#the extended family i grew up with in Virginia used the words “colored people”

[aidansplaguewind]

To the other anon, please send a link to any kind of proof that Benedict said any such things. Evidence is crucial, or it's just rumors, which should be taken with a grain of salt, if even that.

That's fair.

But I'm telling you man, something ain't right about him.

I mean, him saying "colored people" is fact and that's enough for me.

[the-bottom-of-the-abyss]

A Playlist on Paradoxical Love

This is a true story about the abuse I suffered from a past relationship that I wrote for a college class. I feel that sharing may help me but also others in identifying abuse and/or helping others heal. 

I have no idea if anyone will ever read this but it was so, so hard to write but in the end, getting my feelings out in one place seemed to help

HUGE TRIGGER WARNINGS: nongraphic sexual assault, mentions of rape, mentions of suicide, emotional abuse, gaslighting, manipulation, coercion, self deprecation

The Night We Met

The Night We Met by Lord Huron; This was our song, one that we thought was of love and fortune, but turned out to be of love and regret. The lyrics rang truer the longer we were together.

It was a warm and sunny day when she first met him. He was a new student from California, coming to her small town in West Virginia and happened to be in the percussion section with her in band. His voice caused butterflies to make a home in her young heart, igniting a spark she had not felt in the fifteen years she had been alive. He made her feel like she was something to want, always listening when others would not.

The week she met him other members of the band were going to a Drum Corps International show in Pittsburgh. Seeing it as an opportunity to get to know one another, the girl volunteered her mother to drive the girl and boy.

Her mother obliged, picking them up from the school parking lot and listened to the conversation being had in the backseat. The boy told the girl of a family full of abuse and an absence of love. The young girl felt her heart grow heavier with each story he recounted. He told her about his stepmother clawing his face, leaving the scar beneath his left eye. She wanted nothing but to heal the pain he held in his heart, to absorb all the hurt he felt.

By the end of the night, he had asked her to be his girlfriend to her delight. After dropping the boy off at his house, her mother turned to look at her with knowing eyes. She didn’t want her daughter hanging out with the boy; he was only trouble. The girl did not listen, deciding that her mother didn’t understand him. She wasn’t there when he made her laugh or looked at her like she hung the stars.

Her adamancy to be with him only grew. As a gift celebrating one month of being together, he gave her a box of things that reminded him of her. Inside, there were the type of mechanical pencils she liked with the thin lead she insisted on using. He picked out colored pens, knowing her obsession with collecting them and also put in scented hand sanitizer, knowing that she was running out of the bottle attached to her purse. To top it off there was a king size Kit-Kat bar, her favorite candy. The girl had never received a gift so thoughtful from anyone. No one had ever spent the time to curate something just for her.

He swept her off her feet and she couldn’t have been more infatuated. 

***

Sometimes I look back to that girl and wonder how she didn’t see the danger. I was naïve then, so young and unafraid of the world. Other times I know her naivety wasn’t her fault. How was I supposed to know that the person that told me they loved me would become a monster?

His words were like honey, always promising to give me the world and more, appealing to my doe-eyed view of his love. He would listen to my ramblings and musings about life that most people I knew avoided for the sake of saving time. His touches were soft and gentle in a way I could have only dreamed of. I couldn’t have known that those sweet words would turn to phrases that felt like poison, subtle when spoken but deadly when left to linger. I couldn’t have known that the same ears that listened to me would become the same that ignored my pleas for him to hear what I was saying and not twist my words. I couldn’t have known that those hands that held mine would become the same that forced me to please him after I told him no.

My mother was right and in typical teenager fashion, I ignored her advice.

Tennessee Whiskey

Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton; We went to Tennessee but in addition to that, the lyrics of the song spoke to how warm and cared for he made me feel.

The sun-kissed days of summer gently rolled into the cool, crisp season of fall. While the breeze strengthened day by day, so did their relationship. She swore she had never been so happy, standing tall by his side, feeling like a goddess in his cornflower blue gaze. When it was announced the band would be traveling to Nashville, she excitedly waited for the day for the charter buses to arrive in the cracked parking lot of her school.

October had granted them a clear day for departure, and she sat in the seat next to him, watching mountains she grew up in turn to flat plains of the Midwest. The bus was loud, filled with gleeful voices of their peers, but talking to him made it fade into the background.

She suggested taking a small nap, to help pass the hours of driving straight ahead. He declined, explaining he was an insomniac, and told her to rest without him. The girl convinced him to lay on her lap and decided to sing softly to him, as he did tell her once she had the voice of an angel. Somber tones of “The A Team” by Ed Sheeran floated from her to him for an hour before his breathing evened out.

The first day in Athens of the South flew by, taken up by the bone-tired exhaustion of the long trip and unpacking. On their second day, she dressed in her jazz band uniform, preparing for their recording in Studio B. The boy complimented her red blouse and dress pants as she stepped out of the hotel elevator, making her blush. She thought the uniform was unflattering and too formal to be worthy of his praise.

After the recording, the boy hugged her and told her how good she did and how proud he was. Proud. Someone was proud of her, of her performance. People had told her that she had talent and extended their compliments but none of it meant as much as his.

When the trip ended, she was woeful wishing for more time to escape any commitments back in her hometown. She reminded herself that there was always the Friday night lights that graced their football field and the memories it would bring. The girl was so excited to spend those nights on the field with the boy. The band would dive into the halftime show and afterwards, she could show him what a pepperoni roll was.

*** I sometimes look at pictures I still have from the trip to Nashville. I looked so happy and sure of myself. I thought of myself as a true grown-up back then, not knowing what the future would bring. He was so good to me, and even though there were signs here and there, nothing stood out as dangerous. There was no blaring siren, screeching to evacuate before the ship went down. We had only been dating a few months then, but he told me he felt like he knew my soul from a past life. He knocked on the door to my heart, and I opened it without a second thought, believing every promise he made.

I’m Your Puppet

I’m Your Puppet by Gregory and The Hawk; the lyrics “and I’ll undress, if you need it. But please don’t need it” is an accurate way to tell how fucked up my psyche was after this.

They were on the way home from a friend’s graduation party; it was exuberant, a great celebration of their mutual friend. The boy asked the girl if she wanted to pull over somewhere and fool around. It wasn’t even close to being the first time they had been together like that; they were actually each other’s first times. She was a little reluctant, hesitating to do anything that may land her in trouble. He told her that everything would be fine, so she relented, and the car pulled behind a small row of storage containers.

They both climbed in the backseat. A kiss was shared between the two, only lasting a few seconds before the boy pulled away from the girl’s shining lips.

“Can you give me a blowjob?” He asked her, looking with pleading eyes. “I don’t really want to,” she said, evading his piercing gaze, “I’m not really feeling it.” His face twisted, showing his disapproval at her response. “Come on, you never want to.

What happened to the girl who said she’d always be down to do stuff like this?” “No,” she told him, “I don’t want to.” The girl only had done it a few times, but she had almost thrown up once, and she didn’t want a repeat of that. She hoped that refusing again would make him stop asking.

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, “This is what you do when you’re in a relationship.” The girl went to object but didn’t get the chance. He opened the door and got out of the car, pulling her with him so they were standing in the gravel.

“I don’t want to,” the girl said, feeling panic rise, “let’s just have sex instead.”

“It won’t take very long,” he urged with a forceful edge that made her insides twist. With that, he put pressure on her shoulder to have her sink to her knees.

He said it wouldn’t take very long but it felt like eons to her. The rocks in the gravel pushed into the skin on her knees and that’s what she focused on. If she focused only on the pain, maybe everything else would cease to exist. She knew the boy saw tears rolling down her cheeks and heard the small, muffled sobs that escaped her. He only looked at her with lust, not giving a damn about how she was terrified, how he was making her feel.

After he finished, he pulled her up off the rocks, and helped her back in the car. Only once she felt the leather below her did she begin to full out sob. Instead of the harsh figure from moments before, she was met with the boy she knew, the one who loved her.

He pulled the girl into his lap and rocked her as she cried. “Shh,” he cooed. “I’m so sorry, I never should have done that. Please forgive me.” The girl nodded and buried her face in the crook of his neck, letting herself be calmed by his soothing voice. “We don’t have to do anything else,” he said.

To prove to him that she forgave him, she shook her head. “No, it’s fine,” she sniffled, “I’m fine.”

Once it was over, they drove home in complete silence.

 ***

That day still haunts me. It wasn’t the first time he had coerced me into something. It was far from the last, but it was the one time he legitimately forced me to do something I didn’t want to do and acknowledge it.

I blocked it out for a long time, trying to go on with life as normal. I only realized how wrong it was when I talked to a friend of mine who went through something similar. Even then, I brushed it off and told myself he didn’t mean it. It took even longer for me to see it as sexual assault. I still only remember the overview of what happened, the rest is somewhere in my mind, somewhere that it can’t hurt me. The one thing I remember is the gravel on my knees. The indents I saw when I got home that afternoon were the only things showing that it had truly happened.

This point marked when he knew he could manipulate me. I was so scared of doing something wrong, of disappointing people, disappointing him. At the notion I was beginning to become something he didn’t like, I tried my hardest to become what he said he needed.

If I think about what happened too much, I feel sick, like I need to take a scalding shower and scrub the memory out of existence.

Poison

Poison by Sofia Mills; This song brought me back to the hazy feeling of being high out of my mind and believing my person was the one pushing the drugs into my hands.

She had never gotten high before. The boy once told her he would never touch a drug, but that statement faded into explanations about how he wanted to live life. She was wary, weed was very different from the nicotine they both let swirl in their lungs. He told her for two months about how great it was until she agreed to try. She lied to her parents; the couple had been dating for a little over a year, but the girl’s parents still tried to limit their time together. Instead, she told them it would be a few of her friends from band sleeping over and that the boy wouldn’t be there.

The smoke burned in her chest; it left a distinct aftertaste she wouldn’t forget. Everything was fine until her body started to reject the hazy feeling trying to overtake her. She got sick, a feeling she absolutely loathed. Her friends gave her water and she sat curled in a ball on a chair outside, shivering as the high feeling started to crescendo. The boy stayed outside and told her she’d be okay. He grabbed a wet washcloth and dabbed her clothes before cleaning the hair framing her face. It was in that moment that she only thought of him.

No one else would ever do this for me, she thought. He loves me more than anyone ever has. I am so lucky.

*** That wasn’t the last time I got high. We would smoke at our friend’s house every weekend, spending lazy evenings in each other’s’ arms. That night in particular, I felt so special that someone other than my own mother would clean me up after getting sick and later help me feebly crawl up the stairs.

Wrong Direction

Wrong Direction by Hailee Steinfield; the lyrics “Every time you burn me down, don’t know how, for a moment, it felt like heaven” kind of explains what it was like when looking back on abusive relationships. Back then, the moment of the apology felt like a huge act of love, but now it’s obvious it was just an empty promise.

She had just gotten off a shift at work and got into his car, the clock showing a time around ten at night. The girl already told him that she felt too tired to do anything, but she would be alright for just cuddling before he drove her home. He nodded and drove across the street to the abandoned K-Mart and parked in the middle of the barren lot.

They got in the backseat and she leaned her head on his shoulder and told him about a tough customer she had to deal with. The boy listened to her and waited until her rant flickered into silence.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do anything?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “I’m so exhausted, I’ve been on my feet all day and worked an eight- hour shift.”

“Come on,” he urged, “we never do anything anymore.” She felt exhaustion seeping into her bones, and for the first time, didn’t give in, “No, I am too tired, I want to go home and sleep.”

Instead of agreeing she should get some sleep, he shrugged her head off his shoulder. She tried to reach for his arm, but he yanked it away from her and harshly rolled his eyes. “Babe?” She asked, not fully understanding what was happening.

The boy ignored her concerned gaze and opened the backseat door, loudly slamming it shut before getting into the driver’s seat. The girl took it as her cue to get into the passenger’s side. As he started the car, she once again reached for his hand that rested on the gear shift. Without looking in her direction, he moved his hand to the steering wheel, so quickly that it seemed as though her touch burned him. A permanent scowl took resident on his face and she tried again to talk to him.

“Babe? Please talk to me,” she pleaded, feeling the dread crawl into her throat. With no response, tears started to fall. The road to her house felt so much longer, filled with continuous pleas for him to talk to her, to say anything.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I was just really tired. I’m really sorry, please forgive me.” There was no mistaking the sorrow in her voice, the boy knew she was crying, even if he refused to look.

He pulled into her driveway, looking straight ahead as she gathered her coat and purse. Before getting out she tried to lean over to kiss him, but he leaned away.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated before getting out, “I love you.” To her surprise, he didn’t respond. When she shut the door, he immediately backed out, leaving her tear-stained and feeling helpless.

When the boy apologized to her the next day, she forgave him immediately. 

***

I have read that emotional abusers utilize the silent treatment because of how effective it is. After refusing him, the stonewalling struck me at my core, my worst fear coming true: becoming something he didn’t want anymore. I never stood my ground again after that. When he would want sex after that night, it would go one of two ways. I would still say no about ten times before he pulled a line that made me so full of guilt that I did what he wanted, or I promised “next time.”

In My Veins

In My Veins by Andrew Belle; This song really emphasizes the pain of the hole that is left when someone with such a stable place in your life. It feels like all that is left is their ghost.

“I don’t think we should be together anymore, Emily.” “What? What are you even talking about?” “I just need to find myself.” “What the fuck does that even mean? How can you just leave? I love you, please, we can work it out.”

“I’m sorry, I just think it’s for the best.”

*** The first time we broke up was over the phone while I was on a weekend vacation. It came after I kept pushing him to apply to college since he was going to be graduating later that year. I calculated what it would cost for him to live off minimum wage while paying rent and he got so angry. He broke up with me because he was getting annoyed with my insistence on going to college or a technical school. He hated when I got on him to not skip school or to stop smoking so much weed. He made me feel like I was so awful for trying to help him succeed. No one has ever made me feel like a burden in the way he did.

A week after, he came to my house and told me that he didn’t realize what he had until it was gone and I ultimately took him back, truly believing he would change.

Terrible Love

Terrible Love by The National; this point really marked the realization that I was in a toxic cycle of what I thought was love.

It was about thirty minutes before the girl was to perform with the jazz band for a Christmas concert. She had asked the boy to come, but he said he had plans already. This wasn’t surprising considering he left early from school on her birthday to get high. The girl settled for texting him instead.

She asked him what he was up to and he replied that he didn’t want to tell her, as she would get upset. Immediately, the girl felt worry build. Thousands of possibilities fleeted across her consciousness of he was indulging in. After pleading for him to tell her, for her own sanity, he relented and told her that he was going to be doing MDMA for the first time with a mutual friend he lived with. The girl felt irritation mixed with desperation bubble up inside her. He swore he would never do anything besides smoke weed but once again, he trampled over any promises ever made.

She texted him a long paragraph about how irresponsible it was and that he could get into so much trouble. He told her how uptight she was and how she was keeping him from living his life. The girl was fed up and told him not to text her for the rest of the night. It was a justified reaction, but her anxiety only told her she was a shitty partner for not indulging him.

She was so upset, so anxious about what he was doing and how in the recent months had been throwing his life away. He had recently began insisting that he would be fine living off of her in the future until he figured out what to do. The night went on with her panic staying at a fever pitch.

The next day the girl texted her best friend, the same one he was with, and ranted about the situation, hoping that the friend would see why she was so torn up. They had the following exchange:

The girl: He even said I wasn’t going to like what you guys were going to do. Because he knew I’d be super against it. But he said it was fine and it wasn’t a big deal and that I was overreacting. I don’t think I am. I just needed someone to talk to last night because I cried and just went over in my head what the hell I could do to help him. It’s not just this. It’s all of it. He doesn’t do his homework, skips school, or leaves because he feels like it, has no motivation and no desire to do the things he needs to. When you love someone so much all you want to do is see them succeed. Idk maybe I’m just an uptight bitch and a shit person but I do know I want the best for him.

Friend: You act like I want to see him fail. I don’t, Emily. I want him to succeed just as much as you do but I also want him to live his life to the fullest. Everyone needs to have quality of life or it isn’t worth living.

The girl: I never said you wanted to. I know you want to see him succeed just as much as I do. But I know for a fact if he doesn’t get himself together, there’s not much of a life to live. It sucks but life is hard and it’s not easy. No matter who you are, it’s never going to be easy. If he doesn’t graduate high school, there’s not much he can do. Even fast-food places can only pay minimum wage without a high school diploma and to be a manager you need a high school diploma. I’m looking for his future, not the next few months. If he wants to live in an apartment, he needs money. His dad isn’t always going to give him that. To get money, a decent job is required. Minimum wage won’t be enough. And he just doesn’t care. I try to make up for it and I try and try to push him to do his homework, to study, to make good grades. But it never works.

Friend: I’m upset rn so I’m not going to respond atm. I will text you later and we can talk about it then, okay?

The girl: Okay be safe. Please don’t show him all this unless you think necessary. I don’t want him to be mad at me because it makes me feel like the shittiest person on earth when people are mad at how I feel and like I shouldn’t tell people how I feel anymore.

*** It is hard to explain the way I felt when he told me he was going to do MDMA. My reaction wasn’t due to the drug itself, but more about the stereotypical, lazy deadbeat he had become. He once tried to impress me by telling me he brought up an 8% to a 32% in an easy class.

I felt responsible for the way he was. I thought I could fix him, that I would be able to pull him out of the headspace he was in and bring him back to who he used to be. Back then, I didn’t realize he had always been that way, only getting more obvious because I never called him out on it, save for a few times.

I recently found those texts while drafting out this paper. Reading them teleports me into the headspace I once held. Back then, I believed that I needed to help him along with the small voice that told me he was right, that I was overreacting. Now I know that my reaction was justified, I should’ve held him accountable by breaking up with him on the spot. But like many times before, I didn’t. I clung on to the hope that not all was lost, there was still time.

Honey and Milk

Honey and Milk by Flower Face; there are some lyrics in this song that really frame how the end of such a toxic relationship felt like. “And the love you made me fight for was never love at all. The red light shines through the window and I’ve got a black eye for every bed you’ve made. The honey and milk on my fingertips was never enough to make you stay.”

It was mid-April, spring out in full force when she couldn’t get ahold of him. Most days, she would have chalked it up to him deciding he wasn’t in the mood to go to school, but the day before, he swore he’d be there.

Halfway through the day, she saw him approaching in the hallway. The relief that filled her didn’t last long, though.

“We got busted last night,” he told her. “What?” “Yeah, we got caught with weed in the car and I got a drug charge.” The girl shouldn’t have been so shocked, but she was. Even worse, she shouldn’t have felt relief that he was handing her a reason to leave him on a silver platter. She finally had enough of the coercion in the bedroom, his confidence that she would never leave, and feeling like a burden.

“I can’t believe this,” she stated, shaking her head. “I’ll talk to you later; I need to think.”

The girl called him later, knowing that if she saw his face, she wouldn’t go through with it. She told him that she was done. He cried for the first time over her and told her that he wanted to take his own life. He went on for hours about how he was going to kill himself without her. The girl felt guilt settle in the forefront of her mind. She told the boy it was going to be alright and comforted him, trying to keep him calm, truly believing that he would leave his blood staining her hands.

She cried for hours after hanging up the phone. But she wasn’t crying for him, she was crying for the girl she used to be. It was almost two years that he had her in his clutches, two years of playing into his twisted games.

While she did feel used and irrevocably damaged, she could finally breathe. She was free.

*** I never went back to him, but not for a lack of him trying. I got myself as far away as possible and it was the best decision I ever made.

New Person, Old Place

New Person, Old Place by Madi Diaz; I struggled for a long time for a song that captured at least something close to my real feelings. This song captures the sadness, the trauma, and the moving on. I think that it really adds to the feelings of realization of how much I sacrificed for him: “I used to take all of your shit and carry it on my back. I’d leave what I needed behind to make room for whatever you had. I believed that I had to be strong just for you, so you wouldn’t crack”

I have thought again and again what I was going to end my story with. The optimistic and empathetic part of me yearns for a happy ending. I want people to know it gets better and feel hopeful. But the much larger, aching side of me wants to tear down the mended façade I have built and scream out all the hurt.

Most days I feel that I’m made up of an alphabet soup of emotions I couldn’t even begin to decipher. In one moment, I feel okay again and understand that I didn’t deserve what happened, but it is over. The next is filled with visceral recollections of all the worst parts that reignites every antagonistic thought. It truly feels like my psyche is in a never-ending pendulum, swinging between healing and absolute and total self-destruction.

While my thoughts on the matter are contradictory from one day to another, I think I have come to a few conclusions. I know that I am not okay, and I probably won’t be for a while. I cannot lie to myself by saying the shaking in my hands that accompanies thinking back is due to the cold instead of a physical reaction to trauma. I also have come to realize that I am so fucking angry, and I am allowed to be. A lot of people say that forgiveness is the way to healing but I think that is bullshit. I will never forgive him for what he did to me. He stole my naivety from underneath me and forced me to thank him. How can you forgive something like that?

Many don’t understand why survivors stay in abusive relationships if it is so awful. The problem is that it wasn’t always bad. There were times that I felt like I was on top of the world and others where he yanked me down to hell. I believed I deserved what he did, that I wasn’t worth anything more. He made me believe he was the only one that would love me.

It’s funny how trauma works. While he assaulted my body and tortured my mind, I mislabeled it as love, as flaws that I needed to accept since he loved mine. I didn’t start to notice the way he changed me until months later. Even now, almost two years since the day I left, I’m still tormented by the aftereffects. Over the course of writing about my ordeal, I tremble for hours, physically reacting to reliving the experiences, no matter how healing it is.

Suffering from abuse at such a formative age, fifteen to seventeen, left its mark on my psyche, etched deep inside. Because of this, I want others to know how to escape and that no one is responsible for the actions of others. Even if he was abused himself, he chose to continue the cycle and use me as a scapegoat for all his problems in life. I am grateful for one thing though; I will never, ever let myself be treated like that again. I would rather be alone than suffer the way that I did.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that most stories don’t have a happy ending; instead, most end in a nameless limbo between good and bad. My story falls into that majority. Many bad things happened, and they continue to come back again and again, like a stray that only found shelter in my mind. There is still so much that haunts me daily, but I also know that it is not all bad.

My soul is still covered with the ominous clouds his presence brought but every day, more slivers of sunlight poke through, causing flowers to bloom where it was once barren. One day, a full garden will grow and take over the parts of me that he singlehandedly ripped apart. One day, I will not feel so empty about the ordeal.

One day, I will be okay again.

[sunshineandfangs]

Klarosummer - Lemon Squares || Sauveuse et Bourreau

@klarosummerbingo

Sorry, I was late, but this is my latest entry to “My-Brain-Needs-to-Chill” a memo to myself. 

Warnings: brief but graphic depictions of gore and mentions of abuse.

Klaus narrowed his eyes listening to the fearful and angry mutterings of one of the corner tables. He traced the edge of his brandy glass, not particularly impressed by its strength. Gulping the last mouthful, he set the glass on the bar and sauntered over to the table.

“Why so glum?”

They eyed him warily, noting the higher quality of his clothes. Wondering if he came from the lord’s castle, if he was there to question their recent lack of tribute.

To their noticeable surprise, he instead snagged a nearby chair, pulling it over to sprawl in, knowing it would make him seem less threatening. He could compel the answers from them if he had to, but compulsion was a blunt tool, made far less effective if he didn’t know precisely what he wanted.

And in fact, he didn’t. Klaus had only recently arrived in the little hamlet, intending to pass through on his way to a larger city. But the stench of fear and hate had been near palpable, and he couldn’t help his curiosity.

What manner of monster was tormenting this little town?

---

He raised his eyebrow, allowing his face to portray an air of curious concern. Waited patiently as the table shifted with unease. The silence stretched as the men exchanged a series of looks, before one of them reluctantly started to speak.

“There’s been trouble recently, sir. And if you are wise, you’ll heed our advice and leave this place as soon as you can.”

“Is the concern truly so great that you would advise travelers leave?”

Klaus’ curiosity and intrigue only grew as the men simply nodded solemnly at his words. Little hamlets like these needed some manner of foot traffic to sustain themselves these days, as the exchange of goods became ever more prevalent.

They literally should not be able to turn away strangers, and yet that was precisely what they were attempting to do.

His eyes dilated as his gaze carefully locked with each man in turn, knowing they would close ranks and refuse to divulge whatever secret this town held. Likely afraid that whatever horror had visited them would deter strangers forever. A true death sentence.

“Tell me, what is this cause for concern?”

Klaus felt his eyebrows creep steadily higher as a wild tale unfolded.

---

Three Months Ago

A scream tore through the still morning air, dawn’s first tendrils of light only beginning to creep over the land.

Nearby farmers that had already started their morning stilled in their fields and barns, clenching their pitchforks and hoes as they ventured toward the source of the noise. 

It had been a feminine cry, a woman’s hysterics they were all hoping, even as uneasy shivers crawled down their spines. Even for a woman, that shriek had been terrible, invoking sparks of primal fear.

And they didn’t like that. 

They should have no need to fear anything. Strong and capable as they were, protecting and providing for their women and children.

Yet when they came across the source of those screams, most shouted out themselves. One of the younger ones, only just out of his boyhood years, wretched into the grass, spiting up bile onto the dirt.

For there in the entryway of a small two-person cottage was a man.

Or the remains of a man rather, his body cut into more bloody chunks and ribbons that any of the men could count. The rest of him was smeared across the floor in pools of blood, offal such as intestines and stomach and liver intact, but gruesomely displayed just out side the door.

And just beyond the open door, the wood left open from where the woman had coming charging out the house, was a head. Standing on its bloody stump and smiling a too wide grin, lips peeled back to reveal rotting teeth. His eyes seemed to bulge from the graying flesh, eyelids similarly removed.

By God, none of them had seen anything like it.

--

More and more bodies were found by panicked villagers, many ending up near catatonic after seeing such horrors. No display was alike, each corpse cut and desecrated in new ways.

With the townspeople panicking, hostilely eyeing neighbors and strangers alike, it was no wonder that it took several weeks to realize one other fact.

Children were going missing.

And it was always a child related to one of the dead...

Then, whispers and rumors starting circulating. Of strange women being seen with the newly departed not long before their demise. Sometimes fair of hair and other times black. A few times red of hair even, a mark of devilry if there ever was one.

But no matter how cautious, people kept dying and children kept vanishing.

---

Now, Klaus wasn’t one to care for the concerns or problems of humans. More often than not he may have even been the cause of them himself. That being said, such elaborate and macabre displays weren’t really to his taste. He could appreciate the gruesome creativity he supposed, but that was really more his brother’s style. 

What did actually upset him was the children. Cruel as it sounded, death was often the kindest fate that awaited those in the clutches of monsters. And such things were not tolerated by him or his siblings when a child was involved.

A second compulsion blurred his table mate's memories of his appearance and questions, as he blurred away a moment later. Hunting for the creature whose death he would relish.

---

Somewhere deep in the woods a beautiful blonde woman smiled at a tiny, slip of a girl. Her frock a bit dirty and worn, her face drawn and tired.

The blonde extended a hand to the little girl, waiting patiently as the child considered.

Small fingers eventually reached out to twine with the blonde’s her eyes large and hopeful as she followed the woman inside, lured by promises of warmth and comfort and food.

---

Caroline paused, brow furrowed, lemon rind still pressed against the metal grater. She had conned Klaus into helping her with the Mystic Falls Bake Sale, an annual charity drive that donated its funds to Families Forward Virginia. And as always, Caroline was on a spree, making batch after batch of the famous Forbes Lemon Squares.

A baking spree, Klaus just disrupted with his disturbing choice in storytelling.

“What the hell, Klaus?! Why would I want to hear your creepy recounting of personal history?” 

She whirled around to make sure he could properly see her angry gesturing, her pointed stares as she glance between his eyes and the abandoned mixing bowl on his side of the counter.

He offered a dim half-smile, his normal amusement from her reactions quelled by an odd, uncharacteristic sadness. Though he obligingly returned to his designated mixing, staring into the batter as he whisked.

“Apologies, sweetheart, I find I’m in a bit of a mood today.” He shook his head, tone returning to the normal soft and weird affection he spoke to her with. “What you’re doing though is admirable, Caroline. We both know monsters will continue to exist for eternity, but you’ve found a way to aid the survivors.”

The two lapsed into silence, the kitchen filled with only the sounds of their baking.

“I never found her you know?”

“...What?”

“Whoever was terrorizing that town. She disappeared not long after I started hunting for her.”

“Why were you? Hunting her, I mean?”

Klaus whirled to face the blonde, a little hurt despite himself at her continued low opinion of him.

“Caroline,” he stated quite seriously, voice low and a bit harsh, “there are lines even I do not cross.”

She didn’t look at him, pouring mix over the prepared sugary crust, though her voice was soft when she finally replied.

“I know.” She paused. “But what if you were wrong?”

He stilled, confused by the shift.

“I mean think about it. You just told me she suddenly stopped and the children’s bodies were never found. After her rather,” Caroline’s nose wrinkled, “colorful displays she certainly didn’t seem to be ashamed of her actions. So, perhaps she wasn’t harming the kids, Klaus.”

He shook his head. “Your faith is misplaced, love.”

Caroline finally turned to him an odd expression on her face. She cocked her head looking thoughtful.

“Is it? I think La sorcière de Pierre,” the French easily rolling off her tongue to Klaus’ utter shock, “was just dramatic, not evil.”

Caroline left to relax in the living room, the squares set to bake in the oven, Klaus stood stunned still for several long moments before he bolted after her.

“What did you just say?” He whispered hoarsely.

“They were the monsters, Klaus. Molesters and brutes all.” She spoke this calmly, Old French elongating the vowels of her words.

And Klaus stared, mouth slightly agape, at the woman he had failed to find all those centuries ago.

---

Author’s Note: To my irritation several words in English translate to French with the same spelling which ruins the point. Anyway, this one is “Savior and Executioner” in French. I already used German so despite some Hansel and Gretel similarities it’s French. Apparently there was a similar tale from France circa 1697 so good enough for me!  Plus, I set it in France. So there lol

La sorcière de Pierre = The witch of Pierre

FYI that’s a real charity to aid children, I don’t know how reputable that particular one is, but considering donating to such funds if you have the means.

[eliancs-blog]

*itzy  vc*  hey  hey  hey   !   (  i  see  that  i’m  icy  )   what’s  up,  i’m  diana,  i’m  nineteen,  and  i’m  ur  resident  girl  group  stan.  i  reside  in  the  est  timezone  &  go  by  the  pronouns  she/her.  now,  finally  introducing  …  loona   !!    jk,  her  name  is  eliana  &  u  can  read  about  her  under  the  cut   !  (  stream  norman  fucking  rockwell <3  ) 

﹤ park jiwon, she/her, cisfemale ﹥; * - hello eliana ‘lia’ wu. long time no see. i know a lot about you. like how you’re twenty, how you’re a european studies major, and in fact.. how you’re the face of your parents church but are hiding the fact that you’re anything but innocent---and that you got kicked out of your catholic university for having an affair with your professor. would be a shame if it got out, wouldn’t it ? so let’s play a game. * TRUTH OR DARE ?

(    𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫.   )

born on october 12th in blacksburg, virginia, eliana’s first impression of the world was a crisp autumn day

she was her parents first and only child and soon became their pride and joy. her parents both came from wealthy families and dedicated their lives to the catholic church they owned

so, eliana grew up around the church and was raised catholic. her parents made her the face of their church. she was the perfect choice, dripping with innocence and purity

eliana learned at a fairly young age the corruption that ensued behind the scenes, behind her parents backs. growing up, she often spent her afternoons at the church. while her parents were off trying to grow their following, eliana was left alone at the church to observe bribery, adultery, and so much more

she was a ghost of a girl; most of the time, people had no idea she was there. they made it easy for her to learn all their secrets

eliana was sent to catholic boarding school for all her years of schooling. at boarding school, she worked her way up the chain of command through bribery, manipulation and blackmail.

she would leave for the majority of the year for school and return during the holidays and for summer break. she would take annual summer trips to europe visiting extended family, staying mainly in italy and france. eliana grew to love europe, she wished she could live there forever

with both catholic school and the church being corrupt, eliana had little faith in the religion and most of the people who followed it. she felt like they were either hypocrites hiding behind a facade, or naively unaware cowards that needed something to believe in. she fell into the first category, while her parents fell into the second. eliana felt sorry for her parents and continued to act like the perfect little church girl for their sake (and for their money, of course)

eliana grew to be quite a selfish person, at least almost everything she did was in her own self interest. if she had nothing to gain, she didn’t see a point in entertaining things. while eliana masqueraded herself as being a charitable, altruistic person, she was quite the opposite

during her high school years at catholic school, eliana began using coke. with pressure from her parents to excel in her classes, extracurricular’s, and volunteer work, she needed something to take the edge off. it started as something she did now and then, though eventually she began to grew addicted (yes, she has the coke cross like kathryn from cruel intentions)

also while away at catholic school, eliana began to experiment with other things. she discovered she had a sexual and romantic interest in girls and guys and started to explore it. although her parents demanded she remain a virgin until marriage, eliana didn’t quite follow those rules, though she kept up the image. her sexual partners and romantic relations were kept on the low for the most part in order to maintain her perfect image

she discovered that sex was just another thing she could use to manipulate others and for her own self interest. after high school, eliana went on to attend a catholic university. during her first semester, she began to have an affair with one of her professors

usually the one in control, eliana found herself recklessly falling for her professor. for him, it was just lust, but for her it felt like more. one day, her private affair became public among some and eliana was kicked out of the university to avoid a scandal

this was bad news for eliana, who had to come up with a way to hide her expulsion from her parents and continue an education elsewhere. the following semester, eliana continued to pretend to attend the catholic university but later decided to tell her parents about transferring to UVA

she came up with a lie about the school having a better program for her major and promised to continue her biblical studies outside of class. reluctantly, her parents allowed it. they trusted her. she was their perfect daughter, after all

so, eliana continued her education at UVA after blackmailing her old school for a dazzling letter of recommendation

eliana is studying european studies, with the desire of eventually moving to france. she is enamored with the art, history, literature, cinema, and the food. honestly, eliana does not want to do anything for a living and is hoping to live off her trust fund and the money she would eventually inherit from her parents, but she loves learning and going to school and bettering her education

(    𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀.   )

eliana is a libra sun scorpio moon (the rest of her placements are tbd)

if u click the link, u can read more about what that means but even the label attached to that combination itself is super fitting for her --- the ‘masquerader’

eliana is not a mean person by any means, but a lot of what she does is in her own self interest. she considers a lot of her friendships to be mutually beneficial arrangements

however, once you become her real friend, though she likely doesn’t have many, she will remain extremely loyal and do anything for you 

once her mind is set on something, she must see it through. this aspect about her can come across as being obsessive in a way (it’s her scorpio moon ok)

when it comes to relationships, eliana tends to see them kind of like business arrangements. love is kind of the last thing in her mind, but it’s definitely possible for her to get swept up into romance, as much as she hates to think so

so, eliana prefers hook ups. however, she still tries to maintain her pure image with people she does not know very well until she gets a read on them. she keeps all her relations on the low and even comes up with mini terms of agreement before getting involved with anyone. she reallyyyyy hates other people knowing her business

eliana is superficially nice on the surface. when i say superficial, it’s not to say that she isn’t friendly but it is superficial at first until she knows who she is dealing with. regardless, she is a friendly person because it does not really benefit her to be any other way. however, if you mess with her, she will find a tactical way to get you back and ten times harder

she drinks and does drugs in moderation because she likes to be in control of herself (minus her coke addiction bc u know). also does it on the down low because again, she’s maintaining an image here

her whole life is pretty much fake, so she often loses sight of herself. she doesn’t know exactly who she is but she is very good at pretending, and she even convinces herself sometimes

she’s pretty lonely tbh though she’ll never admit it. it’s been this way since she was little

her favorite books are anything by jane austen and les liaisons dangereuses by pierre choderlos de laclos, aka the book cruel intentions was based on. she also really enjoys sylvia plath, mary shelley, and virginia woolf

favorite shows: big little lies, sharp objects, killing eve, twin peaks, handmaid’s tale

favorite movies: pride and prejudice, marie antoinette, thoroughbreds, cruel intentions, annihilation, ex machina, stoker, the handmaiden, black swan, atonement, mulholland drive

her fav colors are mint, pastel pink, white and beige

pls look at the pinterest board i made for her <3

(    𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.   ) 

ex-fling/gf/bf - eliana could have a few of these. they could be on good or bad terms. if they’re on bad terms eliana would prob be keeping a close eye on them because she doesn’t want word really getting out. maybe the sexual tension is still there. we could plot out the details and make if fun and interesting hehe

unrequited crush -  ur character could have feelings for eliana, but maybe she doesn’t feel them. this could develop into her eventually having feelings for ur muse or not, whatever we want ! OR eliana could have a crush on someone who does not like her back. maybe that person is super non-committal, or they simply do not like her back. we could plot this out however but it would b interesting for eliana to actually have feelings for someone

current fling/friends w benefits - someone she is currently seeing/sleeping with. could be no strings attached, or there could b some feelings there. maybe they don’t want to make it anything serious, maybe one person is ready to go further, and the other isn’t.

enemies w benefits - imagine the tension!!! they started out hating each other, but ended up hooking up. maybe it was a one time thing, or maybe they can’t stop going back to each other. i think it would definitely have to be something kept super secret, she doesn’t want anyone else to know. this could develop in soooo many ways !

ex-friends - someone she used to consider a close friend, but they had a falling out for whatever reason n maybe they hate each other now. maybe they want to re-kindle their friendship but don’t know how. this could b juicy if they know a little too much about her

sibling-like friendship - someone she sees like a sibling. they’re there for each other and look out for one another, always have each other’s backs. being an only child and not really close to her parents, i would love for eliana to have a friend that’s like family !

dynamic duo - basically like her current best friend. this person is prob one of the closest people to her and might know her very well ! they could b a power duo, always looking out for each other

take care - ok i would love it if for one night, eliana lost control. she either got too drunk or high and was kind of a wreck. someone was there and kind of came to her rescue in a way, they got her home or maybe she slept at their place. after this night, maybe eliana would feel awkward (but also grateful) that someone actually took care of her and looked out for her. maybe your muse did it to have something over her, or maybe it was actually genuine to help her. this could be plotted out in sooo many ways yes i love it

confidant - someone who confides in her or someone she confides in, or they confide in each other. they don’t necessarily have to be the closest friends ever, but they get along, trust each other, and maybe they talk more in private

rivals - they hate each other for whatever reason. maybe it’s jealousy or their personalities just clash, but for whatever reason they do not get along. i love a good enemies plot. they can just b nasty to each other !!! maybe they bring out a really bad side to eliana that most ppl dont see (because she’s usually very lowkey even when she’s angry or dislikes someone)

victim of manipulation - eliana can be very manipulative. whether through bribery, blackmail, or whatever the case, i would love to have a plot where your muse is someone she could manipulate. maybe she bribes them to do her dirty work, or has something over them. she wouldn’t make them do anything too crazy, but this person would just be someone she has a hold over 

partner in crime - okay pls give me someone eliana schemes with. like imagine the powerrrr they would have. they would just plot n scheme together to help each other out or for some personal gain

dealer - idk if any of the muses r drug dealers, but if yes, someone who deals coke to her. they might know firsthand about her addiction. we could plot this however!

these are all the plot ideas i can think of for now, but i’ll prob make a plots page later on and add more stuff !

aaaaaand this is everything !! it has taken me longer to write this than i care to admit...pls don’t ask. i would absolutely looooove to plot so please hit me up on discord stream norman fucking rockwell#5522 (or i can hit u up). i cannotttt wait to start interacting and stuff <3

[themysteriouslou]

👀 all of them for leslie?

The Basics

1. Give their full name, and describe them or post a picture! (Height, build, hair, eye, and skin color, etc.)

Full name's Elena Leslie Grünewald! Only a handful of people refer to her with her first name though. 5′4/5′5, lean and fit. Wavy, medium-dark chestnut hair; gray eyes, light skin that gradually tans, has a scar that runs across the right side of her jaw.

2. How old are they? 

28!

3. Sexuality and gender? 

Heteroflexible, cisgender female.

Pre-Game

1. How did they end up at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department? How long have they worked there?

Her father told her about the job just as she graduated from the police academy. He had been a colleague of Whitehorse’s when the two were young men in the office and following his transfer he kept in contact with him, so he must have mentioned her interests in a passing conversation. As for the second question, she has been working there for a year.

2. Relationship with Pratt, Hudson, and Whitehorse?

Pratt: he was the first to welcome her to the department—it took them some weeks but they grew close to each other during that time. He teased her a lot (because he was a little shit) but they got each other's back and genuinely care about the other's well-being.

Hudson: one of the first alongside Pratt to welcome her to the county, as well as the one who gave her some insight and help on how to work at the station. It took longer to befriend her than Pratt for the simple fact Danny’s death had been a recent thing and she was still blaming herself from it, but she eventually warmed up to Leslie.

Whitehorse: She has a soft spot for Whitehorse—she knew him since she was a child and had enough good memories of him to consider working alongside him a blessing. Likely sees him as a surrogate uncle figure due to the trust he extended to her as soon as she was given the duty of a cop.

3. Do they have an education?

Yup! Bachelor’s Degree in Criminal Justice.

4. Where are they from? Did they speak a different language there?

She’s from Virginia! Aside from speaking Italian in her maternal family’s household, English has always been her main language.

5. Is there anyone outside the valley that might have come looking for them?

Her relatives and some of her friends back at home—she keeps in contact with them occasionally so I'd think they wouldn't make a big deal out of her going radio silent at first. However, they'd definitely start suspecting something's wrong if there hasn't been a call from her in months...

6. Did they have a religious background of any kind?

Quite — the Grünewalds aren’t attached to religious institutions but they’re Christian nonetheless. Leslie considers herself a believer, just more laid-back and chill about it.

Inside Hope County

1. What was going through their head when the helicopter went down and during the subsequent chase?

It was a mix of words: an increasing stream of "fucks" on loop coupled with an exasperated “are you fucking kidding me”. She was almost moving on autopilot—it was a terrifying experience for her but she knew she had to escape, she had to be fast or else, it was over.

2. Were they afraid of Joseph and Eden’s Gate? Angry?

Leaning towards afraid—she didn’t know what was going on and the only thought on her mind was to get to somewhere safe. Leslie had a few run-ins with Eden’s Gate before the attempted arrest and could understand why the locals were wary of them. Mainly, she was cautious.

3. Did they trust Dutch?

Let's put it this way: waking up cuffed to a post isn’t the best way to start trust between two people.

4. How did they feel about their team being taken by the cult, did they count them as lost, did they want them back, did they not care?

Les was worried sick—the memories from hours before started to return as she recovered, which meant she remembered trying to stop the cult from taking Joey, Staci's and Whitehorse's screams, and the Marshal’s protests as he was found by the peggies. More than anything, Leslie was determined to recover them—she was not going to leave them behind if she had anything to say about it.

5. How did they take to the idea of being part of, if not leading, the resistance?

It… didn’t dawn on her she was leading the Resistance at the beginning. She was just doing what she thought right—if she could help the people of the county, so be it. Then one day she was at the county jail, talking to several Resistance members and one of them said “you gave us hope to fight back”. It baffled her at first, but eventually she slotted right into the leader role.

6. Which companions did they recruit, and who did they travel with the most?

All of them! Nick’s a constant companion of hers, the second companion often varies depending on the region she is at.

7. Did they have time to find romance amidst the chaos? How did they do it?

It's... complicated, considering she fell in love with one of her enemies. Not even her knows how did it happen.

8. Feelings about Joseph? 

Mixed. On one hand he's the man she was ordered to arrest and the accusations against him, the bad he inflicted onto the county's residents should've convinced her he should be taken down. On the other hand... Leslie can see his point. She gets what's he's trying to say and why he is doing all of this, she sees him treating her carefully and taking his time to make her understand (which in turn makes her feel more conflicted tbh). Reading the BOJ in an attempt to understand him only furthers these mixed feelings.

9. Feelings about the other Seeds?

Faith was the scariest Seed for her—she gets into your mind, her persuasion convinces you that you belong with the cult and her management of the Bliss is absolutely terrifying. Leslie feels like she was walking on thin ice around her, yet she didn't see the need to refuse to listen to her (likely because her story pulls her heartstrings and her instinctual need is to help others, even her enemies and people who wronged her).

As for John, Les can admit he doesn't put pretenses and is straightforward about his motives. He doesn't try to use pity or fear to get to her, rather he just tells her the reason he is the way he is. She appreciates honesty in people, so I think she'd be the same way with him. Snarks a lot at him through the radio, though, and probably enjoys messing with him way too much, but that's it.

Jacob... well, here's the complicated part—Leslie should fear him, shouldn't feel at ease in his presence, shouldn't feel safe when she's in his arms, yet she does. It was a matter of survival what made them grow closer and fond of each other and now they don't know how to deal with it. She wants to soothe his scars, both physically and psychologically, wants to be there for him. Wants to save him. For the most part she tried to pretend these obvious feelings weren't there, but as the war wages on, with every unplanned meeting... it's just more difficult.

10. How did they handle having to kill animals and other humans? Had they done it before?

Killing animals wasn’t hard—Les participated in past hunting trips with her male relatives and the county people before. As for killing humans… she tries to not do it when she has the chance. Killing Angels and peggies in self-defense still leaves a bad taste in her mouth though.

11. Which canon ending did they choose in-game, and would you have changed the ending at all?

She choose the Resist ending. Leslie is too stubborn to go back once she had made her choice. As for the second part of the question: boy would I have. I would have spared and arrested the Seeds. Having to kill them hurt me and made me wish we could've given them a chance at life.

Personal

Favorite weapon(s)?

Any type of rifles and explosives! Molotovs and pipes are a recurrent thing in her inventory too.

2. Stealth or firepower?

Most of the time she likes stealth. However, it’s not uncommon of her to go Rambo and punch everything on sight if she has no other choice.

3. How did they spend their time, when not fighting peggies?

Lots of time spent at Fall’s End and the 8-Bit Pizza Bar. You could also find her enjoying the regions' scenery, drawing, fishing or doing tasks for the locals—basically she spent her time on things that relaxed her or took her mind off the war.

4. Where did they live during the events of the game?

Les wandered A LOT. Her actual house is at the border of the Whitetail Mountains and Holland Valley region, but she has had few opportunities to go there after the Reaping. After, she mostly uses her secret log cabin and takes naps in abandoned cars and houses/bunkers.

5. Any other facts you want to share about your Deputy!

- can tie a cherry stem with her tongue.

- used to practice baseball when she was younger.

- doesn't know how to ice-skate for the life of her —her face practically belongs to the floor if someone manages to convince her to try it.

- will laugh at the dumbest of jokes.

- prefers calling to texting people but know she's a keysmasher.

[raisingsupergirl]

A New Age Dawning

I once met a Freemason who said he changed his career ever seven years, a concept he based on the seventh sabbatical year of the Old Testament. And it wasn’t like he moved to a different position within the same career field. He made drastic changes: professor, salesman, laborer, etc. And in different parts of the country, too. At first, I thought he was lying. Then I thought he was running from something. But in the end, I envied him. We only get one life, so why spend it working toward a singular goal, no matter how grand? Why not reinvent yourself? Who wouldn’t jump on the chance to be reborn? And that idea stuck with me in a subtle way until I ran across it again in my Bible reading about a year ago. The year of Jubilee, it’s called. A year in which all debts are forgiven, all land is returned to its original owners, and everyone starts anew. Once every seven years. And do you know what’s a multiple of seven? Thirty five, which is exactly what I was going to be turning the next year. And not a moment too soon. You see, my life has been a series of seven-year “ages” in which I’ve grown and found new exciting experiences, but at the end of each age, I become anxious, bogged down with mundane frustration until I finally burst through into some new adventure. And like any good adventure, mine started with the First Age…

The First Age: Ignorance (0-7)

The first seven years of my life are my mobile home memories. A little trailer home on Dorlac Road. Avoiding cactuses in our dirt basketball court. Digging through overgrown lily pads and cattails to get to our fishing hole. Going to daycare with the lady who played the piano and the man who threw a fake duck to his Golden Retriever. And family. So much family. The four of us boys crammed onto the broke-down couch and drawing funny faces on TV Guide pictures. Mom cooking a four-pound meatloaf to feed us. Watching my older brothers play Zelda and Punch Out and Techmo Superbowl. Going fishing at the Mississippi river with Grandpa Winch. Watching baseball with Grandpa Collins. Playing Ninja Turtles and Dungeons & Dragons with my cousins. Being mad when everyone went to Grandma’s and had chicken pox, but I wasn’t allowed to go and have any for some reason. You see, Grandma was the BEST cook, and I was SURE Chicken Pox were delicious. Because at that time, I didn’t understand it. Any of it. All lights and colors and awe-inspiring mystery. But when I turned eight, my parents began taking us to this other place. A spot in the woods. And we started cutting down those woods, clearing a space big enough for a castle. And men came out and blew up the ground, making a big hole. Walls went up. So many walls. And then mom said I had to start going to school. Away from my family. Away from everything I knew. But there was one thing I knew then: Fear.

The Second Age: Innocence (7-14)

I remember my first night in the new house. How could anyone keep from getting lost in such a place. It was so dark, quiet, and cavernous. I got a cat soon after that, and he felt the same way. Skittish, hidden, afraid. I named him Kitty. Kitty was my first real pet, and he was one of my closest friends through that Second Age. But slowly, something started to happen within me. I started to realize that the new house wasn’t scary. The new house was warm, solid, enduring, safe. Even the woods around us were peaceful and inviting. Our pond didn’t have any lily pads or cattails. But it did have catfish. Huge ones. And they bit best at night on doughballs. The deepest parts of the woods had caves and bluffs and creeks. And I could wander as long as I wanted without a watch or a compass, and somehow I’d always end up back at home just before dark.

School wasn’t so bad, either. I was nice to the kids, and they were nice back. I even made some friends who lived within bike-riding distance. I think Greg and Zach were the first. They were older, but they lived on the same gravel road. And they liked cards. Not the boring ones that my brothers liked—the ones about sports. No, these new cards had superheroes on them. And some of them were games that let you BE a superhero and fight against your friends’ superheroes. They brought my Saturday morning cartoons to life, and my love for fantasy and imagination started to blossom. I met Brandon next. He was a new kid on the bus, and he had a cool toy. He became my best friend for many years. Together we explored the wilderness, conquered the FIRST Warcraft game, and discovered girls. And as I approached the end of the Second Age, a dark, hormonal shadow spread over my life of innocence.

The Third Age: Independence (14-25)

Middle school. I shouldn’t have to explain further, but I will. My friends grew armpit hair, and I didn’t. My friends made the basketball team, and I didn’t. My friends paired up with girlfriends, and I didn’t (except that one time when Elizabeth Stroble let me cut in the lunch line by her). I found purpose in football, and I found God at Bates Creek church camp. A girl said she liked me in high school, so I started dating her. Then she cheated on me with my previously-mentioned best friend. It was then, at the peak of puberty’s angst, that I first felt heartbreak. I forgave them both and remained friends with them. I then met some more lifelong friends of the most interesting kind—skaters. There was something about them that I identified with. Not the skating (I lived on a gravel road, remember?). But they were honest, raw, adventurous, unafraid. A little broken, but also honest and loyal. And they all had the best senses of humor. I was friendly toward everyone in high school (even nominated for “most congenial”), but it was with those skaters that I learned to really push the boundaries of my reality.

This epic Age, extending through college to a couple years beyond, was the most adventurous and transformative of my life. There’s so much to tell. My first drink of alcohol (a “hey, mister” bottle of Jack Daniels in the back of my friend’s van). Wild parties that ALWAYS ended with deep conversations. Cruising the strip in my red 1995 Camaro. A heart-wrenching breakup with my second girlfriend, which left both mental and physical scars. Finding true peace in my empty college bedroom with a cup of tea, a candle, and my first copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. And then finding my love of reading, writing, and LEARNING. Education was a concept that had been forced down my throat throughout school, so I never realized I actually LOVED learning new things until it became an option. But it wasn’t long into my college career when I started devouring philosophy, history, religion, and fantasy of all kinds. And then I met my future wife in a bowling alley, and everything changed. She wasn’t from my hometown. She didn’t know any of my family or my childhood friends. She had no interest in fantasy books or emo music. She was an enigma and an emotional mess. And she was perfect. From that point on, I plowed through the middle of the Third Age. My future wife graduated from college, I graduated the following year, and that summer, I passed my Boards, married the love of my life, went on my first vacation outside of the country (a blissful honeymoon to Cancun), and moved from Missouri to Virginia Beach to start my first “adult” job as a physical therapist. And just like that, I found myself sitting on a beach next to my wife, 1,000 miles from home.

It’s odd that it would take getting married to feel true independence. But college was just an evolution of high school. And in Virginia, the only person I knew was my wife, and I barely knew her. So as you can imagine, the next couple of years were hard. I had no big brothers or parents to show me how things were done. No friends to vent to. No familiar pets or woods to feel perfectly at home. No, this was an entirely new adventure for my new wife and me. We fought, we cried, we kissed, we fought some more, and we didn’t think we were going to make it. And then, one night after my shift at Busch Gardens Howl-o-Scream (yes, I moonlighted as a 6’5” axe-wielding zombie), I received a call. Well several calls, actually. And all of them said I needed to call home. Dad had been in a car accident. He was dead.

The next year was a blur. The darkest of my life. Gray. That’s all I remember. Grayness, confusion, doubt, hopelessness. I felt overworked and underqualified at a miserable job surrounded by immaturity, manipulation, and spite. I let the unresolved depression from losing my father destroy my relationship with my wife. And finally, at my wits end, I dragged said wife back home to Farmington (not my WIFE’s home, mind you. And that fact plagued our relationship for many years). Thus ended our time at Virginia Beach and the longest Age of my life.

The Fourth Age: Interlude (25-28?)

If the Third was the longest age, the Fourth was the shortest. From twenty-five to twenty-eight, in the wake of tragedy and what felt like betrayal, I slipped back into the comfort of things I knew. I found healing in writing—transforming memories and ideas into worlds and adventures that couldn’t harm me the way the real world had—and I was actually good at it! I also started work at my hometown clinic with my physical therapy mentor, which meant I was suddenly surrounded by people who knew everything about me. They UNDERSTOOD me. They comforted and uplifted me. For that I am forever grateful. But my dependance on the past also nearly broke the bond my wife and I had begun to forge in Virginia. She was jealous that I was home. I was jealous that she still had both parents. But slowly, after a lot of tears and a few broken pieces of furniture, we found each other again. There was no single epiphanous moment, but the defining word between us was commitment. Commitment to God and commitment to each other. Life started regaining some of its color, and I started trusting again. And then, after coming home from a hunting trip with my brothers one weekend, my wife told me she was pregnant.

The Fifth Age: Inquisition (28-35)

Gosh, what a whirlwind. My daughters’ stories are written in detail on this blog, so I won’t rehash them, but talk about nonstop adventure! In some ways, this has been the best Age of my life, but as I neared its end, the horizon again grew dark.

You see, through earlier tragedy and hardship, I had developed an, “If it is to be, it’s up to me,” mentality. Mostly because there were some unfortunate things that I couldn’t control but there were so many that I could. And it seemed like anything I really set my mind to was attainable. I’d landed my dream job. I’d also written novels, and those novels were getting closer and closer to publication. But slowly, my dream job became a monotonous chore, and my fledgling writing career started hitting one dead end after another. To the point where my literary agent finally broke ties, and after writing five novels, I didn’t have the strength to write another one. And tragically, I let those facts define me.

Of course, it’s such a tragedy because I was finally living a fruitful life with my wife and two super girls! On top of that, I’d become a freemason and met more lifelong friends, and toward the end of the Age, I’d embarked on a nearly year-long introspective journey with five other Christian men. But none of that mattered because I didn’t know who I was. I’d failed at writing, my “day job” became a drain on my spirit, and no matter how much I tried, there didn’t seem to be an end in sight.

And here we are. On the cusp of a new age. Last week, I finished my last meeting with those five amazing Christian men, and they have saved me. Truly. Well, they have helped me back to God’s purpose in my life: Achieving Adventure. Before that, I was dying inside, and I didn’t know why. I HAD to achieve something. ANYTHING (as if a wife, kids, and a successful career weren’t enough). But the ruts were so deep that finding a new path felt impossible. Too late in the game. Another has-been who had come so close but ultimately wasted all of his God-given potential. Talk about a classic mid-life crisis. And then came those 6 a.m. meetings. The conversations will likely fade into distant memory, but the effects will stay with me forever. Those men helped me realize what I’ve been chasing my whole life: adventure, exploration, the unknown. I LOVE learning, remember? I love growing. Not achieving, just growing. And the energy that burst from that realization has pushed me out of my ruts. It’s renewed my passion for physical therapy to the point where I’ve landed a promotion that promises new adventures. And my passion for writing, though still not quite renewed, is starting to flicker in my soul again. I have my strongest manuscript back in my hands, professionally edited and full of potential. Even if it’s never published, I will soon dive back into that adventure of my own creation. And that’s not all.

Next week I will attend my final meeting as Master of Farmington Masonic Lodge #132, and I will thank those Freemason brothers for an amazing five-year adventure that I will forever be grateful for. On that same day, I will celebrate the ribbon cutting of a new physical therapy clinic, and I will act as it’s clinic coordinator. Soon, my family and I will move to a new home—a place with explorable woods and a blank canvas of possibility.

The Sixth Age: Untitled

I have no clue what this Sixty Age will bring. I don’t know how many more Ages I’ll get to experience after that. But as I write this, I find myself smiling. The mystery fuels me, and my anxiety finally feels more like excitement again. I’m on a new adventure, and I get to take it with my three best friends: my wife is more of a trusted and true co-pilot than ever, my nearly four-year-old is in the midst of her blissful Age of Ignorance, and my seven-year-old is on the cusp of her own Second Age! What a time to be alive.

I’m about to enter the Sixth Age, friends. Another chapter of my life. And I can’t wait to share the adventure with you.

[spontaneousparkour]

ATTN: Mr. Donald John Trump 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC 20500

ALTERNATIVELY: Mr. Donald John Trump 721 Fifth Avenue, 26th Floor New York City, NY 10022

Mr. Trump:

My name is Bilal. I am American.

I was born in the City of Williamsburg, in the Commonwealth of Virginia, to a woman whose ancestry extends as far back as the settlers of that colony almost four hundred years ago. My mother’s blood is the blood of the English and the Irish, the German and the French, all of whom came to this nation when it was a disjointed mass of Colonies, who sought better days in this Land of Opportunity.

My name is Bilal. I am Muslim.

I was born to a Lebanese man who left his home as a teenager in the middle of a war that threatened his life more than once, with barely a nickel in his pocket and not a lick of English on his tongue, praying he would earn that great American dream, that he could build a family, a career, a life for himself in this nation, whose Lady Liberty beckoned him with the promise of a better life.

My name is Bilal. I am condemned in my own home.

One month before my 10th birthday, the actions of the radical few, acting by order of a man so violent that his own family cast him out of their house, and in the name of a Prophet who would condemn their actions outright, brought your hometown and my home country to its knees and painted a target on my back. From that day onward, I was marked: I was and am a terrorist, because it is absolutely reasonable to blame a nine-year old boy from small-town America for being the mastermind behind such evil. I was and am a terrorist, because it is totally sound to take an entire faith and beat them into submission for daring to call God by a different name.

My name is Bilal. I am a Millennial.

I was born in 1991 and have witnessed the miracle that was the start of the Information Age. I am the one that older anchors on your favorite newscasts refer to with daggers in their eyes and spite on their tongues. I am the one dismissed as a spoiled brat who has it too good nowadays, while my colleagues struggle to build their lives out of the nothing that has been left to them. I am the one dissatisfied with recycled sitcoms and disgusted with the status quo you call God.

My name is Bilal. Your friends do not like me.

I belong to a number of different groups who have been told that in the grander scheme of the ideal America, our lives, our issues, our problems do not matter. I am a friend to far too many people who belong to groups even more diverse, who have been told that their lives somehow matter even less than mine. At some point, the powers that be decided as a collective that the assortment of non-Caucasian, non-Evangelical, non-heterosexual, non-biologically male individuals that make up more than half of this nation’s population simply do not matter to the success of this nation, that these individuals and their issues do not contribute to the ideal American Dream.

My name is Bilal. I was named for a man renowned for his voice.

Bilal ibn Rabah was an Ethiopian man born into slavery in Mecca. He was considered a “good” slave, with a rich, resonant voice and a confidant air about him. Drawn to the preaching of the Prophet Muhammad, Bilal was one of the first individuals to convert to Islam, and his master very nearly killed him because of this. As he drew what would have been his final breaths under the weight of a massive boulder in the heat of the Arabian sun, the Prophet’s family bought Bilal’s freedom, and the Prophet Muhammad asked that Bilal use the gift that was his voice to call other Muslims to prayer. To this day, every voice that echoes from the minarets of every mosque around the world emulates the call to worship first made by Bilal.

My name is Bilal. Contrary to popular belief, it is not you I fear: it is the deranged attitude that you encourage with your venomous tongue.

I am not black. I am not a woman. I will never experience the struggles faced by Africans in America, made to build a nation they did not want, whose heads, despite the weight of the polished shoes that have stood upon their shoulders for decades, are still held high as they continue the good fight for the right to be treated like any other American; nor will I ever experience the struggles faced by women in America, who have historically been silenced by their patriarchs, who have been told to their faces that their bodies do not belong to them, who are more easily regarded by men as mere playthings than they are as living, breathing people.

My name is Bilal. I have been told to sit down and shut up.

Your supporters would like me to get over myself. I have been told that the fate of this nation and of my people has been sealed with your Presidency. I have overheard the hoots and hollers of the working white man who praises your reign as a triumphant return to good old-fashioned values, a foundation for a new America built on the bones and sealed with the blood of my family and my friends. Every day since your inauguration, it seems, I awaken to news that if my people aren’t being beaten in restaurants or detained in airports, then my friends are coming home to shattered windows and spray-painted doors, to nooses in their trees and rainbow flags burned black on their lawns. But I am the one who is told to get over myself.

My name is Bilal. I am done putting up with you.

I do not know the struggle of the black community. I do not know the struggle of the female community. I do not know the struggle of the queer community, those individuals tortured and ostracized because their love is offensive under a bastardized translation of the word of the Lord, or because their gender may not conform to the strict dichotomy that color-codes children’s toys.

But, my name is Bilal, and I know hate.

I have been hated for existing. I have been randomly selected at the terminal and pummeled into the dirt because my father’s heritage makes me an enemy of the State. I am a terrorist because at the dinner table, my family’s Grace begins with Bismillah. As I grew older, I heard the stories of my friends, whose families have barred them from their homes because their love was deemed wrong, whose great-grandfathers tilled Dixie dirt at the end of rusted chains in the antebellum sun, whose grandmothers fled across stormy gray seas with numbers burned into their skin and unspeakable horrors burned into their eyes, who to this day are made to feel less than human because of who they are.

My name is Bilal. I am calling you out.

Because I am, for all intents and purposes, a Caucasian man, I have been granted a voice to which most people in this country may actually listen. Like the Bilal who walked with the Prophet, so too will I use my voice to unite those to whom you remain deaf. For my friends who are not white, whose skin is enough of a reason for your proud champions to pummel them in the streets, my voice is theirs. For my friends who are women, who have been told countless times that they have no right to their own body, who are paid peanuts when men who have done less are somehow awarded more, my voice is theirs. For my friends in the queer community: whether they have come out and have been subsequently abused for daring to be, or their identity remains secret because your advocates would deliver unto them their despicable brand of divine retribution, my voice is theirs. For my friends of all faiths, whether Muhammad is their Prophet or Jesus is their Lord and Savior, whether they observe Shabbat or worship nothing and no one at all, my voice is theirs.

My name is Bilal.

I have watched too long as my friends and family suffered at the hands of the powers that be. Your behavior over the course of your lifetime has been nothing short of vile, and the attitude that you have encouraged in this country, this attitude of contempt for anyone and anything that doesn’t fit in your delicate definition of America, is disgusting. We are a nation of immigrants, united by our collective differences. There is nothing in this world like the United States of America, which is defined by its diversity. To denounce difference, to spit in the face of that which makes America truly great, is, in a word, wrong.

My name is Bilal. I have a voice, and I refuse to get over myself.

My name is Bilal. I will not sit down.

My name is Bilal. I am American.

I will not shut up.

[kidsviral-blog]

The Books That Made Me Who I Am

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/the-books-that-made-me-who-i-am/

The Books That Made Me Who I Am

I am the product of endless books.

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Chris Ritter / BuzzFeed

Nearly every day, a friend or acquaintance tags me on Facebook, asking me to share a list of 10 books that have influenced me. Nearly every day, I read such lists from the same circle of friends and acquaintances. I understand the tidy pleasures provided by such an exercise, but in truth, I am not merely influenced by books. I could not limit a list of important books to a number or a neatly organized list. The list, whatever it might look like, would always be changing because I too am always changing. I am not influenced by books. Instead, I am shaped by them. I am made of flesh and bone and blood. I am also made of books.

The sweetest, most wide-eyed parts of me are made from the Little House on the Prairie books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. They were some of the first books I read, and as a young girl in Nebraska, I loved knowing there were interesting stories to be told about life on the plains. This is also where my imagination began to swell. I imagined making candy with snow and maple syrup. I could hear the timbre of Pa’s voice as he teased Half-Pint. I envied Mary’s grace under pressure. I loved Almanzo Wilder. I loved him fiercely, that country boy. When he began courting Laura, I imagined what it would be like to ride in his sleigh with him, my face chilled against the brisk winter air, the rest of me warmed beneath heavy blankets and the rushing blood of Almanzo next to me, the thrill of his hand in mine.

The sweetest, most wide-eyed parts of me are made from Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, Lucy Maude Montgomery and Little Women, Louisa May Alcott.

I was a shy girl, but when I read, I was adventurous. Books made me bolder. I read stories, the titles of which I can no longer remember, about young girls embarking on thrilling adventures on wagon trains and fending for themselves, panning for gold. The Chronicles of Narnia made me believe I could slip into a wardrobe and emerge in a completely different world. Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time helped me embrace my intelligence, showed me how I was not merely bound to this world, not at all. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory made me believe anything was possible if I allowed myself to believe.

  With Forever and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Judy Blume held my hand as my body changed and my heart changed and I began to feel less like a girl and more like a young woman.

My yearning was stoked by Sweet Valley High. My yearning was stoked by the lives of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield, their seemingly perfect lives, how everyone loved them and wanted to be them. I was nothing like them, but I wanted to be them or I wanted to be in their golden circle. Through these stories, I understood, intimately, what it meant to be on the outside looking in, utterly unable to look away. I understood what it meant to be enthralled.

As I realized I would never be like those girls, I read The Outsiders and learned there was fierceness in not fitting in.

Boarding school intrigued me, so I read about The Girls of Canby Hall, all 33 books, and then I went to boarding school and it was nothing like The Girls of Canby Hall — but I was a girl from Nebraska, and Shelly Hyde, one of the main characters from the books, was a girl from Iowa. Even though I was a stranger in a strange land, something about boarding school was familiar. As has always been the case, I was not alone because I had so many stories making the inside of me.

Something terrible happened to me so I began to read voraciously about terrible things that happened to other women. This is where I learned gratitude when I did not think it would be possible. This is how I taught myself to believe I was lucky. In Perfect Victim, a young woman is kidnapped by a couple and held prisoner in a box beneath a bed for seven years. What she endures is unfathomable. I took no pleasure in reading this book but I found comfort in knowing our bodies and minds are built to endure. I read this book so often the spine is now white and softened, the pages yellowed with age and the ministrations of my tear-stained fingers.

Something terrible happened so I read Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I learned that there was strength inside me if I could just hold on, if I could just find my way to reach my strongest place. I learned how to write what I could not speak, and how even if I could not use my voice, it was still there, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Something terrible happened and I needed a different way of being in my body. I read Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg and for a while, I was able to live in my own skin on my own terms. In the stories of Macho Sluts by Pat Califia I found swagger. I turned to ink and marked myself with a new skin. I was able to live in my own skin on my own terms.

  Lo-li-ta. Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov. From a novel about a pedophile and his unnatural lust for a young girl, I stared down the ugliest parts of what people do to one another and saw the faint, unbearably compelling glimmer of humanity in that hideousness.

The sharpness of my tongue was keened by Edith Wharton and the wit of The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth — novels about social graces and the burdens of class and caged hearts, how passion stifled only deepens.

I found irreverence and quiet anger and the ability to laugh at the unfairness of the world in How to Make Love to a Negro Without Getting Tired by Dany Laferrière, a writer with whom I share Haitian blood.

The most romantic parts of my heart flourished among the pages of Pride and Prejudice and A Room With a View. Zora Neale Hurston opened mine own eyes through Their Eyes Were Watching God, showing me love in a voice unlike any I had ever known.

My understanding of desire rose out of The Lover, Marguerite Duras, lush and sensual prose, the words thickly wanton. I closed my eyes and wished for the narrator’s prescient arrogance. I closed my eyes and lamented these lovers who could never truly be together, their impossible passion, sweaty bodies coming together in the salt and sweltering heat of Indochina. And in those words there was a line that has always, always stayed with me. “My memory of men is never lit up and illuminated like my memory of women.” My reading and writing have long been illuminated by the stories of women. I carry these stories with me.

Or my desire rises out of The Story of O by Pauline Réage, a novel about darkness and submission, of allowing yourself to be entirely subsumed by the want and will of another. In this book I learned how submission is terrifying and freeing, how submission allows you to be on the outside looking in on yourself until you lose yourself. The Story of O made me want to get lost in myself or someone else or both.

  My empathy grew when I began to understand how vastly the world extended beyond what I thought I knew. I read Once Were Warriors, by Alan Duff — a novel about a Maori family in New Zealand struggling through violence and addiction and loving one another too hard. I read Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance and understood the resilience of even the most abandoned among us. I read The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros and The Women of Brewster Place by Gloria Naylor and Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich and Krik? Krak! by Edwidge Danticat and For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf by Ntozake Shange and Passing by Nella Larsen and Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin and this is a list that could not possibly end.

My writing ambition was sharpened by Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale, an unapologetically political novel that reminds us of what it costs to be a woman in this world or the next. My ambition, that toward which I aspire to write, has long been guided by Toni Morrison, Beloved, and through her words, seeing how a novel can be mysterious and true, mythical and raw, how a novel can honor memory even when we want to look away or forget. My ambition has long been sharpened by Alice Walker, willing to tell the stories of black women without apology, willing to write politically without apology — Possessing the Secret of Joy, a haunting, gorgeous novel about female genital mutilation that keeps me transfixed and heartbroken and helpless each time I read it, because sometimes the only way to tell the truth is to tell a story.

Today my writing ambition, my heart, and my mind are expanded by my peers who are writing the books I read with breathless anticipation and envy: Normally Special by xTx, Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones, The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison, Prelude to Bruise by Saeed Jones, The Book of Unknown Americans by Cristina Henriquez, Ugly Girls by Lindsay Hunter, Love Me Back by Merritt Tierce, Salsa Nocturna by Daniel José Older, A Map of Home by Randa Jarrar, Forgotten Country by Catherine Chung, Birds of a Lesser Paradise by Megan Mayhew Bergman. I take in these stories and become more of myself.

In all these books and in so many more, I find the most essential parts of myself. I become more myself. I learn what to hold most necessary when using my voice. I learn and continue to learn how to use my voice.

I am made of flesh and bone and blood. I am made of books. A list could not contain me.

***

Roxane Gay‘s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Best American Mystery Stories 2014, Best American Short Stories 2012, Best Sex Writing 2012, A Public Space, McSweeney’s, Tin House, Oxford American, American Short Fiction, West Branch, Virginia Quarterly Review, NOON, the New York Times Book Review, Bookforum, Time, the Los Angeles Times, The Nation, The Rumpus, Salon, and many others. She is the co-editor of PANK. She is also the author of the books Ayiti, An Untamed State, Bad Feminist, and Hunger, forthcoming from Harper in 2016.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/roxanegay/i-am-made-of-books