulled him in closer and Harry hummed, molding his lips to Draco's for a moment before pulling back and resting their foreheads together.

"That was-" Draco started.

"Fantastic," Harry agreed. "Do you feel better? Not going to die on me or anything?"

Draco laughed and pinched his side, "I think we were a long way off from that."

"I don't know," Harry replied, tilting his head to press a kiss to the tip of Draco's nose. "There were an awful lot of tulips."

"Yes," Draco replied, pulling back to look at the tulips strewn about the floor, "And you've dropped them all on the ground. That's quite rude, you know."

Harry huffed at him, "Prat," he said fondly before drawing away to swish his wand and collect all of the tulips and put them back into the repaired vase. "So," Harry said, "I think tulips may be my new favorite flower."

"Mine, too," Draco replied with a smile.

And when they got married, two years later, there were tulips everywhere.

Day 15: Wings | Day 17: Salt

[keijislove]

Happiness: Harry Potter X Muggle!Reader

Ding dong

The bell at Number Four, Privet Drive rang.

‘Boy, scurry off!’ Petunia growled at Harry; afraid he would do something to the person who was at the door.

Harry hid inside his old broom cupboard.

Even after spending two whole years at Hogwarts, and about to start his third, the Dursleys never let him come and see whoever was at their door.

It’s not like I’d stun them, Harry gloomily thought. I’ve got better things to do.

In truth, he really hadn’t.

Which is why he peeked through the small crack in the door to see who was there.

Petunia opened the door.

‘Er, yes?’ Harry heard her say.

‘Mrs. Dursley, good afternoon!’ a voice spoke.

The voice was gentle and sweet, a great variation from the Dursleys’ harsh, barking tones towards Harry.

It was the voice of a girl; one he did not know.

‘How may I help you dear?’ Petunia smiled.

‘Er, well, Dudley took my maths book yesterday, and I-I have a test coming up day after, so could you please ask him to lend it back?’ the voice asked.

‘Of course.’ Petunia smiled. ‘Come in, dear.’

That was when Harry finally saw the owner of the calming voice.

It was you.

Looking ever so beautiful and elegant with a halo of politeness surrounding you.

Petunia went upstairs to retrieve your book.

He did not know why exactly, but Harry felt like he had to talk to you.

He had to.

And if he didn’t, then the chance would be lost forever.

He walked out of the cupboard.

‘Oh!’ you exclaimed in surprise.

‘Er, sorry.’ He muttered, feeling foolish.

‘No, no... quite alright... I’m Y/N. Y/N L/N. you are?’ you asked, holding out your hand.

‘Harry. Harry Potter.’ He said, shaking your hand.

You frowned slightly. ‘Potter... I’ve heard that before... you’re Dudley’s cousin, aren’t you?’ you asked.

‘Er, yeah.’ Harry awkwardly said.

For a moment, a small flash of fear took over your face, but you tried your best to hide it.

Harry noticed it anyway.

He felt anger bubbling up inside him.

‘I don’t go to St. Brutus’ if that’s what’s scaring you.’ He said with more venom than intended.

You looked positively nonplussed. ‘Oh? Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. It’s just that... Dudley says such awful things about you... I’d started thinking you were a mad hooligan!’

‘Dudley says a lot of things that aren’t true. For instance, he beat up a toddler and told me he’d won a boxing match.’ Harry shook his head.

You giggled slightly.

‘So... you’re his friend, then?’ Harry asked.

You looked down. ‘Uhm... well, no. I’m afraid he’s not very nice to me. I don’t think he likes me much.’

Harry felt yet another wish to strangle his cousin.

‘Why’d you lend him your book, then?’ he asked in confusion.

You sighed. ‘I didn’t. He took it from me when we were out during recess.’

‘Prat.’ Harry muttered.

When they heard Petunia’s footsteps, Harry jumped back inside the broom cupboard.

She was wiping fake tears, mumbling.

‘Diddykins, always such a gentleman. Asking for a girl’s book so politely.’ She mumbled.

You had to look away in order to roll your eyes.

-------------

Needless to say, you and Harry became friends since that day.

The Dursleys would always kick him out, and this used to annoy him, but now he had somewhere to go, so he used to leave without a word.

You two would meet up in the nearby playground and do one of the things Harry considered a big privilege.

You’d talk.

Nothing in particular, you’d sit on the swings and just talk.

Harry deeply wished he could tell you about Hogwarts, how Voldemort was a huge threat to his existence, but what would you think?

You’d call him mad.

You still followed the same routine.

You’d talk, everyday you’d talk and talk and one day he would leave, leave you behind, lonely.

Things however, changed quick after that.

He had just gotten home from third year, and was spending the summer there.

You had met up as usual, and he’d excitedly told you how his best friend, Ron Weasley, had invited him to stay over that Sunday for the rest of the vacation.

‘Oh... you’re leaving so soon?’ you had asked, and Harry thought he had heard the slightest bit of sadness in your voice, but that couldn’t be.

You wouldn’t be sad if he left, he wasn’t even on your priority list.

Which is what he thought.

To you, Harry was that cute boy whom you could consider one of your closest (and only) friends.

So, upon hearing that piece of news, you were jealous of this Weasley person.

No, that wouldn’t be right. You thought. He’s been at that school for three years; you’ve just met him. Why would he want to stay because of you?

You had been lonely that summer, and when Harry came back, it was unusual.

When he came back from his fourth year, he was a mess.

He’d jump at the slightest things, like a cat or a stray dog, and would hyperventilate a lot.

One day, he’d had a particularly bad panic attack.

You were on your swings, as usual, when Harry started rolling around on the floor, clutching his head.

You had gotten used to this, so you crouched next to him.

‘Ssh, Harry, breathe.’ You’d soothingly whisper. ‘Focus on your breathing, take deep breaths. Yes, that’s better, isn’t it?’

Harry was more grateful to you than he could have been.

Despite you not knowing the reason his scar hurt, you didn’t poke in further.

You left it at that and helped him whenever he needed help the most.

Your heart sank when Dudley’s gang came marching.

You hurriedly propped Harry up on the swing, before sitting down yourself.

‘Come on a date with a girlfriend, have you?’ Dudley sneered at Harry, his mates laughing loudly.

Yet another surge of anger passed through Harry’s body. ‘Beat up another ten year old, Dudley?’

‘This one deserved it.’ Dudley nonchalantly replied.

‘Five against one... that’s nice.’ Harry snapped.

Dudley’s lips curled over his teeth in a snarl. ‘At least I’m not afraid of my pillow! Don’t think I don’t hear you moaning in your sleep!’

A muscle was jumping in Harry’s jaw.

‘Leave it.’ You whispered.

‘Oh, don’t kill Cedric!’ Dudley mocked. ‘Who is Cedric, your boyfriend?’

More laughter issued as you held onto Harry tighter.

‘Mum, he’s gonna kill him!’ Dudley went on. ‘Where is your mum? Where is your mum, Potter? Is she dead? Is she dead?!’

You had released Harry; however, it was not him who went up to Dudley.

‘Pathetic!’ you snarled in his face. ‘What do you think you’re playing at, joking about his mother’s death? Absolutely pathetic!’

Dudley had given you a half smile, gesturing to his friend.

One of the boys held you and slammed you against the roundabout, making you hit your head as you groaned.

Harry jumped up and pointed his wand right at Dudley.

It was at that moment, that the skies darkened, as if a storm was ahead.

In mid-summer.

You and Harry walked home, Dudley following behind.

Suddenly, you felt cold.

Not because of the lack of warmth, but because it became really, really cold.

You heard a scream as your vision darkened.

Harry choked for air as a Dementor held him in place, desperately searching for his wand.

He saw you collapse to the floor, panting heavily.

With great effort, Harry grabbed his wand and managed to croak out.

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!!!’

A silver stag rose out of Harry’s wand tip and fought off the Dementor holding him in place, before heading to you.

The Dementor instantly dropped you, almost scowling, which it would have done if it had no face, and glided out of the alleyway.

Dudley looked sick, but Harry didn’t care.

He rushed to your side immediately.

‘Oh my god, oh my god, cloaks.’ You whispered. ‘Cold air, c-cloaks, I saw my father die... all o-over a-again and i-it was so c-cold, all over...’

Harry shushed you, smiling understandingly at your rambling, disgusted at whoever sent those stupid Dementors to harm somebody as innocent as you.

---------------

‘So... he’s a wizard.’ You clarified, looking at the batty woman whose living room you were sprawled across.

‘And a ruddy good one at that, I mean, a corporeal Patronus at his age-’ she said.

‘Mrs. Figg.’ You interrupted. ‘He’s... he’s going to come back next summer, isn’t he?’

‘Of course, dear, whyever not?’ she looked at you as though you’d gone mad.

‘Those things... Dementors, as you said... were they trying to harm Harry?’ you tentatively asked.

‘Yes dear, sadly, yes.’ Mrs. Figg distractedly muttered. ‘Mundungus Fletcher, when I get my hands on that little squat again, I swear!’

You were trembling.

Something was after Harry, something terrible.

And you were in no power to help him.

----------------

‘Is something the matter?’ you asked, trying hard to keep a straight face.

‘Have you ever tried macaroons; I reckon they’re brilliant.’ Harry mumbled, ignoring you.

You rolled your eyes. ‘Harry.’

Sighing, Harry looked at you. ‘Hm?’

‘What’s wrong?’ you repeated.

‘Nothing.’

Lies.

‘Harry, something is very much wrong, and you know it.’ You disapprovingly said. ‘What is it?’

Harry sighed. ‘Its just... he’s growing stronger, you know. I... I fear there might be a day where I go to Hogwarts and never come back.’

Your heart sank into your stomach.

‘Its... cmon, Harry.’ You spoke. ‘We can’t... if you think like that, then, you’re not going to fight very well, are you? I’ll have you know, I am always here for you, and I have absolutely no intentions of letting whoever kills you live in peace.’

Harry chuckled at your scathing threats.

‘I’m gonna miss you, Y/N/N.’ Harry mumbled, intertwining your fingers with his.

You sighed. ‘I’ll miss you too Harry.’

More than you can imagine.

-----------------

‘Harry Potter, open this door!’ you screamed, banging furiously, not caring it was raining and you were sopping wet.

‘Harry, I swear, I WILL BREAK THIS DOOR!’ you yelled, ripping your throat raw.

The door hesitantly opened, as a certain boy stood before you.

Choking an enormous sob, you pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Sobbing into his shoulder, you melted into his touch.

‘Ssh Y/N, ssh.’ He mumbled soothingly.

‘Harry Potter.’ You croaked. ‘You had best returned from this war ALIVE.’

‘I’ll try Y/N/N.’ Harry whispered. ‘I’ll try.’

Your sobs were growing uncontrollable, and Harry did the only thing he could think of to shut you up.

He kissed you.

Slowly and carefully, his lips took in your own, as you melted into the kiss.

Not caring about the salty tears you could taste, you gently stroked his cheek.

When you pulled apart, you sniffed. ‘Good luck, Harry.

----------------

The rain beat down on your house heavily, as you sat near your window.

Something was wrong, you could sense it.

He’s alive... God, no, he’s alive, please.

Each thought, each dream, showed you endless ways Harry would be dying.

You hated it.

After many days of crying, a knock on your door made you jump.

‘Y/N!’

That voice.

That amazing voice.

Trembling, you opened the door, seeing a messy haired Harry standing there, tears painting his face.

‘My God.’ You gasped. ‘You’re alive. Oh, Harry!’

After yet-another hug, Harry came inside.

‘I reckon I should’ve made this more special.’ He said seriously. ‘But I can not wait any longer.’

You watched, confused, as Harry took your hands.

‘Y/N L/N, the moment you came into my life, I have felt nothing but pure happiness. I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?’

You gasped, hand flying to your mouth.

Sobbing harder, you hugged him.

‘Yes.’

[harrysgoldenshe]

That Bloody Damn Pasta Bridge

Harry hates disciplining his children. He hates it so much that there's an unspoken rule in your marriage where you always have to be the bad cop and he gets to play the very loved role of the good cop. However, he has his moments where he has to raise his voice and though he always feels guilty afterwards, he knows his kid won't make the same mistake twice.

On this particular night, your eldest son, James, was testing his limits with Harry. You're away on a business trip and you won't be back until 3 more days. Harry, of course, does not mind having some alone time with your two kids. In fact, he was over the moon happy when you announced you had to leave for an entire week. In Harry’s mind, you being away meant he got to do things with the kids that you wouldn't normally allow. Him and James had already spent an evening binging out on some snacks until it was nearing 3 am. Harry even went a step further and decided that your daughter, Evelyn, should skip her usual nap time to go to the park one afternoon. Even though he immediately regretted that decision, Harry lived for moments like these with his kids because he knows its times that they’ll remember forever. In Harry’s mind, you leaving meant that he and his two kids were going to have a blast.

Harry did not plan for your son to come to him on a Thursday night after he had just put his younger sister down for bedtime, telling him that he needed his help with a school project. Harry, also, did not plan on working on this project the night before it was due.

“I cannot believe you let yourself not do a single thing until this last minute,” Harry scowled at his 13 year old son who stood beside him, reading out loud the criteria for the project. “You’ve really gone and screwed yourself over,” He went on. “I shouldn’t even be helping you with this bloody damn thing! You have no idea what you’re doing and I sure as hell don’t! Have fun explaining to your mum why you’ve failed this,” His accent getting thicker as he grew angrier.

“Dad, please. I didn't know it was due tomorrow, I thought I had another week!” James tried to reason with his father

“Another week,” Harry scoffed. “Says it right here when it’s due!” He grabbed the page out of his son’s hand and waved it around. “Due date, June 4th! Make a bridge that will support as many textbooks as possible! Use time in class to prepare! James’ a pillock! A goddamn twit!” Harry went on reading from the page, making the two last statements up

Your son, hating the fact that his dad was not only angry with him but furious enough to start calling him names, grew more annoyed and frustrated.

“You’re not helping!” James told Harry

“Course not, this isn’t my problem,” Harry reminded his son. “Now tell me how you’re going to make this bridge mate? I’d really love to know,” He asked him

“I-I don't know,” His son answered

“You know what? I was considering helping you but not anymore. I want you upstairs in your room and I better not see your face until tomorrow morning when you leave for school empty handed,” Harry raised his voice as he pointed to the staircase.

“Can I work on the bridge in my room?” James questioned

“The hell you can!” Harry exclaimed. “There are consequences to your actions, James, and you are going to learn just how much you're going to have to work to obtain a proper grade once you've had a zero. I have never been so disappointed in my entire life, I cannot believe you,” He shook his head.

Now this is what caused James’ breaking point. Having his father be angry with him and call him names barely hurt him but hearing that Harry was disappointed in him cut sharply. James works hard to make both of his parents proud and he knows he’s in the wrong about this project but his father’s words rang in the back of his mind.

The 14 year old inhaled sharply as he felt his eyes tear up.

“You can’t do this to me!” He replied to his father. “I’m calling mum,” He quickly added before stomping up the stairs.

Harry let out a sigh as he walked to the staircase.

“Go ahead and call her! I would love to see how she reacts to you not doing a project! Please be my guest and tattle on me,” He called after his son

The only response he got was a door slamming that quickly followed with Evelyn calling out for her father.

“Now he’s gone and woke his sister up,” Harry huffed as he marched up the stairs.

He debated going into his son’s room and arguing with him some more but he decided that they both had enough. Harry went into Evelyn’s room and stayed with her until she fell back asleep which luckily didn't take too long.

Harry let out a sigh as he gently closed the door to his daughter’s room as he noticed that the light was off in James’. Harry went into his own bedroom where he took a quick shower and got ready for bed. He climbed into his bed, phone in hand. The only text from you was one he saw a few hours ago when you wished your family a goodnight before you headed to bed yourself.

Content that James didn’t actually tattle on him, Harry laid back and closed his eyes, getting ready for sleep to overtake him. However he found himself tossing and turning.

The next thing he knew, he was downstairs leaning against the kitchen counter with his eyes glued on his computer screen as he searched up the best methods to build a bridge.

“Linguini noodles, really?” He questioned himself.

After reading different articles, he found that the pasta was a frequent method used.

Harry got up from his seat and went into the kitchen to retrieve a few boxes of the noodles before going into the laundry room to find your hot glue gun.

“Okay, let’s do this,” He said as he sat back down.

Taking a few noodles out of a box, Harry glanced back to his computer screen to make sure he was about to do the right thing.

“I guess… I just… A triangle… Right right… Makes sense…” He mumbled to himself as he started to break the pasta in pieces.

Harry started to glue the pasta together to form a triangle, since his source said that triangular trusses would work better than rectangular ones.

He kept building from there, only stopping to check his source to make sure he was doing it correctly. He gave himself one break where he chugged down two cups of coffee in order to help him stay up.

Harry glued the last piece of pasta onto the bridge, his eyes feeling heavy. He let out a content sigh as he laid his head on the table, telling himself he’ll rest his eyes for a moment before cleaning up and heading upstairs.

“S’not even that late,” He argued with himself as he closed his eyes.

The clock on the stove flashing 3:43am would argue otherwise.

***

Harry abruptly woke up to someone shaking his shoulder. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his surroundings, completely confused as to why he was being woken up in his kitchen to James holding Evelyn in his arms.

“Wha’s going on?” He asked his oldest

“I, uh, woke up and found you snoring at the table so I go Eve ready and make us breakfast but now I need to get ready for school,” James told his father

Suddenly the memories of arguing with his son over a school project became clear in Harry’s mind. He glanced at the bridge he built which still stood where he had left it. Clearly James had seen it.

“Right right, go on then. Thank you for taking care of yer sister, I couldn't sleep last night. Didn't mean to fall asleep here,” Harry said.

James handed his sister to his father and raced up the stairs without saying another word. Harry glanced at the clock and saw that there was 20 minutes left before James had to leave for school.

“How’re you this morning princess?” Harry asked his daughter who made herself comfortable on his lap.

“Perfect! James made me cereal while he cleaned up noodles from the table,” His daughter answered. “Why were you playing with noodles at night, daddy?” She questioned him.

Harry let out a laugh.

“I wasn't playing with them baby, was helping your brother with something and fell asleep before I could clean up,” He told her. “Don't you go telling mommy that, y’know how much she hates it when I leave the kitchen dirty,” He quickly added, knowing that his youngest would tell you everything that happened once you came back home.

He learned that he had to ask his daughter not to tell you certain things or else his secrets would be out.

“Pinky promise,” Evelyn agreed, locking her finger to Harry’s

“Thank you baby,” Harry kissed her cheek. “Now go on and play in the kitchen while I talk to your brother,” He said as he let her down from his lap once he noticed his son walking down the stairs.

Evelyn listened and skipped her way into the living room.

“Sit down,” Harry told his son.

James wasted no time to take a seat next to his father.

“I want to apologize for what I said to you last night, wasn't nice of me to call you names even if you were driving me bloody mad. I'm sure you’ve noticed the bridge I built last for ya last night and I want you to know that just because I've helped you out this one, I won't always be bailing you out like this. You’re about to start high school, James, and you need to learn responsibility. I’ll always want to help you with projects or help you figure school work out but I can’t be putting in more effort than you mate. This is the one and only time I will ever do one of your assignments by myself and the only reason I did build this damn bridge was because I couldn’t bear the thought of you failing a project. That and your mom would absolutely murder the both of us for letting that happen,” Harry said, earning a laugh from James during the last part of his lecture.

“Thank you dad and I’ve learned my lesson. Assignments are important and waiting until the last minute won’t do anything but bring you anxiety,” James replied.

“You're telling me,” Harry mumbled. “You should head to your bus stop, bus will be here any minute,” He said.

James nodded and leaned over slightly to grab the bridge. He gave his dad a hug and thanked him again before making his way to the front entrance to grab his backpack and put on his shoes.

“Oh and James?” Harry called out as his son paused in the doorway. “That bridge should be able to hold at least 22 books, better come back home with a perfect grade,” He said

“Only 22? I feel like you built it to be stronger than that, how about 27?” James suggested, earning a cheeky smile from his father.

They exchanged goodbyes one last time before James left.

“That bloody damn pasta bridge,” Harry shook his head once the door closed behind his son.

[peakyblinderswhore]

Can you do one where the reader is Arthur’s daughter and dating Isaiah and her dad and boxes find the kissing or something like that

A/N: hey anon! how’re you? i hope you’re safe! just wanted to say that initially i was nervous about writing this (that’s all i ever seem to be these days) because i think arthur deserves so much more than what he’s got and i alway always always want to do him justice.

also, incorporating the bond i wanted to capture with arthur and his daughter and then the daughter and isaiah’s relationship was a challenge i enjoyed! sorry it took a little while, i happened to have an influx of asks!

also there’s a next to no gifs of isaiah :(

W/C: 2.3k

It was safe to say that on a (more than) daily basis, you were tested in the ways of keeping secrets much like the rest of your Shelby counterparts. One of the most prominent? Well, with Arthur Shelby being your father you were constantly running around with boys in secret so that your father wouldn’t scare them away.

What do you do with that?

Constantly, and I mean constantly, you were running around, trying to keep your secrets. It was easy to hide them from your father but from Aunt Polly? That was near impossible and you knew the risks you were taking constantly, in an attempt at trying to keep your private life, well, private.

“Where’s your Father, honey?”

You’d been sitting, staring into space in Arthur’s office, not really sure what you were waiting for. Your feet were resting, crossed at the ankle, on Arthur’s desk and you were leaning back on the chair so that you were staring at the ceiling. You spent many hours here imagining your life coming to life on the ceiling like a painting. Polly had interrupted you which must've meant something was up; she tended not to bother you as she didn’t always know what to do with you.

Arthur had had you young, which made you a similar age than some of the younger Shelby’s. Ada had been just a babe and Finn came along a few years later. For so many years, Arthur hadn’t a clue what to do with you, your mum dying soon after you were born (or so the rest of your family thought) and so you became accustomed to living with your father without ever coming in contact with your aunts and uncles until you were quite a few years older.

No one had known that you were going to be born, Arthur barely knew about you and so you were taken in by them, still a Shelby by blood, they helped in dribs and drabs, where Arthur would let them.

“I’m not sure, Pol, I was waiting here for him, myself, he was supposed to meet me here after he finished fightin’ or boxin’ or whatever he wants to call it,” you smile up at her and she smiles back.

“Ah, I was hoping he’d be here. If he’s not, he’s probably still at the boxing,” she pauses before adding, “despite him thinking that I don’t know what he’s up to all the time, I do know. If he’s not ‘ere and you want to talk to him now, go looking for him, love,” she offers a soft smile.

You lift your feet off of the desk and say, “Alright, thanks Pol’.”

You walk straight past her, into the betting den, and shoot finger-guns at Finn, making him pretend to fall over and die a dramatic death. Despite the technicalities in your family tree, you adored looking out for Finn even though he really was only a handful of years younger than you were. You giggled at his dramatics and wandered out to go looking for your father.

One of the reasons that Polly was never too sure what to actually do with you was because Arthur had held you so close for so long that by the time anyone had gotten a  proper look in on you, you were a few years old and didn’t much know what to do with these people as they did with you. Arthur had hidden you well, even taken some time away before he had to hand you off to Polly while he went to war — even then they didn’t know what to do as you spent most of your time writing him letters as he did to you. Everyone was awkward around you but you always knew that Arthur loved you more than anything in the world.

Marching on through the street, you make your way towards where you knew of your father’s whereabouts. He liked to think he hid some of the darker parts of his life from you but you knew everything that he got up to as, more often than not, you found yourself saving him from himself.

You made it to the seemingly abandoned warehouse but if it hadn't been given away by the poorly disguised Peaky lookout, you would’ve normally guessed it to be empty.

“Isaiah,” you smile, walking up to him.

He lifts his head and throws the cigarette he had been smoking casually to the ground to fizzle out later on. He smiles broadly at you and holds his arms out.

You jump into his arms, wrapping your arms around his torso as he spins you around as he turns. When he puts you back down on the ground, he looks at you with soft eyes and tips your chin to be of better reach to him before leaning in and capturing your lips with his.

Replying instantly, you rest the palms of your hands on his chest and play with his tie, gently tugging him closer, the heat rising between the two of you.

Eyes closed, tongues dancing, hands roaming, you let your hands trail down and untuck his crisp, white shirt so that your hands can run along his abdomen. His body reacts to your touch, leaning into you even more than he was already and you smile into the kiss, liking his body beg for you without actually having to say anything.

“Not today, baby.”

Isaiah groans, “I’ve been waiting —”

“Don’t you pull that bullshit with me,” you slap him lightly on the chest, “like we ain’t fucking every time we get the chance,” you laugh lightheartedly, he grins at you, “I just meant, not right this second. You know my Dad’s in there…”

“Yeah, Arthur’s in there. Causin’ a racket today. Not too sure what he’s done this time,” he sighs, tucking his shirt back in.

Biting your lip, you push him away lightly and say, “Alright, let’s see what problems I got to solve today.”

You trudge towards the boarded up building, thinking of the worst thing that your father could’ve done and prayed for something much better than that. You watch as the doors slide open for you, groaning as they are pulled apart from each other — for any other person this would’ve been wildly out of the question, yet, for you, it came without ever asking for it. You were a Shelby, no matter what generation or your standing, you were a Shelby and someone would be in very big trouble if they didn’t apply the rules that they use for Tommy or Arthur with you.

Offering a tight smile to whoever you may see first, you notice that your father, Arthur, is in the ring, fighting whoever wants to give it a go. Fighting a Shelby was dangerous but fighting one in the ring was not… unless it was against your father. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t black out and go to his dark place.

Having been here a handful of times before, you knew to ignore the blood splatters decorating the brick walls here and there and to more or less avoid coming into contact with any of the other fighters unless they come to you first. It’s more or less for your own safety, not for any other reason, as it’s better this way.

Isaiah is following you closely, allowing you to lead the way — not that you were letting him lead the way in the first place.

“Dad?” You call out, hoping to gain his attention as you’re walking over to the isolated boxing ring.

The set-up always irked you, the ring lay on the furthest side of the building from the doors and all of the vast, cold space was empty otherwise. Tall pillars of concrete held the building up and were spotted around the building. There were a few benches and a small area where other people were gathering, supposedly training, which was hard without any proper training gear but they still sparred nonetheless.

Arthur’s eyes flitted towards your figure, acknowledging your presence without losing focus on his current component, “What are you doing here darlin’? I thought Pol’ would’ve had you doing some work by now,” he chuckles, “or did you finish early? You always were a fast learner and an even faster worker.”

You smile warmly at his compliment and laugh lightly, “I was looking for you actually, you were supposed to meet me in your office, remember?”

Sighing and shaking his head, Arthur says, “I’m so sorry, must’ve forgotten. I’ll be on my way the second I’m finished here,” as he’s talking his component swings and Arthur ducks before jabbing him in the stomach, “cheap shot, you bastard…”

“We can wait over there,” Isaiah suggests from next to you.

You’d forgotten he was there, more concerned about your father’s state of mind, wondering what was going on in his head all the time and never knowing the full story. Nodding to Isaiah nonchalantly, he guides you towards one of the many pillars that hold the building up.

Leaning up against it, you watch your father fight the other guy in the ring. Without much emotion, you lean your head against the pillar, thinking about everything that had led up to this point and wondered what had gone wrong so bad that he didn’t tell you what was bothering him anymore.

Noticing your solemn look, Isaiah waves his hand in front of your face, gaining your attention. He gently picks up your hands and gets you to turn around, taking your mind off of Arthur for a few moments.

“Why don’t you take your mind off of things,” he says, inches away from you, his body pressed up against yours.

“Isaiah,” you whisper as he pulls you further behind the pillar, hiding the two of you from immediate view from the others.

“Mhm,” he mumbles as he leans his head closer to yours.

“My dad, he’s only —”

You’re cut off by the colliding of his lips against yours and at first you don’t respond, trying to tell yourself that you’ll get caught, but then you give in and wrap your arms around his neck as he snakes his arms around your waist, holding you impossibly close to his body.

The two of you are drinking each other up, as if you were dying of thirst and this was your first drink in days. Admittedly, it was very hot for the situation you were currently in but you were enjoying the temporary distraction from everything.

Tongues dancing, lips merging and hair disheveling you don’t want to stop but God had other plans today.

“Isaiah?” You hear an estranged voice say, shockingly close to the two of you.

Caught in the act, the two of your pull away from each other quicker than you could imagine when you figured out who the voice belonged to.

“Arthur,” Isaiah begins, “I- I was only —”

Flattening your hair, you clear your throat and pull down your skirt as it had hitched up slightly in the heat of the very hot moment. Focusing on a spot of the floor, you remain silent, not knowing what to say to him or what to say to save the two of you from Arthur’s wrath or whatever may come afterwards.

“No. I saw what you were doing,” Arthur says, disgust clear in his voice before emphasising, “to my daughter.”

Isaiah takes this as the right moment to close his blubbering mouth, not knowing what to say to save himself either. You felt so guilty for leaving him to sort out something that involved the two of you; it takes two to tango.

“Dad,” you say, his stare shifts to you, softening as you keep eye contact with him — after all, you were his daughter.

“Go on,” he says, holding back from losing it with you.

“Isaiah and I,” you move to look at Isaiah, smiling at him, hoping that he knows this is going to be how you have to tell your father how things are, “well, we like each other. A lot.”

Arthur scoffs and says under his breath, “Too much,” but waits for you to continue before saying anything else. His eyes are boring into you, waiting for you to say something to change his mind.

“Please don’t be mad,” you whisper, tears reaching your eyes and your hands lifting to rest your hands on his arms, “I really like him.”

Sighing, Arthur visibly calms down by clenching his fists repeatedly, “And you, Isaiah, do you like my daughter as much as she likes you?”

Isaiah steals a glance at you and focuses his attention back on Arthur, his hands gripping his cap tightly between his hands, “I really, really do.”

Arthur wipes his hand down his face and looks to the side before looking around. His brings his gaze back on the two of you.

“Alright. Get lost, the two of ya and I’ll catch up with you later,” he smiles as you, “I’m sure we can talk about whatever you wanted later… besides, I’ve got some things that I’m to sort out for your Uncle Tom.”

You grin, breathing out a sigh of relief and wrap your arms around Arthur’s neck quickly, offering a kiss on the cheek, “I love you Dad.”

He smiles back at you, “I love you too, now get,” and waves the two of you off.

Isaiah grabs your hand, pulling you out of the building, “That was…”

“Exhilarating,” you say.

“Not what I was going to go for, but it’s definitely up there,” he chuckles and grabs your face, pulling you in for a chaste kiss.

The two of you smile and walk off to spend the afternoon together.

TAGS: @saintd0lce since you liked it so much!

[yourdeepestfathoms]

God Forgive Us All (part five; finale)

[Carrie AU]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Tag list: @avmlife @shoujingshen

Word count: 12,566

TW: Blood and gore

-----------------------

-A Night We’ll Never Forget-

It was the opening night of Heathers: The Musical and the sun was just starting its descent in the sky, bleeding pastel pink across grey-blue clouds. There was no big storm in the forecast that day, just mist and fog, which was good because thunder and lightning might knock out the lights and ruin all the tech.

It was just one of those evenings so refreshing and peaceful that you HAD to be doing something nice. The sunset reached in through your window and dragged you towards it, flinging you out and out and out into the beautiful, mind-numbing twilight. You had to drive or hike or hang out with friends because an evening this perfect may never come again.

And sometimes you had to make sure an overly-cautious girl got a taste of such exhilaration because the mist was glittering and the sky was glorious and the setting sun probably that nothing bad could possibly happen. 

  “Do you think she’s okay?” Anne asked as she and Cathy sat outside the ivy-swathed house. She’d been more worried about their girl than herself since the moment she woke up, and for a good reason, too. Cathy didn’t blame her.

  “I’m sure she is,” Cathy answered.

  “Yes, but she’s only had a few days of rehearsals. What if she—”

Cathy set a hand in her girlfriend’s and squeezed it. “Take a breath, Annie.” She said. “She’s proved to us that she knows what she’s doing. Hell, she probably knows my lines better than I do! I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

( “I can see your dirty pillows,” Bernadette said bitterly.

  “They’re breasts, mama.” Joan corrected, not looking up from where she was testing necklaces to her skin tone. Jewelry was few and far between in the house, so she had to make do with whatever she could find because something told her that the theater wouldn’t want her touching any of their accessories with her ‘grimy freak hands’ if she didn’t have to. “Every girl has them. Even you. And I’m just in a tank top to get ready, but my costume will cover more.” She paused. “You’ll see that if you come. I have a spot reserved for you.”

Joan can already imagine herself onstage, boldly and amazingly belting out her lines and being watched in awe by hundreds of people. Even better than that, she could imagine her mother being there, eyes sparkling with pride, grinning widely, and at the end howling through the applause, “Did everyone see? That’s my daughter! My wonderful, glorious, marvelous baby girl, Joan! Oh, how amazing and talented she is! I am truly blessed to have her! The happiest mum in the whole entire world!!!!”

But, instead, Bernadette is shaking her head frantically, not at all looking proud or happy to be her mother at that very moment. 

  “No, no,” She said. “And you can’t go, either!”

  “It’s too late, mama,” Joan turned away from her mother and slipped on a jacket. “I’m going. My friends are expecting me.”

  “Friends?” Bernadette actually choked out a high pitched, startled laugh. “Is that really what you think those two women are to you, darling? I’m sure they care about you so very much. Do you think anyone would cry if your decapitated head was dropped in their hands? Admit it: nobody loves you the way you are except me. You are my baby. That’s always been true, and it always will be true.”

  “No, it’s not!!” Joan cried. Her powers pulsed like a racing heartbeat in her veins. “There are other people who like me! Miss Cathy and Miss Anne! Miss Aragon, too!” She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She didn’t want to blow her voice out before the show. “They aren’t like the others, mama. They’re good. I know they are.”

  “But wouldn’t they all change you if they could?” Bernadette said, causing a starling, uneasy revelation to zigzag through Joan. “They would strip away your lovely weirdness and reshape your mind until it’s to their liking. But I love every inch of you, my perfect darling little disaster.”

Would they do all of that? Joan wondered. Would Miss Cathy and Miss Anne and Miss Aragon change me if they got the chance?

For a moment, she was almost swayed to her mother’s side, but then she remembered something.

I wouldn’t blame them... I would want to change me, too.

  “I want to be normal,” Joan said defiantly. “So I wouldn’t care.” 

She turned away from her mother and marched into the kitchen to get a glass of water, but still couldn’t go past the crucifix without casting it a fearful look.

  “They’re all going to laugh at you!”

Something snapped in Joan’s chest.

  “NO!!” She roared.

She whirled around to her mother and extended a shaking hand, seizing Bernadette in her place. She bared her teeth in a flash of rage.

  “No, mama.” She said lowly. “Not this time. You aren’t going to ruin this for me.”

She telekinetically pushed Bernadette backward into the prayer closet as pieces of furniture rose into the air around her with her growing anger.

  “You’re going to—stay in there—until I leave.” Joan said. She jerked her head, and the door slammed shut.

  “Johanna! Stop this at once!! Stop this devilry!!”)

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Anne nodded. “She’s going to be okay.”

  “Come on, let’s go get her.”

The two of them stepped out of the car and walked up the front porch. When they knocked on the door, they heard a giant crash from within the house, like the roof had just caved in. They exchanged looks, suddenly worried again. Joan peeked out a moment later.

  “Hey!” Anne greeted her with a smile. “Everything okay? Did your ceiling just collapse or something?”

  “...Yes.”

Cathy blinked. Anne laughed.

  “Cool. Can I see?”

  “...No.”

Joan slid outside, and, for a brief second, Cathy and Anne could see into her house at all the furniture strewn on the ground. The door shut quickly, and Joan smiled up at them.

  “Come on!” She said with a new bout of eagerness. “Come on! Come on!”

  “Someone’s excited,” Cathy chuckled as they all walked to the car.

  “We’re coming, darling,” Anne called at the same time.

  “Darling!” Joan echoed in a gleeful voice. “Darling! That’s me!” She hurled herself at Anne and latched onto her, nuzzling into her chest.

  “Oof—” Anne staggered backward with a laugh. “Easy there, kiddo. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Joan giggled. “You’re not THAT old!” She gave Anne one more nuzzle before galavanting her way over to the car and leaping inside, leaving Anne and Cathy exchanging amused looks.

The drive to the theater was spent with Joan murmuring her lines to herself and fidgeting in the backseat, and upon arriving, she practically flew inside, darting straight to the dressing room she was getting to use. She immediately got to applying makeup and fixing her hair, but she appeared to have a hard time doing everything correctly, so Cathy stepped in while Anne went to go get ready.

It didn’t take long for Joan’s anxiety to kick in. As Cathy was pinning back locks of her long blonde hair, she could feel her start to tremble.

  “Joan?” She asked. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

  “Y-yeah,” Joan stammered. “Just a little n-nervous.”

Cathy smiled sympathetically at her in the mirror. “I know that feeling. It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

  “N-nervous about Dead Girl Walking,” Joan mumbled, fidgeting with her jacket sleeve.

Cathy barked a laugh. “Yeah, me too.” She admitted. “I’ll be more hands-off, okay? I won’t grab you anywhere.”

  “B-but won’t that r-ruin the scene?” Joan looked up at her.

  “Your comfort is more important to me than the enjoyment of the audience.” Cathy told her. “It’ll all be okay. You’re gonna do great.”

There was a knock on the doorframe. The two of them turned to see Aragon in the doorway, smiling. Cathy greeted her, then slid out of the room to get ready. 

  “Miss Aragon,” Joan said. “You look so pretty!”

Aragon laughed lightly, gazing down at the suit she was wearing. “Thank you, Joan. You look beautiful.”

  “Oh—thank you.” Joan blushed. “Although I don’t, not really, but thank you anyway.”

A small frown twitched momentarily on Aragon’s lips before she wiped it off. “I just wanted to come and check on you. How are you feeling? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Even with foundation and blush on her face, the dark bags shadowed under Joan’s eyes were still visible. It was worrying, but what came out of Joan’s mouth next was even worse.

  “Oh, yeah,” She said. “I was just a little nervous. But I’m okay. Trust me, I’ve stayed awake longer. When I was fifteen, I was having these awful nightmares and got so scared of them that I stopped sleeping. Whenever I would start to nod off, I put this cross that my mother would—heat up—” She faltered for a moment, wincing at something that didn’t have to do with the current story, but hurried to continue, “—and uhh, I would heat it up and press it to my skin until the pain woke me up.” And then she rolled her sweat pants up enough to reveal an old, cross-shaped blister on her thigh.

Aragon shuddered, staring at it in horror before it was concealed again. It was awful that nightmares could push a child to such an extreme, but she had to give Joan some props for her bravery to burn pain into the body that betrayed her by daring to be tired. But that didn’t erase how sickening it was.

  “Oh, Joan—”

  “Oh dear,” Joan frowned at her, cutting her off. “You’re getting that funny look on your face again. The one you and Miss Anne and Miss Cathy make when you get all concerned.” She tilted her head, then gently touched Aragon’s hand. “It’s okay, Miss Aragon, trust me. If I’m willingly telling you about it, then it’s not that bad.”

That didn’t comfort Aragon at all because it meant that Joan had gone through things even worse than burning herself to avoid nightmares.

But Aragon nodded, not wanting to stress the girl out by prodding her, especially right before a major performance.

  “Alright,” She said in a half sigh.

Joan gave her a wry smile.

  “Well, you better get into your costume,” Aragon said, standing up. 

  “Oh!” Joan jumped to her feet. “R-right!”

Aragon smiled at her. “When you’re done, come down to the wings to get your mic set up. And break a leg! You’ll do great, honey!”

Joan nodded and turned to her first costume once Aragon left the room: a long brown skirt with flowers on it, a cream shirt, and a blue jean jacket. She wore her primary costume, a blue checkered skirt and a lighter blue cardigan with an azure undershirt, underneath it for quick change reasons. After putting everything on, she was about to walk out when she paused and looked at herself in the mirror.

She...did look pretty. 

Except for—

  “Sorry, mama,” Joan whispered, taking off her cross necklace and setting it aside on the makeup table. 

The backstage was a mess when she stepped down the staircase leading up to the dressing rooms. Joan felt like she’d been flung into a war movie with the amount of running around and screaming that was going on around her, and she could already feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead in the hot, thick air of the wings. Footsteps trampled heavily, as people fretted over costumes, over makeup, over props…

Over the fact that the theater freak was playing the lead role.

And over the fact that one of their actors was lying on the ground, writhing and wailing in agony so loud that the early birds already filing into the house could probably hear.

  “What’s going on?! What happened?!” The sound director squawked, flapping over. She was done up in way too much makeup and jewelry for someone who wasn’t going to be seen by the audience. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

  “I-I don’t know!” A stagehand cried. “He-he fell and—”

  “Oh god—” Another said in a gag. “That is bad.”

  “Kinda cool,” Commented her friend, earning her an elbow to the ribs. “Ouch! Unnecessary!”

The actor on the floor howled.

  “This is a catastrophe,” A techie muttered to the far left, the boy shaking with visible distress, running a hand through his newly greasy locks. His eyebrows were drawn in considerably more than usual, and he looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A girl at his side looked remarkably similar in her emotional state but didn’t move from her place of wrapping a mic around Cleves.

The whole cast was crowded together, in various stages of mentally prepared, gawking down at someone that Joan couldn’t see. There was still an hour until the show began, but in theater, an hour was essentially five minutes if you were stressed out enough. And clearly, everyone was. Maggie and Kitty didn’t stand far apart, despite Kitty’s current position of being fretted over by two technicians, who were trying very hard not to look over at the current commotion. Russel and Luke, the Kurt and Ram, looked like the epitome of the American jock stereotype- white shirts with varsity jackets slung over them, jeans too baggy and hair too messy for the current decade. Cleves looked as calm as she always was, seeming out of place considering the hectic nature of the environment, and Anne was the only actor who didn’t look nervous about performing with Joan or about what was going on. In fact, she gave her a small, warm smile that Joan couldn’t help but return.

But then the injured actor cried out again, and she snapped back into awareness.

She stepped towards the crowd. Several people saw her coming and cleared off quickly. One stagehand that was even younger than her nearly fainted at the sight of her. She brushed the arm of a background actor, and he shuddered so badly she genuinely thought she had hurt him. 

Oh. She realized grimly. They don’t just think I’m a freak. She frowned. They think I’m a monster. They’re SCARED of me.

Anger boiled up inside of her for a moment, but she stamped it down. She didn’t love that burbling feeling of vengeance rising within her. She just wanted to hug them, all of them, and tell them not to be scared, that she wasn’t scary at all, not anymore—not ever. She wanted to be their friends. Because this performance was going to be the birth of New Joan, Ordinary Joan, Loved Joan, and everyone was going to be begging on their knees to be her best friend by the end of it. 

That thought made her absolutely giddy, and she nearly did a happy dance but managed to stop herself. Doing such a thing wouldn’t be appropriate at the moment, especially when she was gazing down at a moaning, groaning, broken-looking young man.

He was lying at the bottom of the Stairs of Death, as they’re called, sprawled in a position that looked extremely uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as the angle his right arm is bent into. With a wince, Joan realized it looked slightly similar to how her arm had looked when she got pushed down the staircase at school.

It was Mike, the man who played both JD’s dad and the principal—and was the only actor they had who knew those parts since it never occurred to anyone that even minor parts may need understudies.

  “Fuck!” Cried the sound director. “What happened?!”

  “I think he fell,” Observed Cleves calmly.

Mike groaned as if to prove that theory.

  “Oh, you bumbling idiot!” The sound director snapped at the poor man.

  “Hey!” Joan barked. “Don’t be mean! It’s not his fault!”

Everyone looked at her in surprise, including Mike, who halted his process of squirming miserably to blink up at her. Even she was a little shocked. Wasn’t she supposed to hate these people? 

  “It definitely is his fault,” The sound director hissed. “Or is it yours? Did YOU do this?”

Well, she definitely hated her, that’s for sure.

  “I bet she did,” Maggie said helpfully, and Kitty nodded in agreement at her side.

And she absolutely hated those two.

  “No, I didn’t!” Joan said, wounded. “I don’t hurt people!”

  “Yeah, I can vouch for her, Rachel,” Anne spoke up. “She wasn’t anywhere near the steps when Mike fell.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes at Joan, not really believing Anne’s words. “Well,” She dropped the accusations for the moment. “What do we do?”

  “Call 999.” Anne said.

  “No!” Rachel yelped. “We can’t! We don’t have an understudy for him!”

  “So you expect him to perform with a broken arm?” Anne struck back. “Look at him! He can’t even sit up!”

Joan peered closer at Mike’s arm and noticed that it was at an abnormal position slightly above the shoulder. He wasn’t moving it at all, either, like all connection to the rest of the body had been cut off...or displaced.

  “It’s not broken,” She said. “It’s dislocated.”

All eyes turned to her again. She quickly went on, pointing at the injured arm, “Look at the way he’s moving. His arm should be moving like that, too, but it isn’t even twitching. Plus, it’s not swollen and bruising. And listen to his screams—he’s in a lot of pain. Broken bones burn, but they wouldn’t cause that much distress.” She looked around at all of them, then said again, “It’s dislocated. And I know how to fix it.”

Mike looked ill at the thought of her touching him, and she barely managed to keep herself from giving him an injured look. Everyone else, however, weren’t spared from it when they noisily began to get suspicious and skeptical of her information. 

  “How do you know that?” Asked one stagehand with a bowl haircut.

  “I’ve had my arm broken and dislocated before,” Joan answered, remembering the time a bully shoved her against the wall hard enough to jar her left arm out of its socket when she was fourteen. “And I was able to help myself. I know what to do.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Said another stagehand warily, eyeing Joan as if she thought she was going to rip Mike’s arm off and beat him with it.

  “What other choice do you have?” Joan said. “Unless you’d like to go one without a father for JD and a coach.”

Somehow, to all of them, that alternative seemed even worse than her tearing off an innocent man’s limb and pummeling him with it. Mike realized this, too, and didn’t look very happy about it, giving them all an injured look.

  “You’re right,” A guitarist from the pit said. “We should probably trust her.”

  “What?” Kitty said sharply. “Are you alright?”

  “Of course,” The guitarist said, giving Kitty a weird look. She tipped her head towards Joan. “We should let her try, right? And if she fails, well, that’ll give us more of a reason to despise her.”

Joan kind of wished she had left that part out, but appreciated the trust nonetheless.

  “Yes,” She said, deciding to appeal to their hatred and fear for just a moment. “If I make him worse, you can—you can hate me all you’d like. Better yet: I’ll quit. How does that sound?”

That seemed like a dream come true to several of the younger cast members and techies, but a nightmare to Anne, who gave Joan a wide-eyed look and shook her head at her. Joan smiled gently and lightly touched her shoulder, then approached Mike. He tried to wiggle away when she crouched down next to him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” She whispered to him, and he looked up into her bright silver eyes. He must have seen something in her because he nodded a moment later and stopped moving. “Thank you.” She paused. “Okay, well—slight change to what I said. This WILL hurt, but it’ll make you better, I promise.” 

Mike went even paler but just nodded again. Joan thanked him again, then gently took hold of his arm, wracking her memory to remember how she had relocated her arm. That was the time, she recalled, that she realized that she had to start nursing her own wounds because nobody else was going to do it for her.

What am I doing? She thought. I’m the problem, not the solution.

But then she looked down at Mike’s pained eyes and saw herself in the deep shade of blue—hurt and wanting help. So, she took a deep breath and pushed upwards.

Mike let out a yelp of shock and pain, jerked, and then stopped. Joan pulled her hands back quickly so he could see his normal-looking shoulder. He tried to move it, wincing when it bent at his muscles’ command, then gave her a look of surprise and awe. She smiled at him.

  “All done!” She beamed, then turned her head to the crowd around her. “See? I did it!”

Nobody gave her a hug or cheered for her success, but she did get several appraising and approved looks, which was good enough for her. 

  “It’s probably gonna hurt for a few weeks,” She said to Mike. “Definitely take painkillers before the show, and don’t do anything crazy with it if you don’t have to.”

Mike nodded. “Th...thank you, Joan.” He said.

Something blissful fluttered inside her stomach. Someone said her name! In a way that wasn’t disgusted or full of hatred!!

  “Good work, kiddo,” Anne praised Joan when she returned to her side. “You’re amazing.”

Joan blushed. “Thanks.”

She was SO going to have friends now. These people have seen that she’s not dangerous! Well, unless you consider unnatural psychic powers as dangerous, but that can just be a perk to being her friend! She can move things with her MIND!! Maybe even do more things. Maybe she could help people.

She glanced down at her hands and wondered about all the amazing things she could do with her powers. She could help major constructions by lifting heavy objects without breaking a sweat. She could save people from burning buildings by levitating them when they fall. She may even be able to cure cancer and end world hunger!! Of course, telekinesis couldn’t do that, but maybe she had other abilities that could. 

She could be a hero.

And then Kitty’s gazed snapped over to her, and Joan didn’t feel like a hero at all. Just a worm trapped beneath the talons of a hawk. She instinctively shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her skirt to distract herself. Even after helping a man with his dislocated shoulder, Kitty and Maggie still looked at her as if she had just murdered their parents in front of them.

  “Joan, you look…” Kitty trailed off with a sneer, still staring at Joan’s slightly pudgy legs and the thigh highs that concealed them. 

  “Great.” Anne cut in, glaring at her cousin in some sort of warning. “She looks great.”

  “Not the word I would have used,” Kitty muttered, and Maggie giggled obnoxiously at her side.

Joan grit her teeth, but her flash of anger jolted away with a stagehand shoved the notebook she needed for the opening number into her hands silently. He glanced up at her for just a moment, then wrinkled his nose and scurried off to help someone else.

Joan felt more and more uncomfortable as she was prepared for the show. A few crew members, ones that still thought she was repulsive even after helping Mike, hadn’t wanted to touch her to put her mic on, so Cathy did it when she came down, apologizing to Joan softly for how stupid people were being. Joan, however, was too focused on all the stares she was getting. Out of the corner of her eyes, she swore she could see the director’s jaw drop when he saw her for the first time. He, at the very least, blinked twice at the sight of Joan, and the girl felt a small ounce of victory from that resolution. Of course, that good feeling was immediately washed away when the reality of the situation set in.

In less than five minutes, she was going to be performing in front of hundreds of people, some of which probably knew her and hated her, having not studied the script or the blocking/choreography with the intention of playing the character she was about to parade around as. And then, if that wasn’t enough, she had to have fake sex on stage with another woman and probably kiss her and attempt to have some sort of chemistry with her despite her girlfriend also being in the production. And, most importantly, her mother wasn’t there to support her through it all.

Holy fuck. Joan was going to die.

The stage lights soon dimmed, and she could hear Aragon’s voice over the intercom, reminding people to switch off their mobile devices. Joan wished that she heard Aragon say that a fire had started in the building so she wouldn’t have to step on stage, but no such luck. She felt someone nudge her forward onto the darkened stage as soon as the audience quietened, and Joan sucked a breath in. This was it.

  “Break a leg!” Anne whispered somewhere from the darkness of the wings.

Joan took one more big breath.

And then she walked on stage.

She could barely feel her legs as she walked, as though she was working on autopilot.

    “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Joan murmured to herself, far too quietly for the mic to pick up (she didn’t even think it was on yet), “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.” She stood in the position she had seen Jane stand in so many times before. “Amen.”

There was no turning back now, was there? She was in this for the long run. She was really doing this. As everyone else settled into position, she prepared herself to recite the lines she knew so well but never imagined she would be speaking.

  “September 1st, 1989. Dear diary...” 

As the music kicked in, the stage lights flickered on, nearly blinding her. She suddenly much preferred her nice, dark pit, but the bright light blocked out her vision of most of the audience, which she was so very thankful for. She couldn’t hear a single snicker or a mumble of disapproval, her voice didn’t crack, and she stood in the correct position. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.

The beginning of ‘Beautiful’ passed like a dream, though she struggled to contain her giddiness as stage fright slowly melted away, and she fully got into her role. It was a lot different being part of the ensemble, actually hearing lines being spoken directly in her face, than being in the pit where she just vaguely watched and frantically played music. It was only when she had to speak to confront Kitty that she felt her nerves kick in.

Because Kitty was looking at her like she wanted to fucking kill her.

Kitty, like Cleves and Anne, was dressed in a preppy, rich girl outfit from the ’80s, looking like an absolute vision in yellow. And she was glaring at Joan as though the other was wearing a trash bag, and Joan wasn’t wholly convinced it was a character choice. 

So much for McNamara being the slightly good Heather.

Something about the look in Kitty’s eyes, though, was different than her usual leer. This seemed...personal. Even when Kitty was saying compliments to Joan’s character, there was an edge of spite that hadn’t been there before Joan had switched roles.

Joan’s musing was cut short by Cleves’ voice and Kitty’s hand brushing over her chest.

  “And you know, this could be beautiful.” Cleves sang in her traditional deep bellow, a sardonic hint in her voice that only a few seemed to catch. 

Kitty’s hand on Joan’s chest trailed across her body as Cleves sang, putting a cold emphasis on every time she said “beautiful”, as though pointing out to Joan that she was speaking something far from the truth. Joan barely had time to register this before she croaked out her line and was ushered backstage for her quick change.

Joan’s protective shroud—the skirt and cream shirt and coat—was ripped off of her before she had a chance to shrug it off. Her hair was brushed painfully into a more pristine style and more makeup was applied roughly before being shoved back onstage so hard she nearly fell flat on her face. She regained her balance, luckily not being seen by the locker set pieces, and waited.

What was with Kitty? Was she cranky because Jane didn’t get to perform with her?

Joan ended up being absorbed in conspiracies internally the whole time she was on stage, unwillingly. She spoke her lines with conviction, and her singing didn’t falter, but she was still thinking. Even during the finale of the opening number, where she had to hold what she knew was the Note of Death, she still had these thoughts in her mind. She barely even had time to gauge the audience’s reaction to her costume change or see if they realized who she was before the song ended and the dialogue began. Joan zoned out for most of it, reciting the lines she knew, until-

  “Are we going to have a problem?” Cleves’ bold statement cut through the silence. Joan realized this was the start of the second number, and she swallowed thickly when she saw a menacing smirk stretch on Kitty’s lips. Her behavior the whole time had been off, and this was a song in which the entire aim was to push Joan around and show a display of power.

Cleves continued, saying her lines, which were laced with spite and malice towards a teenage girl who was just trying to save the show they’d worked so hard on. Joan didn’t have to do much other than accept the mild shoves off of the three Heathers; Cleves grinning, Anne smiling apologetically, and Kitty pushing Joan so hard she was sure there would be bruises. The blonde could not wait for the song to end, and as soon as she heard the roaring applause, she wanted so badly to make a run for it and escape the abuse but knew she had to stay. She had to prove that she was worthy of being there. 

That she was just as good as them, if not better.

  “You shouldn’t have bowed down to the swatch dogs and the diet coke heads. They’re going to crush that girl.” A deep, honey-slicked voice broke through after the applause died down.

Joan turned reluctantly and saw Cathy sitting on the part of the set made to be a staircase in her character’s trademarked trench coat, looking through her fringe at her. Some of the anxiety eased its process of clawing up Joan’s insides when she saw a warm, comforting look flicker in Cathy’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought after all. Cathy was there with her, and even with her face twisted into one of cunning and deception, Joan felt much more comfortable with her nearby. 

And then, something happened.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” She said further in the first scene with Cathy.

  “I didn’t throw it.” Cathy retorted smoothly, and Joan could see why Anne was so in love with her. 

Joan giggled giddily, tugging on her sleeves in a way she thinks a girl would react to such a comment, and was surprised to hear the audience erupt into coos and awws. She blinked at them in delight.

They thought...she was cute.

Nobody ever thought she was cute, certainly not hundreds of people watching her on a stage.

Happiness welled up from within her. She could feel her doubt starting to melt away even more. 

They liked her.

Joan couldn’t lie. Seeing Cathy fake fight two men in slow motion was something she was prepared for but didn’t expect it to be as amazing as it was. Joan wasn’t really paying attention to the scenes that didn’t concern her, conserving her efforts for when she was needed, but…damn. Cathy didn’t have to go off that hard, but she did anyway. 

As Joan sang and maneuvered around the stage in the way she’d seen Jane do countless times before, she could barely even look at Cathy as she had to touch the woman. She attempted to keep her touches brief, but she really wanted the audience to like her, so she committed to the role of a lovestruck teenage girl. She had to remind herself that it was just the choreography, that it was just a stupid, kinda boring song, that Anne definitely wouldn’t think she was stealing her girlfriend.

Most of the beginning parts passed by in a blur. Whenever Joan was rarely offstage, she was wiping sweat off of her face as best as she could without ruining her makeup, taking quick sips of water, and attempting to catch whatever breath she could. When she was onstage, she spoke with as much effort as she could, and whenever Cathy was with her, she always felt her voice rise with more power and conviction. It was noticeable, she realized when she caught glimpses of the impressed audience through the blinding glare of the stage lights.

Big Fun soon came along, and Joan danced with more energy than she ever had in her entire life. She was so wrapped up in singing and laughing and smiling that she didn’t even worry about the possibility that there may have been poison in the shot glass she had to drink from (there wasn’t, but you never know). She had never felt so free before, so young and careless and happy.

This—this was what freedom was like.

She never wanted it to end. She could perform Big Fun for a hundred years and not be tired of how bouncy and crude she got to be. But alas, the party scene soon came to a close, and her anxiety made itself known again deep in the pit of her stomach.

Dead Girl Walking was about as awkward as she expected. She stammered over her lines for the first time, but managed to keep her singing voice steady enough to not completely crack beneath the sudden surge of stress and embarrassment, and was suddenly glad her mother didn’t come because she surely wouldn’t have liked seeing her up there straddling another woman.

Cathy was gentle like she promised, and Joan was so very relieved. But still, she wasn’t sure how she felt about losing her first kiss to another female who was already taken by someone and quite a bit older than her.

But it was over now! It was okay! Dead Girl Walking was over, and Joan didn’t throw up all over Cathy from the anxiety. Although she really, really felt like she was going to near the end, but not anymore!! In fact, she felt pretty damn proud of herself.

Me Inside Of Me and Blue came and went without a problem, although Joan swore Kitty was a lot meaner than her character was meant to be during Blue. The younger girl looked at her as if she actually wanted her to get sexually harassed by a group of guys, which made Joan give her an appalled look. She forgot about that too, though, and moved on. She shouldn’t think so much about someone who hated her guts.

Our Love Is God was frighteningly beautiful. Joan wasn’t expecting her and Cathy’s voices to go so well together, but she found herself being entranced to their harmony. The audience was into it, too. Joan swore she could hear them cooing in awe.

Joan couldn’t help but squeal in glee when she got offstage for intermission. She was so wrapped up in celebrating her current success that she almost forgot to rehydrate until Cathy pushed a water bottle into her hand with a laugh.

  “I know you’re happy, sweetie,” She said, “but you need to drink some water.”

  “Water!” Joan yelped. “Right! Got it!” She quickly got to guzzling down the contents of the bottle.

  “Not that fast—!!”

Joan and Cathy both giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan noticed Maggie roll her eyes, but Kitty continued to just stare at her with a weird look in her eye. When Maggie saw that Joan had noticed, she nudged her friend and they both bustled off further into the backstage area. Joan shrugged it off.

  “Hey, Joan,” Said a voice Joan didn’t recognize. “You’re, um, doing really good!”

Joan turned around and saw three stagehands standing there looking sheepish. She blinked at them.

  “Oh- thank you!” She smiled at them, and they all seemed surprised that she did. Then, they smiled back.

  “Yeah, your vocal range?” Another piped up. “It puts Seymour to SHAME!”

Joan blushed. “Don’t say that! She’s really good!”

  “But not as good as you!” The third said. “How did you get cast as the backup understudy? YOU should be in the all-star cast. YOU should be the main Veronica Sawyer.”

Joan felt dizzy from the flattery. She knew these three were trying to win her over with compliments because they were ashamed of their treatment of her, but she didn’t really care. She craved it. She wanted their uplifting words so badly that she didn’t even care if they apologized or not.

  “Thank you,” She said again modestly. “Really. That means so much to me.”

They grin at her brightly. One looked over his shoulder when a name was called.

  “Oh, gotta run,” He said. “Come on, guys. Break a leg for act two, Joan! Can’t wait to hear you sing again!”

  “Did you see that?!” Joan cried to Cathy once they were gone, shaking her co-star. “Did you? They were praising me! They said I was better than Jane! ME!!”

  “I’m so happy for you, sweetheart!” Cathy said. “I’m sure Anne is, too.”

  “Where is Anne?” Joan asked. She turned to a stagehand. “Hey, do you know where Anne is? I haven’t seen her at all during intermission.”

The stagehand looked a tad uncomfortable, but not because of Joan’s presence. He fidgeted for a moment, then said, “There was...an incident. Anne had to be thrown out. Her understudy is finishing up the show.”

Cathy and Joan’s eyes widened. 

  “What?” Joan said.

  “Thrown out?!” Cathy shrilled at the same time. “What did she do?!”

( “I should have known,” Aragon snarled, dragging the green-clad woman out the back door. “I should have known you were with Jane!”

  “No!” Anne cried, struggling fiercely. “Catalina, you don’t understand! There’s a-!!”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” Aragon roared. She shoved open the door and threw Anne to the ground. The bright moonlight illuminated her horrified facial features. “You are SICK, Anne Boleyn! You and Jane Seymour and your little weasel of a cousin! I knew you were going to try and ruin this for Joan! Well, I’m not going to let you. I hope the rats eat you out here!”

  “No, Catalina, wait!!” 

But it was too late. Aragon slammed the door shut and promptly locked it. Anne slammed on it and yelled as loud as she could, but nobody opened up. Every other entrance was locked and guarded by someone, too. 

Anne sunk to the cold asphalt, tried not to cry, and prayed to God that she hadn’t actually seen Jane Seymour and her boyfriend up in the rafters with a bucket of something poised over the stage.)

  “I don’t know,” The stagehand said with a useless shrug of his shoulders. “I just heard them screaming. Catalina seemed really mad about something.”

  “Goddamnit, Anne,” Cathy muttered, then caught the anxious look on Joan’s face. She gently touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’ll be just fine. I’ll give Anne a very stern talking to tonight.”

Joan nodded, even cracking a small smile.

It wasn’t long before act two began and Joan had to enter again. She nearly burst into tears when the audience cheered and clapped when she stepped into view and she tried very hard not to beam at all of them.

They liked her. They really, really liked her!

My Dead Gay Son had Joan giggling throughout its entirety. At the same time, as she sang along and danced to the silly lyrics, a part of her wished her mother was like the dads in the song. She wished that she was as open-minded and accepting and less overzealous.

She wished she was there.

Bernadette would have been so proud of her, she just knows it. She would have been proud of her vocal range during Seventeen and funny, but on-point dancing in Shine A Light and rebellious voice when she yelled at Maggie after that song, which felt AMAZING, by the way. Especially when she actually saw the girl reel back slightly at her venom-flecked words. And then, there was the scene that sent Joan on cloud nine.

  “No! Stop!!” Joan yelled, darting across the stage and barreling into Kitty with enough force to actually send her sprawling to the ground. Watching the younger girl squirm on her side like a flipped-over turtle wasn’t something that Joan had always wanted to see until that moment.

  “Suicide is supposed to be a private thing!” Kitty whined in a woebegone voice, but her eyes reflected great hatred for Joan. Definitely not a good acting choice in Joan’s opinion- the front row was gonna notice that and be confused.

  “Throwing your life away to be another statistic in the USA Today is probably the least private thing I can think of,” Joan rattled off perfectly.

  “But what about Heather? And Ram and Kurt?” Kitty replied.

  “If everyone jumped off a bridge, young lady, would you?” 

  “Probably,” Kitty mumbled, and then gave Joan a fierce look that said, “But not without pushing you off first.”

  “If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be a gameshow host.” Joan told her, letting her gaze slide off of her. There was something very satisfying about the look of powerless fury on Kitty's face, and she soon realized it was because Kitty couldn’t do anything to her onstage. She couldn’t harm Joan, or else she would ruin the show and be hated, too.

Kitty spits the fake pills (which were really just TicTacs) into her hands. Joan was sure she was grinding her teeth when she said, “Thanks for coming after me.”

And then they had to hug. Which was supremely awkward. And Kitty dug her claw-like manicured nails into Joan’s back, but Joan got to discreetly pull some of her hair, so it was okay. And it still didn’t ruin Joan’s good mood that lingered for the remainder of the show.

She was amazing. She was talented. She was a star. 

The audience liked her, Cathy and Aragon and Anne liked her, some of the crew were even starting to like her, too. 

Never before had Joan heard so many people cheering. Cheering for her.

When the lights came back on after the final number and cast members went out one by one for curtain call, the audience screamed and clapped so loudly. The background characters went first, then the parent characters, then the teachers, then the Heathers, followed by JD, and finally, it was Joan’s turn. 

She went out rather timidly at first, instinctively being way too modest, but then the audience shrieked, and she lurched into a gleeful run. 

She stood beside Cathy on the apron and Cathy gestured grandly to her, which made the audience scream again. Joan almost crumpled to her knees and thanked THEM when she bowed, but she managed to remain on her feet. She smiled at everyone watching, finally able to see them with the lights dimmed, and she hadn’t realized how many people there really were. And they all adored her performance. They were even on their feet cheering! For her! She got a standing ovation!! 

She squealed and leaped into Cathy’s arms, who laughed and twirled her around happily.

  “You did amazing, sweetheart!!” Cathy cried over the ending music. The others were dancing behind them blissfully. Joan started to dance a little, too, kicking her feet and swaying once she was released. Cathy laughed and brushed her cheek affectionately. “Look at you. You little bundle of energy.”

Joan giggled, blushing harder. “Thank you, Cathy.”

They clasped their hands together and did a final bow. The audience howled, and Joan smiled wider than she ever had in her entire life, for once not gripped by the fingers of anxiety that were usually wrung so tightly around her throat. She was free.

And then there was a hushed bark from above, a clatter of metal and creaking of rope, and the doors to the booth burst open just in time for Aragon and the other crew members to step out and watch as a bucket of blood dumped out right over Joan’s head.

Silence. 

One by one, the clapping stopped, the cheering died off, and the smiles fell until the only sound was the creak of the rope the bucket was attached to and the splattering of blood on the floor. Nobody moved, nobody breathed, nobody spoke a word.

But then Joan began to tremble.

And then cry.

And then scream.

She screamed a horrible, nightmare-haunting scream that reverberated throughout the auditorium and jammed itself into the ears of the audience and cast alike. She brought up her shaking hands to hug her blood-soaked body tightly, continuing to shriek and keen as she did so. Blood was covering her entire frame, sliding down her face and mingling with tears, soaking into her hair, washing her blue costume an awful shade of purple-red. She screamed and screamed and screamed, staring helplessly out at the audience. There, she saw a young boy clutching onto his mother and father with fear in his eyes. She saw a group of teenage boys, but none of them were laughing like their normal punk demeanor would imply they would do. She saw two girls clinging to each other, shaking. She saw another girl with her phone poised on her bloodied body. She saw Aragon among the crowd, staring up at her with a terrified expression, a hand clamped over her mouth. And Joan stared back at her—back at all of them—and sobbed, soaked to the bone by blood and misery and humiliation.

And then the video of Joan in the showers, completely naked, bleeding all over herself, crying in confusion flickered on the background sike. And people started laughing. Not everyone, but several cast members, Kitty and Maggie being the loudest, and dozens of other cruel audience members.

  “WHAT THE HELL?!” Cathy roared in outrage. She was the first to snap out of her frightened trance and began to twist around, looking for the culprit. “WHO DID THIS?!”

She found them in the wings: Jane Seymour and Henry Tudor, limbs entwined, cackling, disgustingly gleeful expressions on their faces.

  “JA—!!” Cathy went to scream at them, went to call attention to who had done such a thing, went to attack them both, but she was cut off by a creaking from up above and something heavy and hard slamming into her head.

The metal bucket fell first, and then Cathy, whose legs crumpled horribly inward beneath the weight of her body. She collapsed into an awkward sprawled position, and Joan darted down to her side in an instant, crying out her name. Joan shook the woman vigorously, begging her to wake up, but Cathy didn’t budge. A moment later, Joan sat back rigidly because her hands were covered in blood so dark it looked black. Blood that wasn’t there before.

There was a gash on the top of Cathy’s head, a crack in her skull, and some of her brains were pouring out onto the stage.

Joan noticed this, along with a flash of fragmented white bone, but, this time, she did not scream. Or cry out. Or whimper.

Instead, she sat there, staring levelly at Cathy’s ruined head with both hands laid flat on the trench coat that was slightly spattered with blood from the bucket. She was still crying, but something was different. A steely glint had entered her eyes and there was a strange, off tightness to the way she was sitting now.

There was no ripple or twitch that went over her face or any other real indication that there was anything wrong. It had just suddenly stopped weeping and gone very, very still.

Sometimes people did crazy things when they were worked up. There was always some dumb high school student who would think it was a good idea to threaten a bigger, much tougher upperclassmen just to show everyone how masculine he was or some poor sucker that got cocky enough to hit on that hourglass-figured woman in the tiny dress, only to find out that she was happily married to someone named Biff, who had biceps the size of small dogs and also happened to be standing right behind them.

That was normal. That was just people for you. Everyone had seen or heard of all of that and more.

But sometimes, you’d get the individual who had something else wrong with them. Something deep inside that was there way before even a bout of stubbornness flicked on their brain. They’d look perfectly normal because whatever was wrong with them, it was the sort of break that you could patch up with metaphorical glue and hide from the world as long as you had the presence of mind to do so. Then the anger or misery or pain melted that glue away and split the break wide open and let all those bad things that were locked away come boiling out like pus from an abscess.

And, out of nowhere, that same calm, smiley person who you were just talking to about the Red Sox-Yankees game could suddenly be pressing your head into the bar with their elbow in your throat, eyes alight with hysterical rage, all because you’d done something as small as accidentally scoot your drink a little too far in their direction.

And right now, somewhere behind those horrifyingly blank silver eyes and that tight frown, the bucket of blood and Cathy’s cracked open head had made those last strands of glue stretch out and break, like the little filament in a light bulb fraying and making that final ping! sound before it snapped and burned the bulb out.

There was something very, very wrong with Joan Meutas.

And she was a walking nightmare that nobody had seen coming.

An uncomfortable silence had descended on the audience and cast. They had all sensed it, too, that weird light that had turned on behind the blood-soaked girl’s eyes like the tiny, silvery start of a fire, flickering silently in the corner of a room.

Joan stood very, very slowly as if she were underwater, or her muscles were buckled into place. Her movements weren’t right- they were too twitchy and abrupt like a robot with rusted limbs. And her eyes—god, her eyes... They were wider than humanly possible.

She stood, dripping with blood, tears still streaming down her cheeks, and stared out at the audience. What they didn’t know was that she was sending her powers through the theater, locking every possible exit securely from the outside to ensure that none of them got out—especially those who were on the stage with her.

Her head jerked to the side, and a giant gash was opened up in the wall. The people shrieked in fright, and those who were suddenly lifted into the air screamed even louder. Judgment was nigh, and Joan was reading their souls. Those who were worthy of life, like the children and anyone who didn’t laugh at her, were thrown out of the hole in the wall. But everyone else, the girl still recording her, the boy who she could see had knocked up his girlfriend and dumped her once he found out, the man in the second row who had been in a hit-and-run, everyone onstage, even if they had been nice to her that day, were locked inside. She closed the hole, not caring if families had been separated (like the mother who wailed for her husband and the baby that she forced him to have, which both had been thrown out), switched a spotlight on her to a dark shade of crimson, and prepared for purification.

Starting with the ringleaders of her torture.

Kitty and Maggie screamed as an invisible force dragged them up to the front of the stage and made them kneel before the crowd. 

  “Please, please stop, Joan!” Kitty whimpered.

  “We’re sorry!” Maggie added fearfully.

Joan didn’t answer them. She didn’t even look at them, rather stared at the very edge of the stage with her impossibly wide eyes and those wretched sick lights flickering behind them, and that alone was enough to tell Kitty and Maggie that they were getting no mercy. But still, they begged.

  “We’re sorry!” Kitty said, now sobbing. “We’re so, so, so sorry! Please don’t hurt us!”

  “We’ll do anything!!” Maggie wheedled.

Joan glanced at her, then Kitty, and then Kitty’s hands began to raise against her will. Joan looked back down at the floor as Kitty started to squeal in fright and cry harder.

  “What are you doing to her?!” Maggie cried.

  “Please, please stop!!” Kitty howled at the same time. Her manicured yellow nails rested against her belly and pressed inwards, guided along by inhuman telekinetic strength. “Stop, stop, stop— no!!!”

With a sickening squelch, Kitty’s fingers breached her flesh and sunk knuckle-deep into her stomach. She threw her head back and screeched in pain, which became more and more gargled as her nails cut the gash open wider.

  “Mummy! Daddy!” She suddenly sobbed to the audience, blood pouring out of her mouth. “Help me, daddy! Mummy, please!”

Joan stiffened, and Kitty’s hands froze their process of emaciating. Kitty took a deep, sharp breath that was thick with blood, coughed a few times, then looked up at Joan, whimpering. Joan looked down at her, too, and it was only when she turned to look at the frozen video of her naked on the sike that Kitty truly realized all she had done to this girl.

  “I’m sorry,” Kitty whispered.

Joan stared at her for a long time, then closed her eyes, and Kitty ripped out her small intestines.

The audience shrieked. Horror rolled off of them in waves that crashed against the stage like a restless ocean during a thunderstorm. The tide of their terror mingled with Kitty’s blood, which was spilling out all over the apron as she fervently pulled out all her organs and showed everyone what she was truly like on the inside. 

Joan didn’t wait to watch her finish. She turned to Maggie with a wry expression and made her lift her hands to her mouth. Maggie shook her head and whimpered, her eyes becoming round holes of horror as she reached inside, grabbed her tongue, and pulled it out. 

Her body fell before Kitty’s did. It tumbled limply off the stage while she was still gagging and gargling; Joan was leaving her to choke to death—to suffer before she finally died.

Suddenly, from behind, Cleves lunged forward with her fists raised, screaming in fury. Joan didn’t even look at her as she wrenched an overhead pipe loose from up above and plunged it into her chest, pinning her to the ground.

Several actors began to scatter. The pipe flew around and jammed itself through the spot that connected the victim’s jaw to her neck. It went all the way through and left her nearly decapitated, spasming wildly on the ground before death overcame her and she stilled. A moment later, the pipe spun and sailed straight through a man’s stomach. 

By this point, pandemonium has erupted throughout the entire theater. Everyone was running around screaming, panicking, crying. They’re trampling over each other like caged cattle—and they very well may have been, because they were all going to burn like the filthy cows they all were.

Sparks shot out from wires and spotlights overhead. Fragments of tech equipment exploded everywhere and tongues of fire curled outward hungrily, roaring like angry dragons. Kitty finally teetered off of the stage, dead and very, very empty. The curtains went up in flames. A chunk of a spotlight slammed into a man’s face and killed him instantly. 

Fire. Everywhere. The destruction was instantaneous.

Joan stood amid the havoc as flames billowed out across the theater, consuming everything in its path. A few daring plumes attempted to wrap around her and devour her flesh, but it didn’t get very close before she pushed it away. It sizzled and hissed at her in a disgruntled manner, then sprinted off in another direction, giving up. Joan huffed in through her nose and then breathed in the acrid scent of burning flesh and smoke, but she willed herself not to cough. She would not show any sign of weakness, even to the lack of air around her. 

And then, there was a scream.

  “JOAN!!!!”

Joan jolted and stared out at the crowd in horror. There, she found Aragon, bleeding and bruised from being trampled, struggling forward. Towards her. 

Aragon was coming to her. 

Joan watched with wide eyes as Aragon pushed through screaming people and burning people and dead people, through wreckage and flames, just to get to her. 

Aragon stepped into a pool of Maggie’s blood and reached out a hand, which was speckled with burns from flying ashes and sparks. Joan stepped back, her foot squelching under what she thinks is Kitty’s kidney, but Aragon persisted, reaching out further, even if it meant pressing up against the pools of blood and organs on the stage. After a moment of resistance, realizing that she wouldn’t be hurt, Joan crouched on her weak knees and took Aragon’s hand.

  “Please,” Aragon whispered, squeezing tightly. “Please stop.”

Joan looked into her eyes and, despite the things she’s just done, still saw so much love inside of Aragon. Love she has for her. Love she wanted to shower her with. Love that could always be hers if she just stopped.

Joan smiled tightly, painfully, lifted Aragon in the air, and threw her outside through a weak part of the wall. She’ll be burned and may have a few broken or at least cracked bones, but she’ll be alive. Joan patched up the hole her body made and then turned to the rest of her victims. 

The girl who had recorded her when she got dumped with blood stumbled to the ground, her limbs turning crisp and black. Behind her, several people were screaming as their hair and clothing caught fire. Someone howled in pain from within a larger portion of the fire. A few people that were so charred that their gender couldn’t even be determined lay half in, half out of the flames, gasping as dark smoke filled their lungs. Dozens more were already dead in various stages of burning. And Joan watched them all in silence before turning and walking through the flames engulfed in the backstage, slipping out the back door.

The moon was high in the sky, glowing nearly as bright as the inferno that was the theater. Joan avoided the police and firefighters she could hear from the front by using the back alley and exiting out onto a dark, abandoned street. 

She could start to feel the burns she got from the fire more and more as she staggered home. Each step brought starbursts of agony sparking through her flesh, flashing bright colors behind her eyelids. She tried not to keep her eyes closed for too long.

Up ahead, a fancy red car pulled around the corner. The headlights glared against her, causing the blood drenching her body to glimmer like melted rubies. She narrowed her eyes. The car sped up, and she could soon see Jane and Henry through the windshield.

  “Fucking run her over, Henry!” Jane was screeching like a madwoman. 

Henry pressed on the gas. Joan stopped in the middle of the street and stared at him. The car began to wobble treacherously. Henry grunted in pain.

  “Henry? What the fuck?” Jane cried. A moment later, she watched as her boyfriend’s head imploded and showered her face in blood, flesh, bones, and brains. She screamed.

Joan tilted her head slightly, catching the car before it could crash. She ripped Jane out of the car and threw her to the asphalt.

  “You fucking monster!” Jane yelled. “You’re a fucking pig! What have you done?!”

Joan squinted at her, then jarred free any sharp objects she could locate on the car. They floated nearby, trained on Joan’s back.

  “What have you done?” Jane whispered again, this time with growing terror in her voice. “TELL ME!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Wh...where is Kitty?”

The impromptu knives pierced Jane’s flesh. Jane let out a gargled scream, blood splattering from her lips. Joan watched her silently, then began walking away.

  “Joan!” Jane cried, feeling her guts leaking out from several different holes. “Joan, don’t you fucking leave me here!”

Joan kept walking, deaf to her words.

  “Joan!” Jane yelled again, this time with a voice that was thick with tears. “Joan, p-please, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die! Please, I’m sorry! Please don’t let me die!”

Joan doesn’t stop.

  “Joan?! JOAN!!!”

———

The house was deserted, lit only by moonlight filtering in through the windows and a few flickering candles. Joan trudged up the staircase, dripping blood as she went, and careened into the bathroom. She hauled her aching body over the edge, still in her Veronica Sawyer costume, and collapsed into the bathtub before it was even full with an inch of water. She remained curled up in a ball until it became too deep for her head to stay above the surface comfortably and she had to stretch out. She watched as the water around her turned a reddish-pink color with glazed, hollow grey eyes.

The tears came fast. She cried silently, not making a peep, not even shuddering. Her shoulders didn’t even shake. She just laid back in the tub and stared up at the dark ceiling, weeping in the dark bathroom. 

She wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, but she eventually heard the creak of the old floorboards in the hallway. A moment later, her mother appeared, illuminated by musty shafts of moonlight from the small bathroom window. 

  “Mama,” Joan croaked. Her voice was so weak.

Bernadette approached slowly, but her fear of being attacked diminished when she realized that Joan was in no condition to attack anyone. She just lay there in the tub, shivering and crying, surrounded by bloody water. Tears streamed down her ashen face, which was still drenched in coagulated streams of blood. There were yellow-brown, painful-looking burns spattered on her shoulders, neck, and upper back. 

She looked utterly pathetic. 

Bernadette crouched beside the bathtub. Joan strained her burned neck to look at her.

  “What happened at the—” The pitiful thing couldn’t even form a complete, coherent sentence. Her voice died off halfway through and didn’t come back.

  “The Lord says thou shalt not suffer,” Bernadette said.

  “They called me—monster—mama,” Joan said with great difficulty, but even then her sentence was choppy and missing words that had been so mumbled that they were indescribable. She was so disorientated and out of it that she looked close to near unconsciousness.

And then she noticed the bloody water she was submerged in. 

It was like a switch being flipped. Only then did Joan seem to realize what had been and still was coating her body. She let out a strangled, high-pitch whimper and looked helplessly up at her mother.

  “P-please t-tell me what h-h-happened,” She begged, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “You were weak, Joan.” Bernadette said, plucking away a bloody lock of hair that had been glued to her daughter’s face. “I told you your sin would find you.”

  “I can’t remem—remember.” Joan squeaked out. 

But she could, clear as day could she remember killing all those people. She was just too dazed to firmly grasp the situation.

  “H-h-help me.” She begged. “Mama—help me.”

Bernadette looked down at her for a long time, studying her bloody child, then said, “Let’s pray.” She cupped Joan’s wet face. “Say it with me: lay me down to sleep.”

  “L-lay me—lay me d-d-down to—sleep,” Joan choked out.

   “And pray the Lord,” Bernadette said. 

  “A-and pray—the Lord—my s-soul—” Joan struggled. “My soul—to kee—” The rest of the word was gargled when she was shoved roughly under the bloody bathwater.

Joan’s reaction was instant. She began to squirm and struggle, splashing water out everywhere, but she was much too weak and small and frail to fight her mother, who held her down firmly. But still, she screamed and she cried and she swallowed down bloody water until she couldn’t anymore.

Joan’s thin little body began to still in the tub, but her mind still flickered. Blackness was glazing over her head, tugging her into a peaceful void, and she leaned into its serene coldness. But not without breaking the window and sending a jagged piece of glass straight into her mother’s throat.

———

After watching the theater go up in flames and losing Cathy, Anne didn’t think the day could get any worse. But then she drove to the Meutas house and found the mother with her neck cut open wide and the daughter submerged in a bathtub full of bloody water and things turned to hell. 

Anne lurched forward with a cry of shock, pulling Joan out of the tub. She pressed her ear against the girl’s chest and barely heard the flutter of a heartbeat. What she could hear, though, was the sloshing of water inside of lungs.

  “God, please do NOT let her die,” Anne muttered, her nails digging into Joan’s forearms. “Please don’t let her die.”

She released her vice grip, and jewels of blood drops bloom from the contact area. That’s the least of her concerns, though.

Her fingers move to pinch shut Joan’s nose and open her mouth. Remembering very vague lessons of revival, Anne began to give the tiny girl CPR.

The first attempt did not work.

  “If you die- if you abandon me too- I WON’T forgive you! You hear me? I won’t!”

Joan’s features remain horribly pale.

Anne is shaking all over. The thought of this little girl dying is utterly terrifying.

She tried again, forcing air into Joan’s lungs and pressing on her chest.

Nothing. 

Joan doesn’t stir.

  “Please, Joan, please just breathe. Please come back, I-I need you!”

Once more.

Nothing.

Tears are gathering in Anne’s eyes.

  “Breathe, damnit! Don’t you dare die on me! Do you hear me? Listen to me, young lady! JOAN!!!”

Anne’s fists come down on Joan’s stomach, and water is spit up into her face.

Anne fell backward, clawing at her eyes as if she thought she had been sprayed with acid. In front of her, she can hear horrid coughing and wheezing, but also breathing. Joan was breathing and alive.

Alive and very, very shaken.

  “MAMA!!!”

Joan threw herself at her mother’s corpse before she had even fully recovered from her coughing fit. She smothered her face against her mother’s chest, and it came back red with fresh blood when she pulled away.

  “Why?!” She shrieked at Anne. “Why did you bring me back?!” 

  “You were going to die!” Anne said.

  “Maybe I WANTED to die! Have you ever thought about that?!” Joan held tighter to her mother, weeping. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? N-none of this would have happened...”

  “I—” Anne faltered. “I’m sorry.”

Joan’s body shuddered and she grit her teeth. An unseen force coiled around Anne’s body and suspended her in the air tightly. It felt as if the atmosphere was crushing her.

  “Look what you turned me into.” Joan whispered.

  “P-please don’t hurt me,” Anne begged.

  “Why not?” Joan asked, a pained smile tugging on her bloody lips. Tears start to roll down her cheeks again. “I’ve been hurt my whole life.”

Anne stared at her in horror, realizing it was true. The girl before her had been hurt more than she ever had been in her entire twenty-seven years of life.

How has Joan lived with so much pain inflicted on her tiny little body?

Joan bent over her mother and whimpered against her bloody shirt. She kept nuzzling into her chest, keening softly, and then looking up at her mother’s face, as if she was hoping her affection and presence would wake her up. When it didn’t work, she tried again and again and again, and it was the saddest thing Anne had ever seen in her entire life.

  “I killed my mama,” Joan whispered. “I want her back...”

It was awful to see a child bound to such a witch of a woman. Anne knew this lady had hurt Joan severely, and yet Joan still loved her. 

A crack suddenly zigzagged through the wall. Anne managed to jerk her head around to see several other cobwebs of crevices splinter through the walls around them. The earth began to shake without stopping, a continuous tremor that jarred Anne’s teeth in her head and made her feel as though the floor was about to drop out from under all of them.

  “Joan!” Anne cried. “We need to leave!”

  “No,” Joan held firmly to her mother’s corpse, curling against it loyally. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Joan, please!” Anne begged. “I can’t lose you, too!”

That made Joan look up.

For just a moment, Anne felt a glimmer of hope when Joan sat up slightly, but then she looked back down at the corpse and the costume she was still wearing and crumpled right back into a fetal position. Anne then realized that she didn’t just want to stay with her dead mother—she was immobilized by pain and grief and trauma.

Joan wanted to die.

And there was nothing Anne could do to stop her.

  “Goodbye, Miss Anne,” Joan whispered, smiling weakly up at her. She was curled into a tiny ball under her mother’s arm with her head on her chest. The tears running down her cheeks didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. “I’m glad���I got to know you.”

And then, Anne is thrown out through the wall by a psionic blast.

She tumbled, rolled, spun through the air in a deathly freefall before she’s caught again and gently set on the grass. She bolted up instantly and watched through her tears as the house was swallowed by the earth, devouring the walls and the floors and the furniture and that awful crucifix Anne had seen in the kitchen until there was nothing left to mourn. 

Joan Meutas was dead, and no amount of praying would bring her back.

———————————————————

  “What’s mama doing?” The auburn-haired six-year-old asked, peeking out from the backseat. Her red-headed toddler sister burbled in curiosity at her side. “Where ARE we?”

  “Just...a place, Mary,” Aragon answered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She tried to take deep breaths, but she still began to scratch at the pale burn scar that wrapped around her upper back and shoulders- a constant reminder of that night. She could feel tears start to prick in her eyes like hot needles. She didn’t know how Anne was out there.

It’s been five years since the West End Massacre, and Anne and Aragon alike were still both reeling. One hundred and twenty-seven people had died that night by the wrath of a tortured child. And, after a long time away from London, they finally decided to visit the grave of that child.

  “JOAN MEUTAS BURNS IN HELL” was scrawled across the tombstone in bright red spray paint. Anne read it over and over and over again, her nose twitching with disgust. She can feel her body shaking and she tried her best to stamp down her nerves. She’s thirty-two, goddamnit, and it was five years ago. So why was she still clinging to the memories of a girl she knew for six days?

She set down the bouquet of white roses at the grave and stepped back. Standing on the property of the old Meutas house felt wrong like Bernadette Meutas might claw her way out of the dirt and pull her down to hell. She shivered, then bowed her head, trying to pray, but prayers only made her feel sick nowadays. 

  “Damnit,” She sighed, rubbing her face slowly. When she looked up again, she saw something in the nearby trees...a raven with patchy plumage that reflected rainbows across the black feathers in the sunlight. It tipped its head at her, cawed once, then flew off in a flurry of sparkling ebony.

  “I have daughters now,” Anne whispered. “If you care. Probably not, but...” She kicked a pebble. “Their names are Mary and Elizabeth. They’re wonderful. I love them with all my heart.” She paused, her voice softening. “I miss you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. And then another. And then another.

  “Catalina does, too.”

Another beat of silence. Anne sniffled, trying to wipe away any more tears, but they just kept coming.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t visit you. You must be so lonely.”

Silence. In her head, Anne begged, Please. Please say something. Move something. Show me that you’re still there.

  “I miss you,” She whispered again. 

When she got no reply of any kind, she hiccuped. Which built into a whimper. Which built into a sob. 

Anne began to sob, sinking to her knees. She dug her fingers into the gravel and rubble surrounding the vandalized tombstone, relishing the feeling of flint and rocks scraping against her skin. She shivered and shuddered, unable to calm herself because waves upon waves of bottled-up grief and guilt were slamming against her at max force. All she could do was kneel there and cry and cry and cry until she couldn’t cry anymore and just gasped pathetically.

  “You were amazing, Joan, I hope you know that.” Anne choked out. “You truly were a blessing. And I am so honored I got to meet you, you wonderful, sweet girl.”

She sniffled and wiped her stinging eyes. She tried her best to smile as if the girl were actually there with her.

  “I have to go now,” She said. “Goodbye, Joan.”

  “Mummy’s coming back!” Mary yipped excitedly from inside the car as Anne walked back over.

  “Mama bwought fweind!” Elizabeth babbled.

Aragon tensed. Anne froze. And they both whipped around to the tombstone and the squishy parrot toy that hadn’t been there before.

[midhavencryptids]

Rebecca Chapter 1 Test And Results

Based on Dr. Jekyll's Work becomes a very different Hyde, with an unexpected transgendered results.

The very start of Mr Edward Fletcher’s unwittingly transformative journey, where some bloods had been requested of him....

Note to readers all stories connecting with Midhaven (Mid-haven) are set in 1994. All the characters are purely fictional, and no way portray any real people or institutes of any kind.

MIDHAVEN:

Rebecca

By Maddie Jane Rann

1 Tests and Results

31st March 1994

Edward Fletcher sat anxiously in the empty waiting room of his local surgery for his appointment which was supposedly meant for 10:30am. He himself, was a gaunt and lanky looking 35 year old dressed in a slightly crumpled grey office suit. He had four inch long auburn hair which was styled into a centre parted undercut and also wore thin framed rectangular glasses. Restless with nerves knowing a blood test had been required of him by his new GP, Dr Elliot. He had only met the doctor once before, for some completely unrelated matter since he transferred from Bournemouth and taken over his previous doctor’s practice. Nevertheless, it was something that Edward really could of done without, plus the blood nurse was running late which only put him more on edge. Looking for some form of distraction he glanced to the low coffee table of magazines about three feet ahead of him. He rose slightly out of his chair, the red coloured tie dangled out of his jacket as he leaned forward. Shakily he rummaged through the assortment of ‘Glenda’ fashion magazines until clumsily knocking a couple of issues to the floor. In a panic he picked them up and placed them neatly in a tidy pile on the table before collapsing back into his chair with a sigh of embarrassment.

“You tit.” He uttered

He gave up the clock that was hanging on the far end wall an impatient glance, it was now 10:43.

“It's cutting it a bit fine.” He muttered to himself, he had an important meeting at 11:15 which he must attend the weekly briefing of the Lindenbay shopping district on the Harbour which he was appointed as a senior architect, then he was expected on site thereafter. As this was a fasting test he was just hoping there might have been chance of breakfast before his work begun.

Moments later he caught from the corner of his left eye, an elderly couple being led carefully out of the phlebotomy room and then the nurse as she watched them creep past the reception and out the main entrance. Then she turned and looked down towards him with her hands on hips.

“Edward Fletcher!” She called sternly yet with a playful tone. To him the calling was like the tolling of the iron bell, but the aged female voice was familiar and somewhat soothing to his recollection. He turned nervously to meet his calling only to smile with some relief that it was his Mother’s friend June who was on duty today.

“Oh....um, June, hello.” He greeted standing to his full height of 6ft1.

“April Fools by chance? No? Not today?”

“Hello Eddy, come this way.” The 60-year-old Nurse beckoned him with a smirk and led him into the poky room that housed a singular black leather treatment chair which was bolted to the floor. There was a tall fan blowing in the corner that made June’s blue disposable apron flitter dramatically in its breeze.

“If you could remove your jacket and roll up both sleeves before taking a seat, I do like to have my pick of veins.”

“Oh yes OK.” Edward did as he was bided.

“You seem a little tense Eddie? Anything the matter?” She asked whilst checking over his notes.

“Ah well you know…. It’s a blood test and…..” He began as he sat in the treatment chair gazing around at the four blind walls and quickly objecting.

"There are no windows in here?”

“Yes, you would think us phlebotomists were all vampires or something, you should know by now I don’t bite, just prick a little.” She smiled.

“Ah ha yes, that’s what I’m actually afraid of…...” He added with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, I see….. You fall under Dr. Elliot, lucky you, with your infamously well-known fear of needles and all. I don’t know. He’s always requesting bloods for one thing or another, usually something mundane coupled with genomic testing. Usually, I thought it was something reserved as a premium treatment, never known a doctor to request this as much. Seems to be his style, I guess, prefers the full ins and outs of his patients’ right down to their DNA. Anyhow he keeps me busy.”

“Terrific, lucky me indeed.” Edward squirmed as he tried to get comfortable on the leather seat.

“Liver function…. right.” She started to look for the colour coded phials through the equipment draws.

“I think Dr Elliot had been concerned with my history of drinking.” Edward mentioned shamefully

“Uh huh.” June sighed knowing all too well.

“And how’s that been going?”

“Very well, though I have had a few dips late. But only on occasions.”

June pouted with disbelief.

“Really?”

“Ahh, look, to be honest, it’s this shopping centre development it’s been really getting to me of late.”

“Oh really? You’re doing that now? It looks very exciting what they’ve been planning for the harbour.” Said June.

“Uh huh yeah, well you know when they had to halt construction during the discovery of the 14th century burial pit, it was all over the Midhaven Messenger for weeks on end. Well by the time the archaeologists had finished the architectural firm that had been employed for the project had gone bust leaving our firm to immediately take over. They left so many flaws it was unbelievable, never mind the parts that were left unfinished. A complete and utter mess, to be fair, that shouldn’t have gone as far as planning yet alone construction! You know they left 18 shop spaces, completely blocked off with no access!”

In meantime of Edwards complaining she had found the correct phial and took another look at his notes….

“Ah…. I thought so, bang on style, genomics too, right where did I leave those tubes. OK just sit back Eddy I won’t take long at all. Talk about drinking have you diluted yourself with plenty of water?”

“Oh yes Aunty June……. and have been fasting since 10 past last night.” As he saw it was on the tip of her tongue.

“Very good….. Just for security reasons could you confirm your address and date of birth please? Just so I know it’s you.”

“But you already know….” He stopped with June’s glaring, over the top of her glasses.

“Ohhh…. 15th of the 4th 1958 and 13 A Mitchell Avenue, Midhaven, MD1 JH3.” He sighed.

“Very good Eddy.” She confirmed then gave her hands a singular clap before scooting away from her desk in her wheeled desk chair to Edwards left side.

“Now just relax and I promise I won’t take too much.”

He gulped as the needle of doom was now inevitable, yet knew he was in safe hands. His eyes wondered from his Mum’s old friend preparing his arm for the surgical procedure to staring at the collection of photos stuck to the wall ahead of him. These pictures were an odd assortment of carnival masks and cocker spaniels, he figured it was probably something that either June or another blood nurse had put together for the patients to focus on rather than the blood being taken.

7thof April 1994

A few days later as Dr Elliot came to work he was handed several letters from the front desk that had arrived the day before. His brow rose with intrigue noticing that they all came from the Phlebotomy labs in the city. He thanked the receptionist with a smile of gratitude before taking the envelopes and his briefcase to his office. Without another moment he sat at his desk and was readily opening the envelopes with great enthusiasm. Dr Elliot who was an average looking man in his late middle years with silver hair that swept across his head. He also bore thick black eyebrows that were currently furrowed behind large paned glasses. These letters were indeed the latest round of test blood results that he requested, though he was more interested in his patient’s genomics, seemingly at first to disregard the other. He speedily went through two lots scouring them closely only to not finding what he was looking for. It wasn’t until his third envelope and opening it with a sigh to only expecting the same humdrum when something caught his eye that instantly gave him a chills, something exciting as he ran through the latest sets of numbers. A look of long lost cheer came to his grey middle aged face as he quickly drew a red pen from the desk tidy and roughly circled the odd allele scores that brought him to such frenzy. Once finished he slapped his left hand down on the edge of the desk then opened a draw just underneath, lifting the corners of a couple of folders that concealed a small flat key. He took hold of it before springing out of his chair, and almost skipped to the grey metallic filing cabinet that stood beside the window only 6ft to his left. Pushing the key into the lock of the bottom draw then turned it and pulled the handle. In seconds he was leafing through the murky green coloured folders until he found the one he was searching. Taking away the whole folder he returned to his desk and sat down before spreading out a few pages of his interest, one was another set of genetics like the one he marked. He ran his finger through the results.

“Ha!” He barked and scribbled circles around similar results in the same red pen. He beamed with joy as he held them studying them side by side, his mind now racing with possibilities. This was the opportunity that he and his associate had been waiting for, for quite some time with now just the thought that they might finally reach their goal in the next couple of days, if they planned it right. After a moment of pause for consideration he put down the paper and picked up the handset on the cream coloured desk telephone. He held it to his left ear and keyed in the number. While he waited for his recipient to pick up the phone he took time to find the name of the patient whom the results belonged to.

“Mr Edward Fletcher? What a lucky man you are.”

He smiled heartily when the other end of the line was picked up and proceeded to speak in bright and theatrical manner.

“Ah, good morning my dear May! It’s Elliot here….. Yes!…. Yes!….. I’m quite aware how early it is for you, but if you must be up all night skulking around until the early hours…. My point?” He was taken back by his recipient’s seeming impertinence.

“Now if you give me a little time and patience, I can inform you of some very good news that came by post this morning.” He picked up the results.

“Yes…. it’s some genomes if you care, from one of my patients, they came back from…. Yes, he has all the right faults that I have been looking for, in all the right places for the formula to work. This is it, my dearest May, this is it.” He listened to the receivers reply though by the sinking look on his face it was probably a reply of a dreary lack of enthusiasm.

“All right…. I shall tell you what…. “He breathed rubbing his temple in frustration.

“We shall reconvene this matter when I come off duty…. About half 6…. you say you’ll meet me. Of course, the usual place, the old sail factory, we can set up the equipment at once. Then we can decide how to safely capture our specimen. Until then I’ll let you have your sleep… oh.” May hung up cutting the call abruptly.

“You may even wake up a little less insolent too.” He said to himself glumly and still holding the phone to his ear, in a delayed moment later returned it to the base.

“But that of course would be asking too much of you my dear.” He sighed

Dr Elliot looked at his clock it was 8:30, then hurriedly gathered the test results and associated papers in the folder just before the receptionist knocked on the door.

“Coffee Dr Elliot?” She called.

“That would be lovely Miss Tibbs, please come in.” He replied with a big arm gesture, the young lady entered with a mug of filtered coffee in one hand and a printed A4 sheet of booked appointments in the other which placed on top of his desk next to the folder.

“There you go Doctor, milk and no sugar and your appointments for today.”

“Ahhh….Thank you so kindly.” He said and then began studying the list as she backed out the office. He nodded when he understood the workload ahead and took a sip of his coffee, then picked up his folder and placed it in his desk draw before dutifully calling for his first patient by pressing the button of the intercom device that was sat next to his telephone.

“Mr Utterson to see Dr Elliot, come to room 2 please, I am quite ready to see you now.”

next chapter

https://midhavencryptids.tumblr.com/post/629310030007713792/rebecca-chapter-2-edwards-day

[louistomlinsoncouk]

He became a bona-fide teen pop superstar as part of One Direction, then suffered unthinkable personal loss. Louis Tomlinson talks to Guy Kelly about fame, family and what comes next.

Louis Tomlinson took part in an online video recently, in which he was tasked with answering the internet’s most-searched questions about him. It was fairly tame, as you might expect of a pop quiz thrown at a pop star. ‘How do you pronounce Louis Tomlinson?’ the first read. There’s an interesting answer to that, actually, but we’ll come to it. ‘How old is Louis Tomlinson?’ was the second. He’s 28. And then came the third. ‘How is Louis Tomlinson?’

In the video, the man himself looks a little bewildered, dismissing the query as ‘random’ before moving on. But underneath, in the YouTube comments – one of the few nooks of the internet where love and goodwill still thrives – a fan repeated it. ‘“How is Louis Tomlinson,”’ they wrote, ‘the only question that matters.’ More than 7,000 people ‘liked’ it.

Given all Tomlinson’s been through in the past four years, it seems reasonable to ask. In 2016, the band he’d been in man and boy, One Direction, went on an indefinite hiatus after six years. Since being welded together by Simon Cowell on The X Factor in 2010, ‘1D’ had enjoyed perhaps the most stratospheric rise in music (five platinum albums, four world tours) since The Beatles. It hadn’t been Tomlinson’s decision to break up the band, and he wasn’t – still isn’t – particularly happy about it.

In December of that year, his beloved mother, Johannah Deakin, died a few months after being diagnosed with leukaemia. She was 43. Tomlinson pressed on with his nascent solo career, but unimaginable tragedy struck again. In March 2019, his 18-year-old half-sister, Félicité, was found unconscious at her flat in London and couldn’t be revived. An inquest later found she had died of an accidental drug overdose. Again, he buckled down, looked after his remaining siblings, and committed himself to finishing his debut album.

Settling down with Tomlinson in the corner of a west London photo studio, then, it seems as good a place as any to start: how is he?

‘I’m good, mate, I’m feeling good,’ he says, spreading his arms across a sofa. After wearing a series of high-end outfits for our photo shoot (‘I never feel super-comfortable on shoots; I’ve got one f—king pose – moody’), he’s in a black ’90s-inspired collared jumper, black trousers and black trainers.

He pushes his fringe to one side. The Doncaster accent, which softened in his 1D days, is back to pure, unfettered South Yorks. It’s all ‘in t’band’, ‘I didn’t know owt’, and swearing like a navvy. He’s honest, funny, and if his feet were planted any more firmly on the ground he’d be unable to walk.

I tell him about the YouTube comment, which seems to reflect the genuine care his fans have for him.

‘Ah, yeah I know, they’re considerate, they are. We’ve got a special, interesting bond. They’ve grown up with me – and I’ve been through some personal stuff and they’ve always been there for me.’

Tomlinson’s album, Walls, has been a long time coming. Immediately after One Direction split, he released a couple of singles – dance-y pop collaborations – which were fine, but not what he wanted to make. Halfway through writing Walls he realised, ‘If I’m chasing radio with every song I write, I’m not going to be doing this job for very long.’

So he relaxed, and the result is a mix of strong, melody-driven pop of the kind One Direction mastered, and what Tomlinson is really into, namely guitar-driven indie and Britpop. Some songs for the fans; some nodding to the future.

‘It’s a five-album plan. There’s bits where I’ve been almost selfish, and bits where I’ve been respectful to the fan base and what they love listening to,’ he says. ‘Then the next will be a step closer to the stuff I want to make. But I’ve got to earn my stripes.’

The dominant theme, I say, appears to be resilience. On the single Don’t Let It Break Your Heart, he advises, ‘Even when it hurts like hell / Oh, whatever tears you apart / Don’t let it break your heart.’ On the rousing title track (which features a writing credit for Noel Gallagher, who gave his blessing for a chorus strikingly similar to an Oasis tune), he sings, ‘These high walls that broke my soul / I watched all come falling down.’

It could be to do with grief, professional struggles, or his relationship. He nods.

‘Yeah, I write very autobiographically and had so much going on in my head, but in the struggle I’m trying to paint the message that you’re always left with a choice: to see the glass half-full or half-empty. It’s showing there’s hope.’

Some songwriters have found grief productive, others paralysing. Tomlinson was the former. One track on Walls is the previously released Two of Us, a beautiful, simple song written about his mum (‘You’ll never know how much I miss you / The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead’).

‘What’s amazing about this job is that regardless of the situation, you get something positive at the end of it. That’s obviously an emotionally heavy song for me, but fans have come up to me in floods of tears and talked about how it’s helped in their own tragedy. It’s incredible. From the dark, you can give hope.’

For the first three years of his life, Tomlinson was raised alone by Johannah, who split from his father, Troy Austin, when he was a baby. They lived above a launderette in Doncaster, where his mother worked multiple jobs, principally as a midwife, before she married Mark Tomlinson, a van salesman who became Louis’s stepfather. The three moved into a two-up, two-down, which was soon filled with half-sisters: Lottie, now 21, Félicité, then twins Daisy and Phoebe, now 16.

‘It was mad. They’re manic, young girls…’ he says. ‘Mum and Mark had a decent income but they couldn’t spread it around [a family of] seven. At times things were really good, you’d get 20 quid in a birthday card, but others were really difficult. I remember the electricity meter – you’d get five quid on the house as an emergency when you couldn’t top it up. Sometimes it’d be a gamble when it’d run out…’

Tomlinson wasn’t particularly academic – ‘though I’m not daft or owt’ – but loved school. There, he joined a band at 16 and found he was OK at singing, so he applied to audition for The X Factor. He failed, twice, but succeeded on the third try, in 2010, performing a fairly terrible (he admits it) version of Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah.

A few months later, at the ‘bootcamp’ stage, Cowell had the idea of creating a band comprised of Tomlinson and four other solo boys: Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Niall Horan and Liam Payne. They were to be called One Direction. Tomlinson, who’d been intimidated by the standard of other vocalists in the competition, ‘bit their hand off’ at the offer. ‘I was like, “This is my ticket.”’

The show came just after his second run at the first year of his A levels. He’d failed the first time, with UUE in psychology, PE and English, which his mum had ‘absolutely ripped [his] head off’ for. The second time he’d gone one better, UEE. So he lied, telling her he got a smattering of Ds, and came up with a plan.

‘I waited until after the X Factor final, when we were all sat around drinking champagne, and told her, “By the way, I bulls—tted you on those results. I failed again, but hopefully we’ll be all right now…”’ he laughs. ‘She was fine. I picked my moment well.’

One Direction came third in the final, losing to runner-up Rebecca Ferguson and winner Matt Cardle, a former painter-decorator who now performs in the West End. But it was always felt that the group would go furthest, not least because Cowell was such a supporter (all the other boys have now left his record label, Syco, but because ‘loyalty is the biggest thing’ for Tomlinson, he’s stayed).

Eighteen when the group started, Tomlinson was the oldest member (the others were 16 and 17), ‘just allowed to drink, just allowed to drive’, but suddenly everything in his life was controlled.

‘You’re ready to be reckless and stupid, but then I was in the band and couldn’t ever act like that, especially not publicly,’ he says. They went on their first headline concert tour in 2011, and soon had fans surrounding their hotels overnight, wherever in the world they went. Naturally, they embraced partying.

‘There was a good 18 months where I was going out all the time. The press love to write about that as if it’s this chaotic thing, and at times it was, but it’s also an escape. Once you have a couple of drinks down you in a club, you’re just someone in the club, part of everyone else, and not everyone is looking at you.’

Even when he was away, he kept in contact with his mum by phone – or in person, when she could join him – as much as possible. The two were impossibly close: she had access to his emails; he told her when he lost his virginity; she knew about his finances.

‘One thing I’ve learnt since losing her is that any decision, even if I knew the answer, I’d call her,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise how reliant I’d become on her. That was the hardest thing for me, understanding that living life after meant making decisions on my own. I thought I’d always have a sounding board. There was a different level of credibility with my mum, because I idolised her.’

Styles has recently joked that One Direction were ‘grown in test tubes’ by Cowell, but Tomlinson insists that part of their appeal lay in the fact that they all had their own personalities and talents, which weren’t forced on them. Still, it took him years to know where he fitted. Styles was cool, a heart-throb. Malik was moody and mysterious. Horan was cute and Irish. Payne was whatever Payne was. But Tomlinson wasn’t sure.

‘You’ve got to be dead cocky in Doncaster to survive – it’s either that or be picked on. So I used to walk around with a chip on my shoulder. But I’d always been the funny guy, centre of attention, so I never struggled to make mates,’ he says. ‘It was weird suddenly being in a situation where one or two members are constantly in a better position. It took me a while to understand my strengths. I was the oldest and it wasn’t until the third album when I made it my mission to write the most.’

He succeeded: Tomlinson’s writing credit appears on 39 of the 96 songs One Direction recorded, four more than Payne and dozens more than the rest. But it was intense. There were times when he considered quitting the band, if only to allow him to escape the attention, but he likens that to children running away from home. ‘By the time you get halfway down the street you regret it and go back…’

‘Directioners’ were ‘fanatical’ about the boys, to a frequently absurd degree. And not every encounter was surreally funny. The year after the hiatus began, in 2017, Tomlinson and Calder were involved in a scuffle with paparazzi and fans at the airport in LA. Fists possibly flew, and Tomlinson was arrested, only for no further action to be taken. The fans now are still loyal, still ardent, but they’ve matured with him.

What kept him grounded, as the money rolled in (I have heard that each of the boys amassed a £40 million fortune from the band, and that collectively they still earn around £38,000 a week from royalties, merchandise and so on) and the fans bayed, was keeping friends from Doncaster around. When I arrived at today’s photo shoot, Tomlinson was busy doing his singular pose at one end of the room, while at the other, near the free pastries, a young redheaded bloke in a tracksuit lurked, scrolling through his phone.

He introduced himself as Oli, Tomlinson’s ‘mate from Donny’, who has spent the better part of a decade travelling the world with his pop-star friend, and seems to operate as a walking comfort blanket. They live together when Tomlinson’s in LA.

They also live together when he’s in London. I imagine there’s space for house guests wherever he is, though: it has been reported that he put his Hollywood Hills mansion on the market last year for $6.995 million, and the previous year valued another property in California at $13.999 million, after apparently renting it out for $40,000 per month.

‘I’m hoping to do a bit of work with Louis’s tour manager this year,’ Oli says, cheerfully. I later discover he’s so ever-present with Tomlinson that he even has his own fan accounts on social media.

‘I remember bringing a mate out for our first US tour. He called from his hotel with his mind blown by being able to pick up a phone and they’d just bring you food,’ Tomlinson says. ‘I go back to Donny and hear heavy s—t – struggles with jobs, money, family, health. That humbles me, and gives me a better emotional intelligence.’

He reckons ‘eight out of 10 people have an ulterior motive’ when they meet him. Luckily he can tell if someone’s a pre-fame friend. His name is pronounced ‘Loo-ee’, but he wasn’t keen on it as a child, so had mates, like Oli, pronounce it ‘Lewis’, which they still do. Unfortunately Cowell guessed at ‘Loo-ee’ on The X Factor, so that was that for the stage name.

By 2015, some members of One Direction felt an itch to break off – or just have a break – and try their own thing. Malik had gone in March, and while a full split seemed inevitable, Tomlinson was still caught off-guard.

‘I was f—king fuming at first. We were working really hard – people [namely, Payne] have said overworked, but we weren’t overworked, that’s just what happens when you’re a band that size, though I understand. I thought I’d mentally prepared myself for a break, but it hit me hard.’

He was finally feeling comfortable in the band, and hadn’t thought about a solo career.

‘About a week after, I sat there thinking, “Strike while the iron’s hot,” but I wasn’t ready. I was bitter and angry, I didn’t know why we couldn’t just carry on. But now, even though I don’t fully understand everyone’s individual reasons, I respect them.’

They’re ostensibly all still mates, despite going in radically different musical directions, though some are closer than others. Tomlinson seems to mention Horan with most affection, and the pair performed at the same event in Mexico in November, titillating 1D fans by sound-checking together with one of the band’s old songs.

If it was up to you, I ask, would the group still be going? He considers this for a moment.

‘It if was up to me, yeah. I’d maybe have said, “Let’s have a year off.” But yeah, probably. I’m sure there’s a better analogy out there but it’s a bit like [shutting down] Coca-Cola. You don’t say, “Right, let’s hang the boots up on that,” because it’s a massive thing.’

Afterwards he muddled around for a bit, including releasing those early singles – one of which he performed on The X Factor, rigid with grief, just days after his mum’s death. Then he returned to the show last year as a judge, alongside Cowell, Robbie Williams and Williams’s wife, Ayda Field.

Did he get on with Robbie? He smiles, arching an eyebrow. ‘Why do you ask?’ Well, he came out of a boy band, went solo…

‘Oh, yeah, he was all right. He’s a good man, we were just different from each other. Certain moments I thought, “F—king hell, Robbie, just sit down for five minutes, I’ve got something to say.” I love his missus though, Ayda, she’s sound.’

Tomlinson liked mentoring, and during our conversation it becomes clear he’s fuelled by responsibility. He was the oldest sibling in his house, and although Mark Tomlinson and Johannah’s second husband (after divorcing Mark in 2011, she married Dan Deakin in 2014; they had twins Ernest and Doris) are still around, he became a paternal figure after she died. He’s particularly involved in the lives of Daisy and Phoebe, to whom he’s ‘a kind of second parent’.

‘Without being too soppy, I like looking after people, it’s cool. At the moment I’m stressing trying to convince Daisy and Phoebe to go to sixth form. They’ve been to private school near Donny, and it’s proper expensive. I’m paying for it thinking they’re staying on, but now they don’t want to go. I told them education is important. I’m like, “You’re 16, you haven’t got a f—king idea what the real world is,”’ he says.

‘What’s difficult about those two is they’ve only known the 1D craziness. They’ve grown up in this elitist way, which is very different from my upbringing and Lottie’s, and the values my mum taught us.’

He gives a ‘kids, eh?’ sigh. ‘Consistency is the big thing. I’m trying to get better at being in their heads enough so they think, “I wonder if Louis thinks this is a good idea?”’

Lottie lives in Hackney, east London. When she was a teenager, Tomlinson got her a job assisting One Direction’s make-up artist, and within a few years she’d become a ridiculously popular Instagrammer (currently with 3.4 million followers, still 10 million shy of Louis). Her big brother told her Instagram’s fine, but she must ‘become a proper businesswoman’ in case the bubble bursts. In 2018 she launched Tanologist, a successful fake-tan brand.

‘I’m so proud of her. She’s just been in Australia, where she’s stocked in Melbourne’s version of Boots!’ Tomlinson says, beaming.

Félicité, known to the family as Fizz, was also a budding Instagrammer. After her death last March, a post-mortem revealed ‘toxic’ levels of anti-anxiety and pain medications, as well as cocaine, in her blood. Six months later, an inquest heard that she had visited her GP in August 2018 and ‘gave a history of recreational drug use… on a consistent basis since the death of her mother’. She had taken overdoses and been admitted to a rehabilitation clinic.

Tomlinson hesitates to say anything was ‘easier’, comparing the deaths of Félicité and his mum, as ‘both felt very individual, and hit me with a big impact… but I think dealing with the family, how I can be there for them, that was a lot easier the second time because the first time I was grieving and didn’t know what to say. As time went on I grew to understand what to say to my sisters.’

Prioritising the feelings of your sisters in the immediate aftermath is understandable, I say, but I wonder if anyone took care of you. He looks surprised.

‘No, but friends and family, my best mate… I feel their support but I get most out of doing stuff for other people. I don’t say that to sound like a good guy, it’s genuinely what gives me strength.’

Did you ever consider grief therapy?

‘Nah, a lot of people recommended it but I’m a little bit old-fashioned when it comes to therapy. I’m sure it’s incredible, but I thought I’d be all right, and I have been till now.’ One of his many tattoos consists of the words ‘It Is What It Is’ across his chest. ‘I know the things I’ve been upset about in my life are s—t, but I can’t change them, so you have to make the best of what you’ve got.’

Tomlinson gives his own big smile. Our time’s nearly up, and he’d like a cigarette. After all you’ve been through, I tell him, people would have understood if you’d called it a day. You could have lived off royalties, enjoyed a quiet life.

‘Definitely, definitely. But do you know what? It didn’t cross my mind once. I somehow have an inability to worry, and just get on with things,’ he says, shrugging. ‘It’s definitely made me stronger. I’ve gone through every emotion, and I’m just f—king excited now.’

I think we have an answer. How is Louis Tomlinson? Hopefully, he’ll be just fine.

Walls is released on 31 January

[elceeu2morrow]

By Guy Kelly 17 JANUARY 2020 • 8:00PM

He became a bona-fide teen pop superstar as part of One Direction, then suffered unthinkable personal loss. Louis Tomlinson talks to Guy Kelly about fame, family and what comes next.

Louis Tomlinson took part in an online video recently, in which he was tasked with answering the internet’s most-searched questions about him. It was fairly tame, as you might expect of a pop quiz thrown at a pop star. ‘How do you pronounce Louis Tomlinson?’ the first read. There’s an interesting answer to that, actually, but we’ll come to it. ‘How old is Louis Tomlinson?’ was the second. He’s 28. And then came the third. ‘How is Louis Tomlinson?’

In the video, the man himself looks a little bewildered, dismissing the query as ‘random’ before moving on. But underneath, in the YouTube comments – one of the few nooks of the internet where love and goodwill still thrives – a fan repeated it. ‘“How is Louis Tomlinson,”’ they wrote, ‘the only question that matters.’ More than 7,000 people ‘liked’ it.

Given all Tomlinson’s been through in the past four years, it seems reasonable to ask. In 2016, the band he’d been in man and boy, One Direction, went on an indefinite hiatus after six years. Since being welded together by Simon Cowell on The X Factor in 2010, ‘1D’ had enjoyed perhaps the most stratospheric rise in music (five platinum albums, four world tours) since The Beatles. It hadn’t been Tomlinson’s decision to break up the band, and he wasn’t – still isn’t – particularly happy about it.

[complete article below the cut]

In December of that year, his beloved mother, Johannah Deakin, died a few months after being diagnosed with leukaemia. She was 43. Tomlinson pressed on with his nascent solo career, but unimaginable tragedy struck again. In March 2019, his 18-year-old half-sister, Félicité, was found unconscious at her flat in London and couldn’t be revived. An inquest later found she had died of an accidental drug overdose. Again, he buckled down, looked after his remaining siblings, and committed himself to finishing his debut album.

Settling down with Tomlinson in the corner of a west London photo studio, then, it seems as good a place as any to start: how is he?

‘I’m good, mate, I’m feeling good,’ he says, spreading his arms across a sofa. After wearing a series of high-end outfits for our photo shoot (‘I never feel super-comfortable on shoots; I’ve got one f—king pose – moody’), he’s in a black ’90s-inspired collared jumper, black trousers and black trainers.

He pushes his fringe to one side. The Doncaster accent, which softened in his 1D days, is back to pure, unfettered South Yorks. It’s all ‘in t’band’, ‘I didn’t know owt’, and swearing like a navvy. He’s honest, funny, and if his feet were planted any more firmly on the ground he’d be unable to walk.

I tell him about the YouTube comment, which seems to reflect the genuine care his fans have for him.

‘Ah, yeah I know, they’re considerate, they are. We’ve got a special, interesting bond. They’ve grown up with me – and I’ve been through some personal stuff and they’ve always been there for me.’

Tomlinson’s album, Walls, has been a long time coming. Immediately after One Direction split, he released a couple of singles – dance-y pop collaborations – which were fine, but not what he wanted to make. Halfway through writing Walls he realised, ‘If I’m chasing radio with every song I write, I’m not going to be doing this job for very long.’

So he relaxed, and the result is a mix of strong, melody-driven pop of the kind One Direction mastered, and what Tomlinson is really into, namely guitar-driven indie and Britpop. Some songs for the fans; some nodding to the future.

‘It’s a five-album plan. There’s bits where I’ve been almost selfish, and bits where I’ve been respectful to the fan base and what they love listening to,’ he says. ‘Then the next will be a step closer to the stuff I want to make. But I’ve got to earn my stripes.’

The dominant theme, I say, appears to be resilience. On the single Don’t Let It Break Your Heart, he advises, ‘Even when it hurts like hell / Oh, whatever tears you apart / Don’t let it break your heart.’ On the rousing title track (which features a writing credit for Noel Gallagher, who gave his blessing for a chorus strikingly similar to an Oasis tune), he sings, ‘These high walls that broke my soul / I watched all come falling down.’

It could be to do with grief, professional struggles, or his relationship – he’s happily with his girlfriend, 27-year-old fashion blogger Eleanor Calder, but they’ve been on and off over the years. He nods.

‘Yeah, I write very autobiographically and had so much going on in my head, but in the struggle I’m trying to paint the message that you’re always left with a choice: to see the glass half-full or half-empty. It’s showing there’s hope.’

Some songwriters have found grief productive, others paralysing. Tomlinson was the former. One track on Walls is the previously released Two of Us, a beautiful, simple song written about his mum (‘You’ll never know how much I miss you / The day that they took you, I wish it was me instead’).

‘What’s amazing about this job is that regardless of the situation, you get something positive at the end of it. That’s obviously an emotionally heavy song for me, but fans have come up to me in floods of tears and talked about how it’s helped in their own tragedy. It’s incredible. From the dark, you can give hope.’

For the first three years of his life, Tomlinson was raised alone by Johannah, who split from his father, Troy Austin, when he was a baby. They lived above a launderette in Doncaster, where his mother worked multiple jobs, principally as a midwife, before she married Mark Tomlinson, a van salesman who became Louis’s stepfather. The three moved into a two-up, two-down, which was soon filled with half-sisters: Lottie, now 21, Félicité, then twins Daisy and Phoebe, now 16.

‘It was mad. They’re manic, young girls…’ he says. ‘Mum and Mark had a decent income but they couldn’t spread it around [a family of] seven. At times things were really good, you’d get 20 quid in a birthday card, but others were really difficult. I remember the electricity meter – you’d get five quid on the house as an emergency when you couldn’t top it up. Sometimes it’d be a gamble when it’d run out…’

Tomlinson wasn’t particularly academic – ‘though I’m not daft or owt’ – but loved school. There, he joined a band at 16 and found he was OK at singing, so he applied to audition for The X Factor. He failed, twice, but succeeded on the third try, in 2010, performing a fairly terrible (he admits it) version of Plain White T’s Hey There Delilah.

A few months later, at the ‘bootcamp’ stage, Cowell had the idea of creating a band comprised of Tomlinson and four other solo boys: Harry Styles, Zayn Malik, Niall Horan and Liam Payne. They were to be called One Direction. Tomlinson, who’d been intimidated by the standard of other vocalists in the competition, ‘bit their hand off’ at the offer. ‘I was like, “This is my ticket.”’

The show came just after his second run at the first year of his A levels. He’d failed the first time, with UUE in psychology, PE and English, which his mum had ‘absolutely ripped [his] head off’ for. The second time he’d gone one better, UEE. So he lied, telling her he got a smattering of Ds, and came up with a plan.

‘I waited until after the X Factor final, when we were all sat around drinking champagne, and told her, “By the way, I bulls—tted you on those results. I failed again, but hopefully we’ll be all right now…”’ he laughs. ‘She was fine. I picked my moment well.’

One Direction came third in the final, losing to runner-up Rebecca Ferguson and winner Matt Cardle, a former painter-decorator who now performs in the West End. But it was always felt that the group would go furthest, not least because Cowell was such a supporter (all the other boys have now left his record label, Syco, but because ‘loyalty is the biggest thing’ for Tomlinson, he’s stayed).

Eighteen when the group started, Tomlinson was the oldest member (the others were 16 and 17), ‘just allowed to drink, just allowed to drive’, but suddenly everything in his life was controlled.

‘You’re ready to be reckless and stupid, but then I was in the band and couldn’t ever act like that, especially not publicly,’ he says. They went on their first headline concert tour in 2011, and soon had fans surrounding their hotels overnight, wherever in the world they went. Naturally, they embraced partying.

‘There was a good 18 months where I was going out all the time. The press love to write about that as if it’s this chaotic thing, and at times it was, but it’s also an escape. Once you have a couple of drinks down you in a club, you’re just someone in the club, part of everyone else, and not everyone is looking at you.’

Even when he was away, he kept in contact with his mum by phone – or in person, when she could join him – as much as possible. The two were impossibly close: she had access to his emails; he told her when he lost his virginity; she knew about his finances.

‘One thing I’ve learnt since losing her is that any decision, even if I knew the answer, I’d call her,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise how reliant I’d become on her. That was the hardest thing for me, understanding that living life after meant making decisions on my own. I thought I’d always have a sounding board. There was a different level of credibility with my mum, because I idolised her.’

Styles has recently joked that One Direction were ‘grown in test tubes’ by Cowell, but Tomlinson insists that part of their appeal lay in the fact that they all had their own personalities and talents, which weren’t forced on them. Still, it took him years to know where he fitted. Styles was cool, a heart-throb. Malik was moody and mysterious. Horan was cute and Irish. Payne was whatever Payne was. But Tomlinson wasn’t sure.

‘You’ve got to be dead cocky in Doncaster to survive – it’s either that or be picked on. So I used to walk around with a chip on my shoulder. But I’d always been the funny guy, centre of attention, so I never struggled to make mates,’ he says. ‘It was weird suddenly being in a situation where one or two members are constantly in a better position. It took me a while to understand my strengths. I was the oldest and it wasn’t until the third album when I made it my mission to write the most.’

He succeeded: Tomlinson’s writing credit appears on 39 of the 96 songs One Direction recorded, four more than Payne and dozens more than the rest. But it was intense. There were times when he considered quitting the band, if only to allow him to escape the attention, but he likens that to children running away from home. ‘By the time you get halfway down the street you regret it and go back…’

‘Directioners’ were ‘fanatical’ about the boys, to a frequently absurd degree. And not every encounter was surreally funny. The year after the hiatus began, in 2017, Tomlinson and Calder were involved in a scuffle with paparazzi and fans at the airport in LA. Fists possibly flew, and Tomlinson was arrested, only for no further action to be taken. The fans now are still loyal, still ardent, but they’ve matured with him.

What kept him grounded, as the money rolled in (I have heard that each of the boys amassed a £40 million fortune from the band, and that collectively they still earn around £38,000 a week from royalties, merchandise and so on) and the fans bayed, was keeping friends from Doncaster around. When I arrived at today’s photo shoot, Tomlinson was busy doing his singular pose at one end of the room, while at the other, near the free pastries, a young redheaded bloke in a tracksuit lurked, scrolling through his phone.

He introduced himself as Oli, Tomlinson’s ‘mate from Donny’, who has spent the better part of a decade travelling the world with his pop-star friend, and seems to operate as a walking comfort blanket. They live together when Tomlinson’s in LA, where he has a three-year-old son, Freddie, from a short relationship with stylist Briana Jungwirth.

They also live together when he’s in London, along with Calder, to whom it was recently reported that Tomlinson is engaged (his representatives denied the rumour). I imagine there’s space for house guests wherever he is, though: it has been reported that he put his Hollywood Hills mansion on the market last year for $6.995 million, and the previous year valued another property in California at $13.999 million, after apparently renting it out for $40,000 per month.

‘I’m hoping to do a bit of work with Louis’s tour manager this year,’ Oli says, cheerfully. I later discover he’s so ever-present with Tomlinson that he even has his own fan accounts on social media.

‘I remember bringing a mate out for our first US tour. He called from his hotel with his mind blown by being able to pick up a phone and they’d just bring you food,’ Tomlinson says. ‘I go back to Donny and hear heavy s—t – struggles with jobs, money, family, health. That humbles me, and gives me a better emotional intelligence.’

He reckons ‘eight out of 10 people have an ulterior motive’ when they meet him. Luckily he can tell if someone’s a pre-fame friend. His name is pronounced ‘Loo-ee’, but he wasn’t keen on it as a child, so had mates, like Oli, pronounce it ‘Lewis’, which they still do. Unfortunately Cowell guessed at ‘Loo-ee’ on The X Factor, so that was that for the stage name.

By 2015, some members of One Direction felt an itch to break off – or just have a break – and try their own thing. Malik had gone in March, and while a full split seemed inevitable, Tomlinson was still caught off-guard.

‘I was f—king fuming at first. We were working really hard – people [namely, Payne] have said overworked, but we weren’t overworked, that’s just what happens when you’re a band that size, though I understand. I thought I’d mentally prepared myself for a break, but it hit me hard.’

He was finally feeling comfortable in the band, and hadn’t thought about a solo career.

‘About a week after, I sat there thinking, “Strike while the iron’s hot,” but I wasn’t ready. I was bitter and angry, I didn’t know why we couldn’t just carry on. But now, even though I don’t fully understand everyone’s individual reasons, I respect them.’

They’re ostensibly all still mates, despite going in radically different musical directions, though some are closer than others. Tomlinson seems to mention Horan with most affection, and the pair performed at the same event in Mexico in November, titillating 1D fans by sound-checking together with one of the band’s old songs.

If it was up to you, I ask, would the group still be going? He considers this for a moment.

‘It if was up to me, yeah. I’d maybe have said, “Let’s have a year off.” But yeah, probably. I’m sure there’s a better analogy out there but it’s a bit like [shutting down] Coca-Cola. You don’t say, “Right, let’s hang the boots up on that,” because it’s a massive thing.’

Afterwards he muddled around for a bit, including releasing those early singles – one of which he performed on The X Factor, rigid with grief, just days after his mum’s death. Then he returned to the show last year as a judge, alongside Cowell, Robbie Williams and Williams’s wife, Ayda Field.

Did he get on with Robbie? He smiles, arching an eyebrow. ‘Why do you ask?’ Well, he came out of a boy band, went solo…

‘Oh, yeah, he was all right. He’s a good man, we were just different from each other. Certain moments I thought, “F—king hell, Robbie, just sit down for five minutes, I’ve got something to say.” I love his missus though, Ayda, she’s sound.’

Tomlinson liked mentoring, and during our conversation it becomes clear he’s fuelled by responsibility. He was the oldest sibling in his house, and although Mark Tomlinson and Johannah’s second husband (after divorcing Mark in 2011, she married Dan Deakin in 2014; they had twins Ernest and Doris) are still around, he became a paternal figure after she died. He’s particularly involved in the lives of Daisy and Phoebe, to whom he’s ‘a kind of second parent’.

‘Without being too soppy, I like looking after people, it’s cool. At the moment I’m stressing trying to convince Daisy and Phoebe to go to sixth form. They’ve been to private school near Donny, and it’s proper expensive. I’m paying for it thinking they’re staying on, but now they don’t want to go. I told them education is important. I’m like, “You’re 16, you haven’t got a f—king idea what the real world is,”’ he says.

‘What’s difficult about those two is they’ve only known the 1D craziness. They’ve grown up in this elitist way, which is very different from my upbringing and Lottie’s, and the values my mum taught us.’

He gives a ‘kids, eh?’ sigh. ‘Consistency is the big thing. I’m trying to get better at being in their heads enough so they think, “I wonder if Louis thinks this is a good idea?”’

Lottie lives in Hackney, east London. When she was a teenager, Tomlinson got her a job assisting One Direction’s make-up artist, and within a few years she’d become a ridiculously popular Instagrammer (currently with 3.4 million followers, still 10 million shy of Louis). Her big brother told her Instagram’s fine, but she must ‘become a proper businesswoman’ in case the bubble bursts. In 2018 she launched Tanologist, a successful fake-tan brand.

‘I’m so proud of her. She’s just been in Australia, where she’s stocked in Melbourne’s version of Boots!’ Tomlinson says, beaming.

Félicité, known to the family as Fizz, was also a budding Instagrammer. After her death last March, a post-mortem revealed ‘toxic’ levels of anti-anxiety and pain medications, as well as cocaine, in her blood. Six months later, an inquest heard that she had visited her GP in August 2018 and ‘gave a history of recreational drug use… on a consistent basis since the death of her mother’. She had taken overdoses and been admitted to a rehabilitation clinic.

Tomlinson hesitates to say anything was ‘easier’, comparing the deaths of Félicité and his mum, as ‘both felt very individual, and hit me with a big impact… but I think dealing with the family, how I can be there for them, that was a lot easier the second time because the first time I was grieving and didn’t know what to say. As time went on I grew to understand what to say to my sisters.’

Prioritising the feelings of your sisters in the immediate aftermath is understandable, I say, but I wonder if anyone took care of you. He looks surprised.

‘No, but friends and family, my best mate, my girlfriend, my son… I feel their support but I get most out of doing stuff for other people. I don’t say that to sound like a good guy, it’s genuinely what gives me strength.’

Did you ever consider grief therapy?

‘Nah, a lot of people recommended it but I’m a little bit old-fashioned when it comes to therapy. I’m sure it’s incredible, but I thought I’d be all right, and I have been till now.’ One of his many tattoos consists of the words ‘It Is What It Is’ across his chest. ‘I know the things I’ve been upset about in my life are s—t, but I can’t change them, so you have to make the best of what you’ve got.’

What he’s got is an album to launch, a world tour to prep for and, immediately, a flight to catch. He and Oli are off to see Freddie. ‘When I’m working I definitely don’t see him enough,’ Tomlinson says, ‘but he looks just like me, which is cool. I’m excited to see his big smile.’

Tomlinson gives his own big smile. Our time’s nearly up, and he’d like a cigarette. After all you’ve been through, I tell him, people would have understood if you’d called it a day. You could have lived off royalties, enjoyed a quiet life with Calder, Freddie, your sisters.

‘Definitely, definitely. But do you know what? It didn’t cross my mind once. I somehow have an inability to worry, and just get on with things,’ he says, shrugging. ‘It’s definitely made me stronger. I’ve gone through every emotion, and I’m just f—king excited now.’

I think we have an answer. How is Louis Tomlinson? Hopefully, he’ll be just fine.

Walls is released on 31 January

[prettysoldierprojectarchive]

1:1 – Crybaby Usagi’s Magnificent Transformation!

[Original Post made 10/08/2013]

Alternative title: Being A Penniless Idiot Will Save Your Life

First aired: 7th March 1992

Usagi is a suspiciously European-looking 14-year-old Japanese girl with severe psychological disorders. Asides from just generally being kind of dumb, she has poor behavioral controls, and there’s reason to suspect that she has an eating disorder too. Nevertheless, a talking cat called Luna reveals to Usagi that she is, in fact, Sailor Moon, and must fight the forces of evil.

The very first episode of Sailor Moon spends a long time establishing the character Tsukino Usagi. She wakes up late, she forgets her lunch, she’s late for class, she gets told off for eating when she’s being punished, she gets 30% on an English test (bah! Who needs English anyway?), she’s distracted by the mention of jewelry and cries in the street because she’s such a fucking loser. I’m not blaming her – I’d cry too given the circumstances.

The whole point of this is to give us a character we can really identify with. Usagi lacks even the smallest modicum of what super heroes should be in her personality. She even lacks the typical Japanese traits – she’s lazy, unladylike and noisier than a horse in heat (that’s a saying, right?) but it’s pretty cool that these traits of independence and assertiveness in a teenage girl are sold as admirable.

This is the episode’s, and the show’s, greatest strength. Even 21 years after it was first shown, Usagi remains a hilarious, bumbling and unfortunate protagonist for the show. And it’s all here in Episode 1!

A lot of the first series of Sailor Moon acts as a sort of time capsule of life in Japan in the early 90s. This isn’t just because of the fashion styles or the music, but because the show actively tries to comment on social issues. The entire plan of the monster of the week is to sell cursed jewelry, EVIL jewelry, to superficial women, who then have all their “energy” stolen. In a sense these woman are punished for their thoughtless capitalism. You almost get the feeling that the makers of the show are trying to say something… but I challenge anyone to describe what exactly it is.

Usagi is only saved from the same fate as the other shoppers from her idiocy – her catastrophic test score means that her father would never buy her jewellery. It’s a great message – don’t try too hard or you might get possessed by a demon.

Luna the magical cat is great from minute one. She constantly has to put up with Usagi’s bitching and acts as her parental figure, encouraging and chastising her, and giving her magical shit. Hey someone had to – it’s not like Usagi’s mother gives a crap what her teenage daughter is doing sneaking out the house at night in a miniskirt.

Talking AND jewelry? You’re the best stray cat EVER

There are some really thoughtful moments in the show that you would never find in a Western kid’s show. The very first monster is SUUUPER freaky, taking the place of Usagi’s classmate Naru’s mother, and there are some disturbing scenes of her slowly becoming more and more monstrous, eventually choking the shit out of Naru. Imagine that: your mum turning into a monster and trying to murder you. It’s awesome.

“DON’T FORGET TO CLEAN YOUR ROOM”

Speaking of monstrous mothers, when Usagi’s finds out she only got a 30 on the test, she kicks her only daughter out of the house and refuses to let her in. That’s how kids become homeless prostitute, Mrs Tsukino, you may want to rethink a couple of your correctional policies.

The thing that strikes me the most watching the very first episode of Sailor Moon is how visually stylised it is. There’s a lovely early-90s sheen to everything – the purples, blues and pinks are striking, and combined with the brassy refrains, it gives an artistic feel to everything that sets it apart – not only from Western shows, but even from other anime.

Like many first episodes, there’s a bunch of stuff that’s brought up yet completely ignored for the following 199 episodes – Sailor Moon defeats the monster by crying, setting off some kind of… sonic boom or something. It’s a little like Superman flinging that plastic S off his chest in Superman 2 – who knows where it came from or where it went. Thankfully Sailor Moon finally stops being so pathetic and actually kicks some ass, using her tiara as a death-frisbee to defeat the monster. A bloke in a top hat who calls himself Tuxedo Kamen turns up before then, but really doesn’t do anything other than throw a rose. I think it was intended that he look cool, but as much as I love the guy, he can be an unlikable douche.

The original hipster, aka Patient Zero

Overall the first episode acts exactly as a pilot should – it’s character building, it’s intriguing and it makes you want to see more. It’s also distinctly un-girly, and by that I mean that it could appeal as easily to a male audience as a female one. Maybe I’m just saying that to justify why I’m watching this kids show, but it’s how I really feel.

There’s a reason why this show is associated with feminism – it shows girls being girly and imperfect, but getting shit DONE. Coming from a society as institutionally sexist as Japan was in the early 90s (perhaps still is…?), that’s mighty impressive.

On the other hand, the prominence of miniskirts might serve to reinforce the objectification and casual sexualisation of women, but what the hell do I know?

Episode Score: 5/5

Monster Freakishness Level: 4/5

Naru-chan Attack Count: 1

[deeisace]

Speaking of Christmas, I don't know what to do

My dad asked me to find out if I can come down to see him for Christmas, and I said I would find out

But I don't know what's gonna happen if anything with the lockdown an stuff

And I want to go and visit, I feel guilty about not visiting, I haven't seen him since January

I've seen my mum twice this year (I went to France for four days in March I think, and she came to see me for a few hours when she first moved here for uni), and not visited him at all, even when he was so sick with his back

But I'd be scared to have to go almost all the way to London at the moment, and of the family I'm the one who's been doing things the most, and I feel fine but I don't want to make anyone sick so there's no way I could visit my grandparents even if I could see my dad, which I shouldn't because he has asthma, and even if I get tested because apparently you can now, somewhere, although there's none in town and I'd have to take the train out to wherever the other places are, or else walk all day (despite my general fashion sense, I don't usually wish it was 1850 again, I quite like not having to walk, especially not to places I don't know), and you're not supposed to be going places at the moment, I don't know if you're allowed to get retested and an okay result now is no guarantee for a month from now

And that's sort of why I agreed to work a day a week now, there has to be someone there and I don't live with anyone else, there's no one else I could make sick here, one of my co-workers has already had a death in his family

And I want to see my dad, I do, I didn't get to see him last Christmas and that was the first Christmas I've had without either of my parents,

But it drives me mad if I'm there for more than like a long weekend, I know

But he's not like he was when I was a kid, he doesn't take anything except the painkillers for his arthritis, to my knowledge, and he doesn't drink as much as he used to, and he's not working at the moment so he's not gonna come home and fall asleep immediately and make me nervous cs he's standing up and is gonna fall into the bookshelf and be annoyed if I wake him up to stop him falling

And I feel so guilty cs I've always wanted to stay with mum more than him - I used to wail and cry to be sent home, as a kid, if I stayed with him for more than ten days, I remember it

And then I lived with him for two years, for college, and managed not to be a disaster, I even got alright marks on my a levels

But the point is Christmas, and I don't know what to do

God I haven't cried like this in a long time

I can't phone my mum, cs it's 1am there and she's not up to talking anyway because Bean died and I don't want to upset her more by being upset, even if it was a reasonable hour, which it's not, which is part of why I'm crying so much, cs I'm tired

I spoke a little to my nan about it, just that I'm scared with all the covid stuff cs she doesn't know the rest, how I don't want to make anyone sick an stuff

But I don't know how to tell him that I can't go, that I shouldn't, I don't want to upset him either and I don't know what to do

[prorevenge]

My homophobic English teacher...

I saw a post on here recently about someone's horrible English teacher, and it reminded me of my own experience. TL;DR at the bottom. Doing this requires a quick lesson on the Australian high school system (I'll keep it short, don't worry). Basically, there are 6 years of Australian high school, from grades 7 through to 12. 7-10 are prep years where your grades don't carry over, then grades 11 and 12 are your big bad years with huge exams similar to the American system. When entering grade 11, you get to choose whether you want to pursue a path to university- doing this requires you to do ATAR subjects, which are the hardest subjects available. Your final grade in your last year is what universities use to decide if you get in. Basically, you have one year to really make it count. Grade 12 is the year to finally show off everything you've learned after your whole life at school. It's basically do or die, the hardest year of your life.

So, to begin this story, let me explain that I am good at English. Like, really good at English. I won awards and got accepted into state recognised programs for how good I am at English. It was the one subject I could guarantee to get an A in. So, naturally, I chose ATAR level English- I'd always wanted to get into some kind of English based university course. When I entered my grade 12 class I was greeted by my teacher, who we can call Mrs Slug, since she looked like a fat slimy slug. This was the kind of teacher that just handed out worksheets and sat behind her desk for the class and didn't actually teach. It was frustrating since this was my final year and I wanted my grades to be as good as possible, but I was confident in my ability to just pick it up on my own, so I didn't complain about it.

Then it came time for the first assessment. It was a creative writing piece, and short stories are my shit, so I wrote a short story. I followed the marking key carefully while also adding my own flare to the story to make it really entertaining and thought-provoking. The story was basically a dark romance told in first person, where the gender of the perspective character wasn't revealed until right at the end, thus revealing the couple to be gay. I specifically kept the main character's gender ambiguous until that point, since I wanted the reader to assume it was a girl then have a shock at the reveal. I contacted some of my friends from my high-level English programs and they all loved it. So I happily submitted it. I didn't think too much of it- I was interested to see how my ability held up in the highest level of school, but I wasn't expecting anything below a B. Then I got my result back.

Failed.

I couldn't believe it. I was genuinely confused. There were absolutely no marks on my paper, no red pen, no details as to why I failed, just a big fat 8/20 on the back of my paper. I was really upset, obviously, since I'd worked hard on it and it was the first time I'd failed an English assignment ever. I went to Mrs Slug and asked her what was wrong with it. She fluffed around and gave me an answer that essentially boiled down to, "I didn't like it." That was it. She had no reason to fail the story, she just didn't like it. News flash, that's not how marking creative writing works. If it'd been any other year, maybe I would've just blown it off and moved on, but this was grade 12. This failure could be the difference between getting into university and getting rejected.

So I went to the head of the English department at my school and requested a regrading. I didn't tell him that I'd failed it, just that I wanted more feedback. He gave it back to me as an 18/20. I then slammed my failing grade onto the desk and asked him to explain. Clearly, Mrs Slug stood by her grade, because instead of just changing my mark, they sent my writing to the top school in the state to get remarked again. It came back 19/20. Needless to say, my mark was changed to an A.

The next few assignments went relatively the same. Even when she passed me, I asked to be reassessed and my mark was always made higher than what she'd given me. Eventually, I complained enough times that they started rotating which teacher marked my work so no one could sabotage it. Even still, I always knew when Mrs Slug had been the one to mark it, because there was never any feedback on it, just a barely above average mark that eventually was changed to an A. I didn't get below 80% on any assignments for the entire year, and bare in mind, she hadn't taught anything in her class. I basically taught everyone myself and did the work at home so my peers also wanting to get into university had a shot (most of them did get in, can I add). I didn't understand why Mrs Slug didn't like my story (or me) until one day a discussion on politics came up in my class.

She's very, very right wing. A Donald Trump supporter. In Australia, that's super rare, since most of us think he's a dickhead. It suddenly hit me then. She didn't like my story because I'd done exactly what I'd wanted. She'd assumed the main character was a girl, then when it was revealed he was a guy and it was a gay relationship, she suddenly realised she'd happily been reading and enjoying a story about a gay couple. That must've infuriated her. She failed it for no reason other than her homophobia. After I realised that, I started to mess with her.

My first project was to test Donald Trump's persuasion tactics on her. My next oral presentation, I specifically used Donald Trump's speech style- the way he repeats words, over exaggerates, dehumanises, etc. I know she was the one who marked it (again, no feedback), but this time it was a 19/20. That was the highest mark she gave me all year. I couldn't believe it. The Donald had been right.

Next, I wrote a strongly worded, very opinionated article on how I was bisexual. This was the first time I'd touched LGBT topics since that first story, and I knew it would infuriate her. But she couldn't fail me at this point. It would look way too suspicious if a student who got 80%+ on assignments suddenly got less than 50%. I don't think I ever got the article back (I have a feeling it got passed around the English office so many times they just forgot) but I didn't care that much. I saw on my final report card it'd been 18/20. It must've made her angry, I hope, that she'd read my article and no doubt tried to fail it, but at this point, everyone was aware of her bullshit and prevented her from doing it. I got some dirty looks for the next few classes.

But there was one final straw that made me snap. See, my state holds a huge writing competition for high-schoolers every year. It's a massive deal, and people who win this competition often get sponsored or get scholarships based on it. Tens of thousands of entries get submitted. Obviously, I wanted to win it. Even getting shortlisted would do wonders for my uni application. Part of the school writing program meant that any short stories submitted over the year would automatically get entered in this competition, but I knew Mrs Slug would try and do me dirty. So I went to her directly, requesting to put in another version of the story I'd made with the feedback I'd gotten from the remarking. She told me, to my face, that she'd already submitted my story, so I couldn't change it. Fine. As long as it was submitted, I was happy.

I didn't get shortlisted. That hurt, a lot, since I'd really wanted it. But I figured the competition had been really good, so it was only fair. My little brother, however, got shortlisted for his year (he came in second), so I went to the awards ceremony with him.

Mrs Slug was there.

She looked shocked to see me. A little panicked, even. I was curious as to why she was there, but the answer revealed itself pretty quickly. One of the girls from my class had been shortlisted. Now listen, I'm not a bitter person. If someone genuinely writes better than me, I'm more than happy to accept that. But what I found awfully suspicious was that this particular girl had been given the highest mark in my class before I got reassessed. In other words, she had been Mrs Slug's favourite story. And her story had gotten 15/20. I know grades don't count for everything, and maybe my story had in fact been worse, but I was beginning to get a hunch as to what had happened.

As I said, I'm state recognised for my English ability, so I was able to get into contact with one of the people who had marked the competition. I asked, ever so innocently, if she'd read my story. She replied that she hadn't. I asked if she could check to see if any of the other markers had read it since it was a pretty distinctive story. The answer came back as I had feared. No one had read it.

Mrs Slug had lied through her teeth to my face. She hadn't submitted the story at all. She'd deliberately pulled it out of the submission pile because she was salty. This competition was a /huge/ deal to me- like I said, it would've been a massive part of my uni application. And she'd sabotaged it. She wanted me to fail.

I was fucking fuming at this point. Even today, I get angry thinking about it. I couldn't let this rest any longer. I was beyond pettiness. This was time for real revenge.

My parents both work in education, and my mum, in particular, was pretty high up in my area. She's also a bit of a tiger mum. When I told her what Mrs Slug had done, she was pissed. Like, so pissed. The idea that her kid might not go to uni because of a prejudiced teacher does not sit well with tiger mothers. She marched straight to the principal's office, and since he knew her, we were heard out almost immediately. I explained what happened, how I'd consistently been marked too lowly and my competition application had been removed without my knowledge. My mum was able to kick up a pretty big stink about it, ranting about how Mrs Slug shouldn't even be qualified to teach at all, let alone grade 12 ATAR English, and she needed to be removed immediately. The principal copped an earful, then the head of English did too. Both of them cowered in fear before the rage of my mother. There was nothing they could use to defend her, either- I had proof of the undermarking and the removal of my story application. Statements from my classmates confirmed she hadn't taught anything all year. It wasn't looking good for Mrs Slug.

She continued to sag behind her desk like a festering cancer for the last few weeks of the year, giving me stinky looks. I just quietly did my work, helping other people study for the final exam. I knew I'd done enough. In Australia, you can't just fire government workers, but you can move them. Sure enough, at the end of the year, she was relocated to the middle of fucking nowhere, to a school of fewer than 100 kids, where I hope she rots to this day. It's the closest you can get to being fired.

I got into university, by the way, and I'm now studying my English course. I should also mention that I got into the most competitive university in Australia, and I still get 80% and above in my short stories. That 40% she gave me was total bullshit, and I'm glad I made her suffer for it. No teacher should be able to get away with sabotaging their students like that, especially when it's their future on the line. I can only hope that the few students she teaches now don't have to experience the same thing.

TL;DR: my homophobic English teacher tried to fail me on my assignments, then sabotaged my chances in an important competition, so I got her essentially fired.

(source) story by (/u/millochi)

[parentingwithamentalillness]

My first blog post

So, this is my first blog post. I don’t know where to start. Maybe ill start with why I made this blog? Maybe I’ll start with my initial diagnosis? I’m not sure. I think I might just start writing and see what comes out. 

I’m going to start with my background story, then I’ll get into parenting. It may take a couple posts to get out, but I’ll go through all my struggles before becoming a parent, then I’ll go through while parenting.

Let’s go back to 2012, March of 2012 I was in year 10 of my schooling. I had grown up with some difficulties making friends, keeping friends and socialising. all throughout primary school I was a bit of a trouble maker, wouldn’t do as I was told, refused to move from places I shouldn’t be and just caused some problems with my teachers and my mother. My mum always knew there was just something different with me but could never pin point what it was, until I was in year 10 and she researched Asperger's. For those unaware of what Asperger’s is, it is a developmental disorder related to autism and characterised by awkwardness in social interaction, pedantry in speech, and preoccupation with very narrow interests.

My Mum decided to take me to a clinical psychologist where we both did a questionnaire based on my behaviour. The findings of this questionnaire reported back that I had Asperger’s and had severe depression. This hit me really hard because at the time it was 2 weeks before I turned 16. It was a massive shock to me that I’d gone 16 years with not knowing why I was so disliked, why I behaved the way I did. I started reading up on Asperger’s in women and the symptoms of it. Not even 2 symptoms in and I related so much. My next step was to go off and do an IQ test. Verbal communication, reasoning and recognising feelings/emotions was and still is a bit of a weak point of mine. Problem solving, numbers, and general mathematics I was superior in. The results of this IQ test concluded that I struggled with English and needed further help in my schooling to be able to pass.

After finding out that I had Asperger’s, depression and anxiety, my mum told the family and their reaction wasn’t the greatest when all you need is support and help. My Aunty passed it off as an excuse for my behaviour. That was until a few months later when I had a massive breakdown and refused to go to school. Refused to leave bed and all I wanted to do was lay in bed all day. My Aunty came round to try and help my mum get me out of my funk. Upon her arrival she gave me a photo of my Uncle, who passed away the year prior, and I. She said “I found this and thought that you should have this. He loved you. Know he is always with you and looking down and is incredibly proud of you.” From that day forward I’ve had that photo with me where ever I go. My Uncle is my guardian angel. He’s kept me grounded on Earth and has stopped me from killing myself. The photo is the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.

The rest of my schooling was a bit of a struggle. I was in the crucial years of my schooling. I needed to do well to be able to go to University and studying a passion of mine. Year 11 was a struggle, I was failing a class so dropped the subject and picked another up. But that still wasn’t the worst part. EXAMS, no one likes exams at the best of times but when it came to English exams, oh boy, that was the worst. We got given 3 hours to do 3 writing pieces. I was confident going in and knew what I needed to do, BUT, as soon as that timer started and I had to put pencil to paper, that was it my mind went black. I would sit in that exam room looking at a blank piece of paper. I would try everything I could to try and write something worthy of getting marked. I ended up doing but got the lowest pass score I could’ve. I passed year 11 but not by much. Year 12 was tipping point though. I started the year doing 5 subjects but after falling one subject and not wanting to pick up another I dropped the 5th subject and continued the year with 4. After Term 1 it was brought to the attention of my year level coordinators that I wasn’t doing too well. I was failing a further 2 subjects, one of them being English, what a surprise NOT. I had a discussion with my coordinators to see if I could do year 12 over 2 years but they refused to help me pass year 12. The excuse they used was it will ruin their rep. That was it, that was when I decided I’ll ruin their rep anyway by dropping out of school. Half way through year 12 and I decided to leave because I was failing and I wasn’t going to get the help I needed to pass.

After leaving high school I decided to try my hand doing a diploma at TAFE. That didn’t work out as well as I hoped it would. 1 month into my course and it got to a time where I had to write an essay. Let’s just say that was the moment I realised I couldn’t do this course. After leaving TAFE I jumped from job to job. Moved around in terms of housing. Went from living with friends, to living with my grandfather, to living with my friends again to living with my grandfather again. I still wasn’t happy though and wasn’t sure on where I was going or what I was going to do. That was until Boxing Day 2014. My dad had flown over for a funeral and I went and seen him. He offered for me to pack up all my things and come live with him in Western Australia. I went home, told mum what I was going to do and that was it. I packed up all my stuff at my grandfathers, went back to mums for the night. Told all the family what I was doing and left the next day.

In my next blog post I will talk about my time in Western Australia and my struggles there. I will then go on until we get to 2018!

I am just starting out in writing and I do know that this may not be written very well, but as I had written in this blog I’m not very good at English. I try my best in trying to follow a story on smoothly. If you see some grammatical errors, I’m sorry. English stumps me. Not wrong when they say English is the hardest language to learn.

Anyway, please share if you think it’s worthy of a share. I will get to what it’s been like as a parent and suffering with Asperger’s and depression in a future post!

[rhingthebell]

It all began with a trip down the stairs...

After having a little look around my little corners of the Internet (we all have them right?) I realised, I haven't actually spoken openly about my injury, what happened, and the emotional pain that followed. I realise that what I am about to write may seem like a long jambled essay - so apologies if I waffle on a bit too much. 

 In late July 2018, I fell down a flight of stairs in my home. I lived a lone, and I remember the exact moment it happened. My right leg got trapped underneath me and it felt like my body went into shock as I somehow crawled back to the top of the stairs and laid there, while my furry bestie lay her little head on my chest in comfort. In the weeks that followed, I continued life as normal. The only immediate difference being my foot hurt a little (I did fall on it) and whenever I walked for any longer than 10 minutes, my legs would begin to get tired. Not sore, just... tired. 

By mid August, I was given the news that the health of my best mate was rapidly deteriorating, and there was nothing more that they could do. In addition to this, my grandfather (the man that had raised me), was also beginning to succumb to his years long battle Alzheimer's / dementia. As luck would have it, I would spend the next two / three weeks sitting on palliative care ward floors, uncomfortable hospital chairs  and often not in very comfortable positions just to spend the last few moments with my loved ones. 

My best mate passed away on the 3 September 2018. My grandfather passed just a few days later on 8 September 2018. The grief was indescribable. The more emotional I got, the more tired my body became, the more tired my legs would get. Now I could only manage a 4-6 minute walk, then a 3 minute walk.... then just pure pain. It's so hard to articulate exactly what the pain was. I kept describing the pain as coming from my lower back / to the side (but not the hip), so doctors would send me for CT scans, MRI's - with no result. 

 It was only when I stumbled across a new doctor that started at my medical practice, that I struck gold. First, he was a pain management specialist, so he focused on getting me out of pain first, so he could at least then begin to get me going to seek out answers from other specialists without being out of breath, shaking uncontrollably and on the verge of tears because I was in agony.

It then all came to a head in early October, when I woke up and my legs just simply.... stopped working. Pure panic screamed through my brain as the most basic instruction of 'wiggle your toes' and 'move your leg' was met with no response and so an ambulance (& my mother) were called to take me to hospital for further tests. It was the scariest moment of my life. With the rush of questions going through your head of like, "Is this the rest of my life?" "What did I fucking ignore?" or even the stupider, "I really wish I could have gone for that hike." It's a stupid question because anyone that says that they want to go for a hike is lying, and it's just walking with a fancy name. 

When I was discharged from hospital, my parents brought me back to live with them. I couldn't walk without the aide of a walker (then crutches, then walking stick - i slowly graduated), the simple act of going to the bathroom & having a shower was aided by my mother.... and anyone in this group would know, being in your mid 30's and having your Mum having to do any of those things is humbling! 

Finally after months of pain, tests - I was referred to a Specialist Musculoskeletal Physiotherapist. She. Changed. My. Life. Within minutes of explaining my pain, what was wrong and she had me diagnosed, wearing a pelvic girdle and setting up simple exercises to help get me moving. Despite going into nerve regeneration (in my feet), and still experience periods of numbness, pins & needles. From July 2019, I have been walking unaided and fairly confidently and even managed to go to Japan in December and celebrate the New Year! 

Pandemic hits in March,  and then in July in a freak turn of events I managed to re-injure myself. 🤦‍♀️ We have effectively been in quarantine and various stages of lock down since then. I have worked from home since March (blessings), which has just made everything 100 x more emotional! I felt like I'd let so many people down. My support system, my doctors, my specialists - all because I lifted the dog (who weighs 9.6kg) out of the bath tub (ironically, attempting to soothe her sore back) when I could have just as easily asked my partner for help and for some stupid reason I didn't. 

So, we've rolled everything back - my pain management routine is back to square one (not as crazy as the first time, but still enough to make you feel a bit blah). Back to the specialists every fortnight, and back to the exercises. I don't know why I was under this disillusion that this injury would be fixed and I'd be magically find forever. Even in hindsight, I can see that's silly - it is silly right? It's something that I'll have to be mindful of... right? 

I am not as emotional as I was last week. I am feeling a bit more clear-headed. At the advise of my doctor, I began using the curable app which provided a lot more insight into pain that I could have ever imagined. 

Most importantly, (since I am still in lockdown), I am embracing and feeling more grateful of my bubble of my partner & furkids more than ever. So... there's my story (I cut out all the other emotional bullshit, because I think we all tend to find out who the real people are in our corner in these moments of vulnerability, and I am certain there are some people that probably felt I wasn't a good friend to them during these times too). 

Again, thank you for letting me blah everything. Share my story and get to read yours. 

Today, I feel less alone and I can actually talk to people who relate to the pain and understanding that sometimes it's not as easy as just 'getting up and walking away'.

[1dangkal]

LOTS OF WASTAGE

Maximizing Utility

The "Battle" against Covid-19 has been exasperating. I have been writing selectively on this topic, knowing that joining the fray of criticisms or adulations on numbers and policies does not make any difference- but this one is a true story that invokes- legitimate questions.

An OFW in HK got exposed to another Infected OFW. How their cases were detected and managed by their Public Health units are worthy of consideration. They are both Filipino pilots.

INFECTION

Patient 1(P1), following an HK-based airline protocol went on a 14-day straight duty for flights in an international sector (Middle East) of their airline. Upon arrival he was tested and returned to a shared apartment with Patient 2(P2). It was around 9 PM at night when they met- P2 was in the Living Room, and after some greetings P1 went to his room and slept.

In the morning that followed, P1 went out early to get his results and came back to their apartment announcing to P2 he is Covid-19 positive and is required to go on isolation.

ISOLATION

P2 was contacted by HK authorities that same morning to report to a designated Quarantine that same day. Thus, both P1 and P2 were immediately isolated.

TESTING

P2, after having been exposed to POSITIVE P1 is a SUSPECT. P2 was provided by HK authorities an individual room, food and all medical assistance in an isolation facility. While he did not exhibit any symptoms, he was not tested.

3 days before his scheduled discharge, A SALIVA TEST was done. The result came out negative after 1 day.

IMPLICATIONS FOR PHIL CONSIDERATION:

1 Immediate results for tests reduce the risk of transmission. P1 could have easily infected P2 if his test results took longer than 12 hrs. They could have shared the apartment not knowing any risks because P1 up to now is asymptomatic.

2 P1 was negative before going on that 14- day duty and so were the rest of the crew. Thus his infection could have only been acquired while staying at airports and hotels during stops.

3 P2 was not tested until PROTOCOL demanded for him to be tested. So was P1- protocol was the only reason why he was tested.

ERGO:

Quick results are the key to Infection Prevention and Control (IPC). Smart and logical Protocols prevent the clogging of Laboratories.

Saliva Tests are already available. It is said to be cheaper and faster.

DOH and political machismo has been wavering on many things- all resulting to clogged Laboratories. Imagine what 10 days could have resulted to? Imagine P2 being isolated for much longer if his test results took 10 days more?

Duque's Hospital Policies have to be reviewed. I have kept mum on the fact that most of our transmissions are- sadly- HAPPENING IN HOSPITALS! No one has talked about the failed IPC policies on Covid-19 resulting from the obsolete guidelines issued before March of this year. What errors are to be expected from it?

1 Lumping all suspects in a ward for weeks both positive and negative patients learning their results 7-15 days later. When the negatives are sent home, they are most likely infected already by their exposure to the positives in the first 24 hrs that they are together in hospitals.

2 Doctors who still make rounds in several hospitals are the best carriers of the virus from hospital to hospital- infecting patients, nurses and fellow doctors.

3 1 meter? Does DOH even have a team to read the latest findings? Or are they waiting for peer review which may come out next year? A five year old girl who watches youtube knows that one should stay at least 6 ft. (2 meters) to prevent infection. She learned it not from any science channel but from Rebecca Zamolo and Charli d'Amilio. 

4 The testing is not a numbers game. The number of TESTS conducted will not determine the success of Covid-19 IPC. It is speed, accuracy and intelligent testing- how many of these you make- DOH, will determine your success. Testing anyone in batches or barangays? Will only clog your lab, delay results and increase the spread. Simple Logic.

There are too many things that DOH got wrong. Who can blame anyone who listens to them? But, come to think of it- where does DOH get all these foolish policies? Their "Evidence Based" criteria will point to no other than WHO. These are just OPINIONS. NOT NEWS. Read or believe at your own risk!