#the infection in my body i am taking antibiotics for: am i a joke to you?

[sophiethewitch1]

once again getting distracted lads

[darl-ingfics]

Sicktember Days 17 "Brain Fog/Spaced Out" and 22: "You didn't use my cup, did you?"

Fandom: Seventeen

Sickie: Woozi, Jun, ??

Caregiver(s): Seventeen

Word Count: 1,433

Notes: Coming in late on the 22nd with a double-hit Sicktember fill! There's less exposition here, which feels weird to me, but I think it's a good exercise for me to tell a story without belaboring every little detail. Let me know if you agree/disagree! Also, this scene is an elaboration of a one-off comment made in a longer Seventeen piece I have in the works.

To say that Jihoon didn’t feel good was actually a gross misrepresentation of the facts. Jihoon felt horrible. His throat was on fire, his head was pounding, his limbs were heavy and achy and he wanted to separate them from his body until they could get their act together. But deadlines couldn’t wait for his immune system to throw a bitch fit. 

“Jihoon, I think you might have strep,” Seungcheol said, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. This was the third time the leader had interrupted him in the past hour, and Jihoon was personally over it. 

“Sucks.” Jihoon continued to click around on his computer. Admittedly, he wasn’t doing anything: his head had started hurting god knows how long ago, and he hadn’t been able to write or compose anything of substance. But Seungcheol didn’t need to know that. 

“Hyung, come on.” When had Vernon arrived?! “You’re not weaseling out of this. Channie and I could hear you coughing all night.”

“Jihoon, you need to go with a manager to get tested for strep and other things cause if you do have that and stay here and infect us all, the comeback will be postponed,” Seungcheol added. Jihoon snapped his chair around to face them. Did his best not to fall over from the dizziness that resulted from such a dramatic choice. 

“Fine.” Jihoon spun back around, clicked the necessary ‘save’ buttons, and powered off his computer. The third spin back towards his members was what he would later say did him in, when in fact it was the combination of all the spins, lack of water, and the fever. 

As he stood up, Jihoon stumbled forward. Vernon caught him instantly. Could the kid teleport now? When the fuck did he get so close? 

“You good?”

“I’m just… I feel…”

Vernon smirked. “Woozy?” His lips pressed tightly together to hold back a laugh at his own joke, especially when under the scrutiny of Jihoon’s sharpest glare. 

“Be nice, Nonie,” Seunghceol chided, but his smile said otherwise. Jihoon suddenly wished he wasn’t already wearing a mask to potentially infect both of them with this demon virus and wipe those stupid smirks off of their faces. But almost as instantly as he’d had that thought, he realized just how mean it was, and nearly apologized aloud to Seungcheol and Vernon as the two of them so kindly gathered up his things and accompanied him to the company van. Maybe this really was a demon virus… 

Tests at the hospital revealed it was, in fact, strep throat. 

Seungcheol smirked at his phone when Jihoon texted him immediately upon receiving the results: “I am setting a timer and will be back in the studio exactly 24 hours after I take that first dose of medication.” 

“I would expect nothing less,” the leader texted back. He then set about quickly alerting the members to Jihoon’s condition, warning them to leave the producer alone (partially to avoid contagion, mostly to protect them from the wrath of a Jihoon barred from his work). 

*

Jihoon was not back in the studio 24 hours later. Even though he technically wasn’t contagious anymore, he still felt terrible. His fever didn’t budge for two days despite the antibiotics and the attempted ministrations of the members. He was dizzy, disoriented, and breathless from coughing so much. The sore throat was the worst, though, too painful for him to even speak the day after his diagnosis. Jihoon had spent a good part of that day in tears, unable to explain anything or ask for help, both of which he hated on a regular basis. 

But on the third day, something clicked. His body finally got its shit together, and by day four, he was up and about, ready to return to his regularly scheduled programming, albeit with eleven worried pairs of eyes constantly checking up on him. 

Said worried eyes were the reason he wasn’t dancing today. The vocal and hip hop units were gathered together in the main practice room, the performance unit called early to clarify some choreography notes in a smaller studio before joining them. Seungcheol had insisted that Jihoon not push himself too hard yet, take at least a day to simply watch, observe, and critique the new routines they’d been working on. Jihoon hadn’t complained; dancing tired him out on a good day, and he certainly didn’t want to risk the brain fog making a comeback. So here he was, sat on a chair, legs crossed as he watched his members’ tomfoolery. 

Jihoon’s vantage point from the front of the room also meant he saw the performance unit members before the rest. Which meant that he saw Junhei before Seungcheol. Which meant that Jihoon’s stomach dropped to the floor in a way that had nothing to do with his prior illness. 

It was Joshua would noticed the performance unit next, clocking the mask and tired eyes the eldest dancer was sporting. “Junnie, you good?” All eyes moved towards the doorway. 

Jun shrunk a bit from the attention, but he smiled disarmingly. Minghao’s hand rubbed soothingly at his lower back. “Yeah, just have a bit of a sore throat. Could be overuse or just a one off thing, but I know Jihoonie just had strep so… we’re wearing the mask and chilling to the side, and I’ll tell you the second it gets worse.” 

Soonyoung clapped the dancer on the back, and pointed dramatically at him, eyes locked on Jihoon. “Now that’s what you call responsible.” Jihoon rolled his eyes. With a quick look at Seungcheol and Jeonghan, Joshua stood and pressed a gentle hand to Jun’s forehead. Worry etched on his face, Joshua’s hands moved to Jun’s neck, softly probing his lymph nodes. 

“Yeah, they’re swollen, alright,” the older man commented, lips pouting sympathetically. “I’m definitely not a doctor, but I think it’s safe to assume strep.”

“You didn’t use Woozi’s cup, did you?” Jeonghan asked. “Cause… how on earth could he have even gotten you sick?” Junhei shrugged, looking slightly just as lost as the rest of them. “We’ve had Jihoonie quarantined for like, four days. I mean, except for the bathroom, I guess, but we were so diligent about cleaning…”

“Right, he hasn’t been anywhere near you this-“ Seungcheol was cut off by an apocalyptic gasp from Jihoon. “What?!”

The leader had never seen Jihoon’s eyes so wide. “That wasn’t my toothbrush.” 

“What?”

“I was super dizzy the other night.” He pinched the spot between his eyes. “It was so late, I turned on the wrong light. I just grabbed the first green toothbrush I saw. It wasn’t my fucking toothbrush. It was Junhei’s.” 

Seungcheol felt his entire body deflate as his mind ran in several conflicting circles. His confusion wasn’t helped when Mingyu burst out laughing. And then Vernon. And then Seungcheol couldn’t tell who, cause several members were falling into hysterics. 

“Guys, this isn’t funny!” the leader exclaimed. 

“Actually, hyung, this is comedy gold,” Soonyoung replied, wiping a tear from his eye. “Like… this would only happen to us.”

“Contagion by toothbrush? I mean, come on!” Seungkwan shook his head. “That’s a sitcom scene right there. How is this our real life?”

“It would only happen to us, that’s for sure,” Minghao nodded. His hand hadn’t left Junhei’s back this entire time, and he now shifted so that that arm was around the older dancer’s shoulders. “I’m sorry it’s at your expense though…”

Jun shrugged. “Honestly, I’m just happy to have provided you all some joy today.”

“Stop!” Jihoon cried from across the room. He hid his face in his hands for a moment before glaring up at Jun. “Don’t be all cute and fine with this. Be angry with me.”

Jun shook his head. “I’m not mad at you, Jihoonie-ah. It was an accident, and antibiotics and popsicles exist, so I’m not super worried about that, but…”

“You should yell at him for the fun of it, though,” Soonyoung interrupted. 

“Yeah, I’d rather not yell at all.” Jun’s fingers touched at the base of his throat. “But, I do feel it’s important to say that… umm, my toothbrush was in the wrong spot again this morning.”

“Wait… what?” Minghao blinked, along with the rest of the members. They could see Jun blushing behind his mask. 

“My toothbrush was in the wrong spot again this morning,” he repeated cautiously. 

“Well, who else has a green toothbrush?” Jihoon asked, eyes darting around the room. 

Mingyu, who’d been sitting on the floor, flung himself onto his back, hands pressed over his eyes. “OH FUCK!” 

[tilda-rothery]

I recently had surgery on my leg – like last Tuesday – to remove necrotic tissue from a skin infection turned into a really bad abscess. Now I've had skin infections and abscesses before, I'm unbelievably prone to them, no matter how clean or careful I am. I do believe there must be an underlying cause, I just haven't found it yet. But I've never in my life, had one like this.

It turned very quickly, from barely any redness or pain on Saturday, to me saying on Sunday 'tomorrow I'm going to book in to see the GP before this gets bad', to me crying on Monday evening on the phone to 111 (UK out of hours) because a very small area of the infection site had started to turn black, which then had me going to A&E later Monday evening (11pm).

I was in excruciating pain before surgery, so much so that even the dose of codeine they gave me in A&E (for which I sat for 7 hours) did nothing to elevate my discomfort.

Within 5 minutes of seeing my leg, (after sitting there for the aforementioned 7 hours), I was seen by two surgeons and placed immediately on a drip of antibiotics - and yes I had managed to see my local GP as soon as was possible on Monday morning and had already started a strong course of antibiotics before going to A&E later that day/evening. The GP decided not to drain it then and there because when I saw him Monday morning, the infection wasn't even half as bad as what it was Monday evening.

I had a special visit from the head of surgery, as well my primary surgeons and a junior anaesthetist all between the hours of 6.30-9am on Tuesday.

I was in theatre by 9.15am. This marks my first ever surgery. I was under general anaesthetic. The surgeons did not know the extent of the damage the infection had done to my leg.

By 10.15am a good chunk of my thigh had been removed but the pain was completely gone! Partly due to the removal of all the bad shit that had accumulated in my leg and partly due to the drugs.

I was sent home late Wednesday, armed with pain meds and more antibiotics.

I am currently undergoing daily visitations from my district nurses because the surgeons decided that for optimal healing, and to avoid repeat infections, to leave my abscess cavity open - no stitches, just a gaping hole in my thigh.

Everyday the nurses have to pack my leg with surgical ribbon and apply a dressing.

Yesterday was the first time in a week that I felt brave enough to take a photo and actually look at my wound. Honestly, it's both extremely gross, yet truly fascinating. It measures 4.9cm in length and 2cm in width. They have yet to measure the depth.

You can see a small amount of the muscle in my leg, it is completely exposed. What's even more fascinating is that today when I mentioned that I could actually see my muscle to the nurse, she said that if I moved, she'd be able to see it twitch. I mean of course she would, but the thought never occurred to me that anyone would ever be able to watch my thigh muscle move from within my body.

I now have to be extra careful to make sure my wound is kept clean and covered for the next who knows how long (the nurses reckon a month, I am unable to work during this time) while it heals so that it doesn't get infected, especially now as my course of antibiotics has finished.

I now find myself with far too much free time on my hands now that I am homebound.... Lots of TV (good thing there are 20 seasons of Greys Anatomy, not that I managed to get past season 13 on my last watch), Stardew valley and a little bit of crochet to occupy my time with.

To say I am starting to get a little bored is an understatement.

And now I have rambled!

So, moral of the story, be extra careful with skin infections, they can take a turn for the absolute worst within a blink of an eye, regardless of if you've done absolutely everything you can think of to prevent further infection.

They are no joke.

[midnightswithdearkatytspb]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCK

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC!Sparrow Lake

Warning: PG-13 Fluff and Cursing and baby 

Summary: It’s Bucky’s 35th Birthday

Words: 503

Info: I haven’t posted for Bucky in a long time, but Country Star!Bucky always has a place in my heart. @firefly-graphics for page breaks. 

“Oh, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to my baby, happy birthday to the most handsome man in the world, happy birthday, Buck baby, happy birthday to you.” Bucky felt a smile tug at his lips as his wife's body laid cross his body, singing softly in his ear, so as not to wake the rest of her family. 

“I’m getting old, baby. Lay me out in the field and let the crows feast on me, yeah? My bones say I’m getting too old for the late-night shows and rising with the sun. So leave me behind, baby girl. You are far too pretty for a man like me.” Sparrow howled with laughter as she smacked her husband with her cold pillow alerting their huskies from the end of the bed and making them bark. 

“James Buchanan Barnes, I know you be joking, baby, but you are only three years older than I am. I am in my prime, Sir. If I’m in my prime, you can sure as hell bet you are in your prime. Now, I need you to open those beautiful eyes and open the birthday gift I worked extra hard on getting you this year.” leaning over her husband, Sparrow reached over the side of the bed where she lay, grabbing the bag from the floor taking a deep breath, putting a smile on her face. 

Bucky sat up in bed, his bare back against the upholstered headboard, smiling as he took the blue bag from Sparrow. Opening it, he found a small shoebox, his brows instantly coming together in confusion. Pulling the lid off, he found a small pair of cowboy boots that would barely fit a few of his fingers. 

“Love, These aren’t going to fit me. They might fit Mimi, though.” Bucky looked at Sparrow, who had thrown a robe and sat beside him with the blue bag, shaking it. Bucky took the gift bag from his wife and looked at the bottom to see some black and white photographs. His jaw almost immediately dropped when he looked back up at her.

“Are you serious right now?” Bucky thought he just might cry as soon as he saw that Sparrow was indeed crying, taking the sonograms from his hands. 

“All it took was a round of antibiotics for a sinus infection, your grabby hands after the show in Dublin, and we are making a mini us.” Sparrow laid her head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“We did it, old man.” kissing his shoulder and brushing her finger across the face of the baby on the sonogram. 

“I suddenly don’t feel so old. I will be a dad in, let's see, six months! September. Do you know this is probably one of the best birthday gifts you have ever given me?” Bucky looked down at Sparrow, noticing she was doing the same. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to top this Buck. So happy birthday, may this be one of the best yet.”

[iexistfor1post]

You know I am wondering if this anxiety or Anxiety tm

It could also me a mix of something else

Like idk I could have depression but idk

If I do it could be seasonal cuz while I am always anxious (which leads to some moodiness) Winter and fall months suck sometimes

Specifically October and January to sometimes march

This time October didn't hit hard, December didn't suck and was pretty good and then suddenly march hits with a truck

I have been anxious, down in the dumps , like I left the house and shit but my brain was worried about everything which made me want to cry

Like my body is now throwing up and I didn't use to do that when anxious

The thing is (having done no research ) I think I honestly would say it is a mix

I get down and then anxious then down or I get Anxious and then I get down then anxious

I also still do stuff I like but it is all anti social stuff like drawing and reading aka no people interaction

I am happy it is just things suddenly hit and then I dwell and I have trouble getting out of it

Like my phone is a band aid I know it for a fact that it has been my crutch

I use it to try and ignore everything which causes me to get Anxious even more

I am that stupid snake eating it's own tail

Oh and btw I have a check up and it is for physicals and stuff as I haven't gone in years and I bet that they will ask shit about how I am feeling and then I am gonna feel anxious bad all over again.

Though that is kinda why I wanna go

That I I haven gone since I was a teen

So I need a adult doctor now... and I am taking my mom cuz anxious

Oh and it is so far out but it could have been worse

(Not actually all that far out but to me who has been very anxious it feels too far out)

As in according to my mom. Next year

Not joking wtf is going on in american health fields

I am everything all at once

Like I understand 4-6 months as busy and maybe up to 8 months but a whole year??

Oh and my family says I am going through a growing up crisis 🙃

Which yes that is a huge part of it but like I have always been super anxious to the point I felt sick

I just used to be able to mostly power through

Which mostly is that sometimes I needed music e to distract me or it means it is the first day of school and if I didn't go my nerves would never stop ♡

Or first day of work or back to work after awhile etc

Also some part of me is like I need therapy, but then I'm afraid I'll have to take medicine. Any kind of medicine as I just suck at pills and liguid qnd just abiut anything.

(I was good at taking antibiotics for an infection)

Then there's also the fact that I bring now the person so I won't be comfortable I would be anxious

Which yes get out of your bubble

Dude I threw up because I was anxious

To do what?

To paint fucking pottery

Oml me ugh

I am stopping here

This is a mess and idk if it actually helps or if it helps me dwell ♡

[neuroborreliosis]

i guess this is a life update. not a poem, or whatever.

things are going pretty well, actually. i can't quite believe it, because i've grown so accustomed to instability, to shit going up in flames, and to the emotional turmoil that comes with all that junk.

but no for real, things are pretty swell. i'm living in a house (rent free!) with two of the people i cherish most - bestie koala & my now partner, dillon. they both uplift me, they both make me feel so loved and cared for and at home. i believe they feel the same way about me. i believe we all feel that way about each other. it's litty! we take care of each other and cry together and laugh together, all the time. we joke about how we are gonna live to be 120 because of how much we laugh. we share a mutual obsession with the game suika. we dumpster probably over 90% of our food and make dank pasta sauces with lots of rescued veggies in 'em.

i am on the road to healing from lyme disease. with the indispensable help of the homies mentioned above, i've got a gofundme up and running. the gofundme is to raise money for lyme treatment at a place called the stram center for integrative medicine. the stram center is renowned for its holistic approach to treating lyme disease - they believe that the most effective way to treat chronic, long-term lyme infections is to combine long-term antibiotics with a regimen of medicinal herbs, medical-grade supplements (including probiotics) and hyperbaric oxygen therapy. based on all the research i have done myself, this seems to be the case. this twofold approach, which aims to 1. kill the bacteria and 2. repair damage that has already been done by the bacteria seems to be the way to go.

i am awaiting bloodwork results, which (fingers crossed) should be sent to katie, my provider at the center, this week. once she receives my recent bloodwork, she's going to start me on two oral antibiotics. we'll see how i respond to those, and if they're not proving effective, i'll be given an iv port and switched to iv antibiotics. hopefully, i won't need to get the port, but if i do, i'm fine with it. it'll be a little annoying and will probably snag on my clothes and stuff, but at this point i am willing to do whatever it takes to get better.

after i've been on the antibiotics for a short bit, maybe a week or two, maybe even less, i'm going to start hyperbaric oxygen therapy (hbot). hbot has proven to be extremely effective at helping heal the neurological symptoms of lyme disease. basically, the pressurized oxygen helps the medicine i'll be taking actually reach the parts of the brain that are riddled with lyme bacteria, because on their own, most antibiotics have a hard time crossing the blood-brain barrier, and even those that can cross the barrier sometimes have a hard time targeting all the specific areas that need targeting up there. i'll be doing 90 minutes hbot sessions 5 days a week for a couple of months, and if that proves effective, i'll go down to 3 sessions per week, and eventually i'll stop once it seems like my neurological symptoms have (maybe hopefully???) are gone.

i'll be on a regimen of medicinal herbs and supplements. not terribly many; katie is sure to prescribe me herbs and suppplements that are critical and not just a bunch of superfluous stuff, since she knows i'm not rich (which, based on their prices and the way that office looks, many of their patients probably are). so far, she's prescribed me 3 medical-grade probiotics, which i'll take to counter the negative side effects of intensive antibiotic treatment. i'll start taking these 3 days prior to starting the antibiotics. she also prescribed me glutathione, an antioxidant which has proven extremely helpful in the treatment of chronic lyme, as it helps the body detoxify, something that will come in handy once i start antibiotics and (hopefully) those spirochetes are dropping like flies. she prescribed me magnesium citrate for my constipation (caused by suboxone) and extended-release melatonin for my insomnia. both of those i've already started taking, and they've both been helping immensely. once i'm on the antibiotics, she'll be prescribing me a few more supplements, including a supplement designed to target biofilms. as the name implies, a biofilm is a film containing spirochetes and other bacteria, and the spirochetes form these as a protective mechanism, because they are much harder to kill off and flush from the body in this form. she'll also be prescribing me some medicinal herbs, some of which i can't recall the names of right now. one i do recall, though, because i've tried it in the past (and have felt the effects) is japanese knotweed. japanese knotweed is a potent herbal antibiotic with the ability to cross the blood-brain barrier, making it incredibly useful in treating neurological lyme disease. when i tried it on my own, i felt a herxheimer reaction, which is how i knew it was working. experiencing a herxheimer reaction (or herxing) is basically feeling an acute flare-up of symptoms/inflammation in the body, and it's caused by the die-off of spirochetes. when spirochetes die, they release chemicals that cause this inflammation/flare-up before they are flushed from the body.

a note on supplements: if katie feels i could benefit from iv therapy, she'll prescribe me an iv push of whatever it is she feels i need, like glutathione, for example, or any number of vitamins/nutrients the body might need.

the last aspect of my treatment will be nutritional counseling from the nutritionist at the stram center. i saw her once, last year when i first initiated care there. she'll help me figure out what foods i can eat that will support this healing process, and she'll help me do so on a food stamp budget.

in addition to all this, which i'll be getting at the stram center, i've also reinitiated therapy with fran. it's been awesome, and i feel like i finally have the material stability and mental space to start working on my mental health stuff again. i'll also be looking for a chiropractor in the area who is knowledgeable about hypermobile eds (which i likely have, but need to get genetic testing for - a story for another update!) and i'll potientially be joining a gym that has a pool and sauna and hottub, since the pool will allow me to exercise without harming my joints, and the hottub and sauna will give me access to much-needed heat therapy.

i think that's all i got for now, but i'll keep posting updates into the void!

[mojput-mypath]

OPERATION: TRANSFORMATION /// OPERACIJA: TRANSFORMACIJA

THE ISSUE

A year ago, was when I first experienced a strange change in my birthmark. I call it "my birthmark" because I was born with it and always felt it special. I was a new born baby, and half of my tiny head was covered in this huge birthmark of a purplish colour. I was told it was a "mother's wish." I hope it came true, mommy!

It got infected without any obvious reason. I was trying to keep it healthy, but nothing was helping until I used an antibiotic-infused cream. This repeated several times, so I got worried and went to get it checked. It took an entire year of specialist check-ups and opinions until I was suggested to simply remove the whole birthmark.

It was not suggested it was malignant, and it turned out it was not, but the changes were inexplicably strange, and Western medicine judged it to be removed. I simply felt it should be done. I got an appointment for the operation, and that was it.

I suddenly realised I was somehow not ready for it, it all happened so quickly, and it was all too soon. I had no idea how long the recovery would take, and what exactly would be done.

The rescheduling became a complex process of having to change several appointments. It took about 3 hours walking from door to door to end up having 2 date changes until a final date was appointed to me.

Only later, did I realize that the final date of the surgery was exactly on the 2-year anniversary of my father's death. I kept wondering at the Universe and its great sense of humour.

I remembered my dad showing me a much smaller purplish skin change coming up on his head, as he joked that he has developed the same birthmark as mine. We were connected by something again.

The same evening, we watched a film at home. There was a notion of receiving a tickle from a ghost — when something unusual happens, that reminds you of a deceased person. This was my huge ghost tickle.

I have not forgotten the date. That is for sure. Now it is even more etched into my consciousness.

THE SURGERY

The date came, and I went to the hospital. If you can say a surgery went well — it went really well. Everything was really, really nice — the head shaving was fun, the preparation was easy; all the nurses, and different doctors introduced themselves and made me feel really safe and comfortable.

They have removed the birthmark, but as it is quite big (cca. 4x4cm), so it needed some extra skin to cover it, it was transplanted from my collarbone area.

After the surgery, like in the movies, I cried, "More morphine!" and it was provided. I stayed in the hospital until the evening and was then taken home.

The next week I was mostly drugged up on painkillers. It took me another week to gather my strength back. This being the fourth week, I am slowly going back to normal.

To begin with, I could not do any of my usual practice. I could do only one. I would do my silent mantra japa, it would knock me out, and I would sleep soundly. Any other practice of any kind: breathing, other mantra meditations, holding mudras - I would just feel it so intently in the cut places.

I had to somehow accept I could not do any. It was not easy to let go of my attachment to my practice.

THE COPING

The doctor, with all conviction, informed me I would be doing yoga in 2 weeks. A month later - I am far from doing yoga. I can do a limited number of simple movements. But my mobility, stamina, and strength are improving every day.

For a moment, it was a weak body and delicate mind. My ability to manage people, thoughts, problems also diminished. My nervous system became very soft. Much more delicate than usual.

Definitely not an easy experience. Filled with jokes and fun to ease the hardship — of course! With enormous support from my partner, my mom, family and friends.

THE LEARNING

What I learned is that life sometimes slows you down for no apparent reason. The slowing down seems to be a pain, but in the current circumstances, it was a long-due (mental) rest for me.

What may be the hardest for me is to let go — to let go of work and responsibilities. To let go of assisting others, let go of being involved in everything, let go of being available, of being active.

Now, I am actively finding ways how to transfer attention from everything and everyone else and put myself as priority, until the moment comes, when I am ready to be there for others in full, and not half or quarter capacity.

THE REWARD

As I was bedridden, I could not travel. Rarely when Gurudev comes to Europe that I am not there. Yet somehow, he manages to stay close. My sister showed him my picture just after the surgery, a very dear friend and colleague told him about me, and finally another yogi buddy made it possible for him to say hello and wave at me on video. In that moment I felt as if something touched me sharply – directly in the heart. I could feel it became bigger and more open. As if taking a long breath in after holding your breath under water. It felt invigorating.

Another very dear friend just contacted me out of the blue, and suggested I go for a particular therapy session, and I did (for those who know, it was CST). That gave me such an energy boost in such a short time. I could start going out for walks.

And finally, I had the opportunity to help (as translator) for the New Year’s program. I could sit and rest and meditate with Gurudev every day.

It is just miraculous how nature provides and nurtures whenever it’s needed. I had family and friends visit, when I was well enough to spend time with them, but could not go out yet. My partner got sick at the exact moment I was already able to cater to him.

If I could imagine, plan and draw every moment of life, I could not do it as perfectly as life makes it. An experience, a learning behind every little thing. A flow of events and care whenever it is needed. Miraculous.

Happy holidays to you all. Enjoy the last few days of the beautiful rest with all its experiences.

_______________________________________________________

PROBLEM

Prije godinu dana, prvi put sam doživjela čudnu promjenu na svom madežu. Zovem ga "moj madež" jer sam rođena s njim i uvijek sam ga osjećala posebnim. Bila sam novorođenče, a polovina moje male glavice bila je prekrivena ovim ogromnim madežom ljubičaste boje. Rečeno mi je da je to "mamina želja." Nadam se da se ostvarila, mamice!

Upalio se bez očiglednog razloga. Pokušavala sam ga održavati zdravim, ali ništa nije pomoglo sve dok nisam koristila kremu s antibioticima. To se ponovilo nekoliko puta, pa sam se zabrinula i odlučila provjeriti. Prošla su cijela godina specijalističkih pregleda i mišljenja dok mi nisu predložili da jednostavno uklonim cijeli madež.

Nije sugerirano da je zloćudan, i ispostavilo se da nije, ali promjene su neobjašnjivo čudne, pa je zapadna medicina preporučila uklanjanje. Osjećala sam da to treba učiniti. Dobila sam termin za operaciju, i to je bilo to.

Naglo sam shvatila da nisam bila spremna za to, sve se dogodilo tako brzo. Nisam imala pojma koliko će oporavak trajati i što će točno biti učinjeno.

Ponovno zakazivanje postalo je složen proces promjene nekoliko termina. Trebalo mi je oko 3 sata hodanja od vrata do vrata kako bih promijenila 2 datuma prije nego što mi je određen konačni datum.

Tek kasnije sam shvatila da je datum operacije bio točno na drugu godišnjicu smrti mog oca. Promatrala sam univerzum i njegov veliki smisao za humor.

Sjećam se kako mi je tata pokazao mnogo manju promjenu purpurne boje koja mu se pojavila na glavi, šalio se da je razvio isti madež kao i ja. Ponovno smo bili povezani nečim.

Iste večeri, gledali smo film kod kuće. Pojavila se ta ideja dobivanja poruke od duha - kada se nešto neobično dogodi, a podsjeća vas na preminulu osobu. To je bila jedna velika poruka od duha.

Nisam zaboravila datum. To je sigurno. Sada je još dublje urezan u moju svijest.

OPERACIJA

Datum je došao, otišla sam u bolnicu. Ako mogu reći da je operacija prošla dobro - prošla je stvarno dobro. Sve je bilo stvarno, stvarno lijepo - brijanje glave bilo je zabavno, priprema je bila laka; svi medicinski radnici, sestre i različiti liječnici predstavili su se i učinili da se osjećam stvarno sigurno i ugodno.

Uklonjen je madež, ali budući da je prilično velik (cca. 4x4 cm), trebalo je malo dodatne kože da ga prekrije, presađena s područja ključne kosti.

Nakon operacije, kao u filmovima, plakala sam: "Još morfija!" i dobila sam ga. Ostala sam u bolnici do večeri, a zatim su me odvezli kući.

Sljedeći tjedan većinu vremena provela sam pod utjecajem analgetika. Trebalo mi je još jedan tjedan da skupim snagu. Sada je četvrti tjedan, polako se vraćam u normalu.

Na početku nisam mogla raditi svoje uobičajene prakse. Mogla sam raditi samo jednu stvar - tihu mantru japa. Bilo koji drugi oblik prakse: disanje, druge mantre meditacije, držanje mudri - osjećala sam to intenzivno na mjestima rezanja.

Nekako sam morala prihvatiti da ne mogu raditi ništa drugo. Nije bilo lako pustiti vezanost za svoju praksu.

NOŠENJE S POSLJEDICAMA

Doktorica mi je s uvjerenjem rekla da ću raditi jogu za 2 tjedna.

Još nisam sposobna za jogu. Mogu raditi ograničen broj jednostavnih pokreta. Kapacitet se povećava svakim danom.

Sve u svemu - slabo tijelo i delikatan um. S obzirom da je glava bila podvrgnuta operaciji, moja sposobnost suočavanja s ljudima, mislima, problemima također se smanjila. Moj živčani sustav postao je vrlo osjetljiv. Mnogo osjetljiviji nego inače.

Definitivno nije bilo lako iskustvo. Ispunjeno šalama i zabavom kako bi se olakšao napor - naravno! S ogromnom podrškom od partnera, mame i obitelji, osjećala sam se zaista voljenom i maženom.

UČENJE

Ono što sam naučila je da život ponekad usporava bez očitog razloga. Usporavanje se čini bolnim, ali u trenutnim okolnostima to je dugoočekivani (mentalni) odmor za mene.

Ono što mi je možda najteže je pustiti - otpustiti posao i odgovornosti. Otpustiti pomoć drugima, odustati od sudjelovanja u svemu, odustati od dostupnosti, od biti stalno aktivna.

Sada aktivno tražim načine kako preusmjeriti pažnju sa svega i svih drugih i postaviti sebe kao prioritet, sve do trenutka kad budem spremna biti tu za druge u punom kapacitetu, a ne samo na pola ili četvrt.

NAGRADA

Kako sam ležala, nisam mogla putovati. Rijetko kad Gurudev dođe u Europu, a da ja nisam tamo. Sestra mu je pokazala moju sliku odmah nakon operacije, draga prijateljica i kolegica mu je pričala o meni, a drugi prijatelj yogi mu je omogućio da me pozdravi i mahne na video pozivu. U tom trenu sam osjetila nešto oštro - ravno u srce. Osjećala sam se osvježeno kao da sam udahnula nakon zadržavanja daha pod vodom.

Još jedan dragi prijatelj me kontaktirao iznenada i predložio da idem na određenu terapiju (za one koji znaju, bila je to CST). To mi je dalo energetski poticaj u jako kratkom vremenu. Mogla sam izaći vani, šetati.

Na kraju, imala sam priliku pomoći (kao prevoditelj) na online programu za Novu godinu. Mogla sam sjediti, odmarati se i meditirati s Gurudevom svaki dan.

To je jednostavno čudesno kako priroda pruža i njeguje kad god je potrebno. Imala sam posjete obitelji i prijatelja kad sam bila dovoljno dobro da provedem vrijeme s njima, ali još uvijek nisam mogla izlaziti. Moj partner je obolio u točno onom trenutku kada sam već bila sposobna brinuti se za njega.

Da mogu zamisliti i nacrtati svaki trenutak, ne bih ga mogla nacrtati savršenije nego što to život čini. Iskustvo, učenje iza svake male stvari. Savršeni tijek događaja i briga kad god je potrebno. Čudesno.

Sretan blagdani svima. Uživajte u posljednjim danima predivnog odmora sa svim iskustvima koje donosi.

[kramphyx]

Someone liked this so now you’re stuck with my disjoined rambles.

So technically being bitten doesn’t turn you, it just overloads your poor immune system with a multitude of different bacteria (even more the longer the dead ferment). So unless you go to hospital and see a doctor, not possible in the middle of the apocalypse -unfortunately, or disinfect and take some antibiotics it’s very unlikely you’d survive, but in the walking dead that’s a sure fire way to turn anyway.

However even if I was to bite a normal person now they’d still have to go to hospital and get it checked out especially if I had broken the skin so even without the dead rising, biting people is still a killer if done correctly/ if you break the skin (making them bleed is important! Gotta mix the blood in the saliva that’s the real killer here as humans have very dirty bacteria filled mouths).

Anyway, already getting sidetracked over here, the walking dead virus, and I will debate the idea of it being a “virus” with my limited doctor-y knowledge, would cause the body to react a lot like covid caused people to react by kickstarting a cytokine storm.

But, I hear you ask, Kramphyx what about the people who were asymptomatic during covid? What of the carries? Well I am making the suggestion that it’s the same in the walking dead universe (TWDU). Some people will be more obvious in their infection, and would likely die from in, and especially in the earlier days before the world fell to its knees, people could survive the infection, some wouldn’t even show as infected but could pass it along and a minute few would *gasp* be immune to it!

Being immune to turning however will not save you. You can still die. No one is truly safe in this world.

Continuing onward;

Is it a virus?

They called it wildlife virus so it has to be right? Wrong. I propose it’s a fungus. Or maybe even a bacterial fungus.

So truthfully I don’t actually know the full difference between the three but from the very limited knowledge I have I know it can’t be a virus. Viruses can’t reanimate people. Viruses die with the host so if you have a virus and you die, then the virus dies with you.

A fungus though? Technically it’s its own separate thing, doesn’t need the person to be alive, might actually be easier for it if they host was dead as I theorise that the root cause of the Wildfire Virus is actually what Kirkman joked about.

Wildlife was a space spore.

Thanks for hearing me ramble… what was I meant to be talking about again?

So I’ve been doing a big ol’ think and I’ve seen a lot of twd fanfics that have tlou themes; girl with switchblade or someone attempting to do an immune person (sorry peeps I’m one of them :/).

But if anyone actually wants the actual science behind how immunity would work in the walking dead universe id actually be very happy to rant so just let me know!

[snelbz]

I'll Be Seeing You {2}

Nesta x Cassian, 1940′s AU

Collaboration with @tacmc​

Summary: After Cassian gets injured in the war, he’s taken to a war camp to be cared for until he gains enough strength to return to his battalion. While he’s there, he falls for a nurse that couldn’t care less about his title and doesn’t put up with his bullshit. Once he’s healed and the years pass by, he finds that there’s only one thing he wants to remember from the war, and she’s only a letter away.

Trigger Warnings: war

A/N: Enjoy a surprise chapter a couple days early, we’re just too excited for y’all to read this story.

Chapters will be posted every Monday.

Word Count: 2336

IBSY Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist 

Nesta was making her rounds as the sun set outside of their desolate war camp.

It had been a long day, one filled with losses. After the ambush two days prior, their tent had become full. Now, there were far too many empty beds.

It never became easier.

With every soul that she attempted to heal that passed from this world to the next, she felt like a failure, even though it was impossible to save every soldier that had been injured in the heart of battle.

There were victories, though.

Those who were left in the tent were improving.

The ambush had brought in nearly fifty injured soldiers, and just over twenty of them remained.

Including Corporal Cassian Nazari, who she was walking up to now, a glass of water in hand.

He blinked a few times against the light of the guttering candle on the table, but after a moment his eyes settled on her. Settled, but still glazed with pain.

“Nurse Nesta,” he said, voice rasping from sleep, attempting to resituate himself in the uncomfortable bed, with one good arm. “Is it time for my sponge bath already?”

She sighed through her nose and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to rub her temples.

Most men in the infirmary were polite, respectful, grateful to be taken care of, especially knowing what befell their fellow soldiers who hadn’t been quite as lucky as they were. The first day she’d attended to the corporal, she’d assumed his inappropriate comment about foreplay had been some sort of unintended joke, something he hadn’t been able to control as he awoke.

But as Cassian slowly healed, Nesta learned those little comments were quite regular for him. And when he learned that they made her blush, or even snap at him occasionally, it only made him say them more frequently.

“I’ll give you a bucket and a sponge and you may help yourself,” she quipped. “Does that interest you?”

He laughed, quietly, but winced as it seemed the simple shaking of his shoulders brought a bout of pain. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Why do you think that?” she asked.

“You joke with me,” Cassian said, shrugging a shoulder. “You joke when you’re in a good mood.”

“I don’t joke,” she replied. “I only give back what is given to me, even though I do it in a far more appropriate way.”

“There are worse things than being inappropriate,” Cassian promised her.

Nesta simply shook her head. “Here.”

He took the pill from her palm and took it, swallowing it with the glass of water she gave him. For a moment, his eyes closed and he sighed, deeply.

“How are you feeling today?” She asked, sitting down in the chair next to the table. He opened his eyes and she reached out to feel his head. He had been feverish the night before, and she was worried about infection setting in.

He was just as clammy as he’d been, if not more so. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his brow, but before she said anything, she wanted to hear it from him. Even if she was fairly sure it would be a lie laced with male bravado.

“Fine,” he replied, though he attempted to sit up with one arm again and winced. “Like I could get back on the battlefields right now.”

Rolling her eyes, she stood. “Too bad that won’t be happening yet.”

She strode for the medicine cabinet in the center of the tent, aiming for an antibiotic strong enough to stave off the infection. His own inability to keep still had led she and Madja to band his fractured arm to his side, but this kept the bullet wounds on his back from airing out. It was about choosing the lesser of two evils with this man it seemed.

Last night, they’d elected to set his arm. Tonight, it seemed he’d go back in the sling and she’d see what needed tending to on his back.

“Are you allergic to penicillin, Corporal?” Nesta asked, coming back to his cot.

“Not that I’m aware of, but I have a feeling that we’re about to find out for certain,” he noted, chuckling, then breaking into a cough fit.

“Alright,” she sighed, and pulled him fully into sitting position. “It seems you still have a fever. I’m going to give you this penicillin. Then, I’m going to take off your bandages and clean your wounds.”

“And then?” he asked.

Nesta blinked, hesitating as she a needle with the drug. “Pardon?”

“After you clean my wounds, what will you do?” Cassian asked, that sly smile remaining. “Because I have a few ideas-.”

“Corporal,” Nesta interrupted. “I am here to heal you, and nothing more.”

Cassian lifted a brow. “First of all, it’s Major, actually. It’s been years since I was a corporal. Secondly, I thought we could play a card game. What was it you were thinking?” Nesta’s cheeks heated and she ignored his pointed question. “My apologies, but Private Hale said—.”

“He knows nothing, which is why he’s only a private.”

She cleared her throat and held out her hand, letting him take the two pills in her palm. He did so, without any commentary, which Nesta took as a blessed relief.

She retrieved the sling his arm had previously been in, as well as fresh bandages, an ewer of fresh water and a bottle of antiseptic.

And a bit to put between his teeth in case the pin became too unbearable.

With a few tugs on the knots tying them together, Nesta unwrapped his arm from his body, not taking a full look at his back yet.

Almost immediately, Cassian tried to stretch out his arm, which earned him a chastising look from Nesta. “It’s tight,” he defended.

“If you move it too much before it’s had time to set and heal, tight will be the least of your worries, Major,” she replied, carefully tying the two ends of the fabric sling around his neck. “Not to mention your shoulder is still too weak as well. Do you want to dislocate it again?”

He grumbled something that sounded similar to No, ma’am, and sat still while Nesta settled his arm into place.

Once she tended to his arm, she prepared herself to examine his back again.

“This isn’t going to feel good,” she warned, taking in the angry, red skin puckering the edges of the wounds. They’d been able to retrieve the bullets while he was unconscious, but they weren’t in the most ideal and clean conditions for a healing to take place. Gently pressing her fingers around the mildest looking one earned a hiss and sudden jerk from Cassian. As well as puss, far more puss than Nesta was expecting. “I’m going to have to clean these out.”

“Can’t you give me more of that stuff that put me under and do what you need to do?”

His words weren’t unkind, but the tone… Nesta knew he was in pain.

She could, of course, but the powdered pain killer was much stronger than what she’d already administered. Not to mention is much, much shorter supply. It was reserved for surgeries, mostly, or life-threatening injuries.

An injury like the major had been brought in with at the time.

Not for a standard, but nasty, infection, unfortunately.

War was unfair, Nesta decided then. She’d known it for quite a while, watching good men die for their lands, but it was evident in that moment as she looked at the man’s ravaged back before her.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said, at last. “But I promise to work quickly.”

He gave her a curt nod and braced himself.

The alcohol burned, she knew that, she knew that it had to feel like fire was being lit to the surface of the skin, but as she poured the alcohol over the wound and began to clean it, the only sense of pain that Cassian showed was his rigid posture.

“Bear with me,” Nesta muttered, beginning to rebandage the wound.

“Got any whiskey?” he asked.

Despite herself, Nesta snorted. “No, I don’t. Is that your drink of choice, major?”

She was trying to distract him, trying to make the time go by just a little bit quicker as she worked.

“Usually,” he said, and huffed. “Every now and then I like to order a simple lager.”

“Lager,” she repeated. “What a luxury.”

“It has been a while,” he agreed.

She worked in silence for a few minutes, having to go so far as to scrape out the bits of skin that were too far gone and only likely to slow down the healing process. But when his breathing became ragged as she started on the worst of the wounds, the one right near his spine, she asked, “What’s the first meal you’re going to have when you get home? What have you been dreaming of since you enlisted?”

Mindless chatter, she reminded herself, was just as effective as a painkiller.

He was quiet for a moment, only hissing as she pressed the alcohol-soaked rag to his back. She had accepted he wasn’t going to answer when he softly asked, “Don’t you mean if?”

She was suddenly very thankful that she was working on his back and was unable to see his face. Playing dumb, she kept him talking. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you mean if I get home?” He asked. His voice was hollow, lacking the warmth it usually did when he spoke. It was unlike what she’d started to grow accustomed to. “This is a war we’re in the middle of, ma’am.”

She cleared her throat, continuing to work. “I think you ought to change your manner of speech, major, or you’ll be more likely to conscribe yourself to believe the worst.” Pressing a clean bandage to his skin to staunch the bleeding, she asked, “Now about that meal, sir?”

Surprising her, he laughed, quietly. “I guess I haven’t thought about it too much. My mother used to make a mean pork roast. With carrots and potatoes. That would hit the spot right about now.”

Nesta couldn’t help but lick her lips at the thought of a nice, hot, homemade dinner. “How about dinner rolls?”

Cassian hummed. “My mom used to make the fluffiest dinner rolls. She used to make me roll the dough. I hated it, until it was time to eat them.”

She smiled to herself. “My sister Elain loves to bake. She makes this pear crumble…” Shaking her head, she sighed. “It’s the best. Especially when she whips cream to put on top.”

“I don’t remember the last time I had a warm dessert,” he admitted, wincing as she applied antibacterial cream to the wounds. Turning to glance at her, he amended, “Actually, I don’t remember the last time I had a hot meal.”

The words hurt Nesta’s heart. The food they had in the med camps weren’t great, but she was sure they were better than rations the soldiers were issued.

“Tell me more about your sister,” he breathed, clearly needing the distraction while she worked.

Nesta sighed. “Which one?”

“How many do you have?” he asked.

“Two,” Nesta said. “Couldn’t be more opposite of one another. Feyre, the youngest, would rather spend her time painting, or outdoors in the woods behind our house, while Elain prefers to spend her time baking, or in her garden.”

Cassian nodded, thoughtfully. “And you?”

“What of me?” she asked, beginning to rebandage his wounds.

“What do you prefer to do with your time?” he pushed.

Nesta’s hands slowed. She wished she had more time to fill as of late. “I enjoy reading, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” he asked, then chuckled.

“What’s so funny about that?” Nesta asked, eyes narrowed at the back of his head.

“You either do or you don’t,” he said, shrugging, and wincing from the simple motion. “But, you suppose.”

Nesta scoffed. “Fine. I enjoy reading.”

“What manner of books?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Romance.”

He snorted. “Of course. Let me guess, a knight in shining armor, coming to rescue a damsel in distress?”

Nesta’s cheeks heated as his guess was nearly spot on of the plot of one of the tattered, well-loved books she kept in the small bag she brought with her from home. “And what’s so wrong with a knight saving a lady who needs help?”

“Nothing,” he replied, trying to shift his hurt arm. She adjusted the sling to hold him tighter. “I just think it’s a silly ideal to hold. Not everyone is going to have someone come save them.”

She was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were in a med camp in the middle of war.

“I guess you’re right,” she mused. “But I don’t see why that should stop anyone from dreaming.”

Cassian huffed and said nothing more.

When Nesta was finished, she asked, “How does that feel?”

“As good as it can,” he answered, in grumpy sincerity. “Although, I still wouldn’t mind that sponge bath.”

“Has anyone ever told you how ridiculously impossible you are?” she asked, the words flying out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

Cassian’s smile only grew. “If only you knew.”

Nesta’s chin rose as she tried to make sense of his remark, but she asked, “Can I get you anything else for the time being?” Cassian opened his mouth, but Nesta interrupted with, “Nothing that has to do with sponges.”

He laughed, quietly. “A cure for boredom?”

Just as Nesta was getting ready to reply, a cry came from just outside the tent, and her body was tensing, preparing itself. Madja’s eyes connected with hers, and Nesta’s feet were immediately in motion.

Another body coming in, caught in warfare.

It seemed he would have to entertain himself, as Nesta was once again vividly reminded that no one may ever come to save her.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t save someone else.

[transdemigod]

Cutting Yourself Off from the Entities: A Comprehensive Guide

I am once again overanalyzing the Magnus Archives for fun. This topic is super interesting to me, and I haven’t seen it explored as much as other theories, so here we go.

So, you’ve pledged yourself to one of the Dread Powers, but decided that you’ve had enough of terrorizing others. Not to worry, there is a way out. Melanie King did it and lived all the way to the end of the series!

Here is the summary, though I’m sure a full explanation will be more satisfying:

To escape the Buried, lose yourself to the emptiness. To escape the Corruption, kill what loves you. To escape the Dark, give yourself to the sunlight. To escape the Desolation, choose kindness. To escape the End, cut yourself off from dreams. To escape the Eye, blind yourself. To escape the Flesh, give up control of your body. To escape the Hunt, tear out your teeth and claws. To escape the Lonely, bind yourself to others. To escape the Slaughter, remove your emotions. To escape the Spiral, destroy your voice. To escape the Stranger, make yourself known. To escape the Vast, trap yourself in a small place. To escape the Web, give up your autonomy.

The rest is under the cut. Let me know if you have any ideas that you think I missed, I would love to discuss theories.

We know for sure that the way to escape the Eye is to gouge your own eyes out. The other entities have less information, but we get a few clues here and there. In the season 4 Q&A, Jonny and Alex joke about leaving the service of the Stranger by running naked through the streets. They also mention that the Desolation can be left by an act of true altruism. With these details, as well as other details in the rest of the canon, we can make a list of criteria that must be satisfied for an act that will cut someone off from each of the 14 Entities.

Firstly, it isn’t enough to just stop feeding your god. Daisy and Jon both tried to abstain and ended up wasting away, and it is implied that they would have died if they had continued. Dying is certainly one possible way to escape the service of a Fear, but we’re going for living out the rest of your natural life here.

Secondly, there has to be some sacrifice made that relates to the specific power. This is where the Desolation’s explanation kind of falls apart; doing one good act doesn’t stop you from just continuing to be destructive, so the act must also include giving up the thing that ties you to your Entity. In the Stranger’s case, one could argue that exposing yourself does count as giving up your anonymity, and there are several Stranger avatars that seem to thrive on being unknown. My theory is that each Entity has a draw of some kind, a power that it gives its followers, which you would have to completely give up if you are to leave it for good. Jon mentioned that the blinding has to be permanent, so I’m assuming this applies to the others as well. Basically, the avatar who wishes to leave must give up something that one who does not wish to leave would never want to.

Third, the change can be physical or symbolic. Obviously blinding yourself is a very physical change, while committing acts of altruism or making yourself known are less so. Some of the Entities will have pretty clear parts of the body that connect you to the power, others will need a bit more of an explanation. In special cases where a person gets their power from an artifact or a Leitner, destroying the thing would probably be enough to cut them off from that power. And of course, if you are as lucky as Georgie Barker and manage to completely get rid of your fear, that would probably be enough to cut you off from them as well.

So, here are my explanations for what you would have to do to cut yourself off from each of the 14. I’m basing it on examples we get in the series, the few rules I have decided to set, and what would seem thematically or symbolically appropriate. Realistically, each individual would have their own personal journey and each avatar is different, but it’s more fun this way.

The Buried- The draw of the Buried is a little difficult to narrow down, we’ve heard about restfulness, the comfort of enclosed spaces, the desire to be a part of the earth, etc. The thing Buried avatars seem to dislike the most is wide open spaces, though I don’t know how that would translate to something you can change about yourself. How would a person cut themselves off from the earth? You could move to a place that is very open, but you could also just leave. I’m not sure if there is a way a person could give up the concept of space, so I’m probably going to have this same problem when I get to the Vast. Probably the only thing you could give up that makes sense is the type of space the Buried is tied to, so you’d have to keep away from enclosed spaces. However you’re supposed to do that, I have no idea. This one is just going to have to be a less satisfying answer, unless I find another idea later.

To escape the Buried, lose yourself to the emptiness.

The Corruption- Most people who get into the Corruption get filled with bugs, and we know from Jane that it is appealing because you have a sense of belonging and purpose. The Corruption focuses a lot on toxic love, and I think communities specifically because the things we think of as infections are multitudinous: insect hives, bacteria, fungal colonies, etc. Even in the case of that one guy with the beetle wife, it was implied that there would soon be many more beetles. So, I think to stop being fed by the Corruption, you have to get rid of the infection in whatever form it takes. The one woman in the statement about the cult ended up leaving, but she wasn’t a full avatar, so I think that would require a bit more drastic action. If Jane had wanted to leave, she would probably have had to kill every worm inside of her. Knowing what we know about her, she would never want to do that, but she also had no regrets about becoming the Hive. Someone like John Amherst would have to get rid of all the diseases inside of him, so it might be as simple as a hospital visit and getting pumped full of antibiotics. If you got hollowed out by bugs, you might have to fill in the space somehow to be able to move, but I’m sure you could find a way. Maybe some help from the Flesh? It does seems to be in opposition to the Corruption in many ways, so that would work thematically.

To escape the Corruption, kill what loves you.

The Dark- Another abstract one. What’s the opposite of blinding yourself? The Dark, aside from the literal definition, includes things like weird science and unknowable things that lurk in the dark. Seeking knowledge would be a good opposite to darkness, but that’s not making a sacrifice or a permanent change. It’s not very clear what avatars of the Dark would hate to lose. Manuela Dominguez describes hating the light, how traditional divinity and knowledge are unnatural as opposed to the dark state of the world. This might be another location based one. Apparently, the sunniest places in the world are in northern Africa and the southwest parts of America, so moving there might do it. There isn’t an easy permanent change to make, but committing yourself to being in the sunlight as much as possible would probably work. Change your sleep schedule, move somewhere sunny, just avoid the dark in general. Maybe even start worshipping the sun; that would be in opposition to the cult following the Dark has.

To escape the Dark, give yourself to the sunlight.

The Desolation- We know it’s an act of altruism. I think it might need some adjusting, though, to make it more of a sacrifice by the person who serves the Desolation. This fear is all about sacrifice and loss, so it’s a bit tricky to think of something a Desolation avatar could give up when they’ve already committed to giving up everything. Well, everything except themselves. Many avatars, like Jude Perry, have shown themselves to be selfish, but I don’t think even they would be opposed to going out in a blaze of glory. No, the hardest thing for them would be to settle down and live a prosperous life. This one probably would have to be continuous effort instead of one grand sacrifice. It doesn’t fit with the others, but it does fit the theme of the Desolation. Yeah, I’ve just gone in a big circle. Altruism does make the most sense. Just make sure that selfless gesture counts. It’s not a real choice if you don’t mean it. I guess that would be really difficult if you’re used to burning everything around you, so maybe it’s more of a sacrifice than I thought.

To escape the Desolation, choose kindness.

The End- We actually already have a canon answer for this one: lobotomize yourself. Adelard Dekker found an End avatar that was killing people with carbon monoxide through their dreams, and he stopped him by cutting through his pre-frontal cortex- the part of the brain that lets you dream. It’s implied that this didn’t completely work, but I think the reason for that is that the avatar was not the one to make the choice. It’s emphasized again and again that serving the fears is all about personal choice, so it makes sense that any attempt to cut someone off wouldn’t take if the person hasn’t decided to give up their connection. The End is associated with dreams in most appearances, so I believe that a person who chooses not to dream would no longer be bound to it. Oliver Banks could see those whose deaths were coming in his dreams, which directly led to him becoming an avatar, so if he had decided to stop dreaming, that would be it. This procedure might be a bit difficult, I can’t imagine performing your own lobotomy would go very well, but I’m sure getting someone else to do it would count if you were the one to make the decision. Of course, Terminus would still have you in the end, but that will happen no matter what you do.

To escape the End, cut yourself off from dreams.

The Eye- This one is already answered. The draw of the Eye is the power to watch, so you have to give that ability up. Simple, straightforward, and definitely fits the theme.

To escape the Eye, blind yourself.

The Flesh- Oh boy, this is a weird one. We have dysphoria, consumption, body horror, I can’t say this one sounds very appealing. But it must be, or else it wouldn’t have people serving it. A lot of the draw to serve the fears could be interpreted as dishing out what you can’t take. You don’t have to be afraid of being watched if you do the watching, you don’t have to fear harm if you harm them first. Maybe the appeal of Flesh is making others share that fear that you are nothing but meat. I don’t think it’s really possible for people to give up their corporeal form, unless it’s metaphorical but I have no idea what that could mean. I think those who serve the Flesh thrive on being “more” than others. More body parts, more mass in general. You could go on a diet or become a vegetarian, which I think the writers may have joked about once? I want a more concrete solution, though. Diets are easy to break. You can’t fully give up food without dying, so I guess you could give up the control of food. Giving up your sense of taste would be interesting, but I’m going to keep it more general. No easy answer for this one either.

To escape the Flesh, give up control of your body.

The Hunt- People are drawn to the Hunt by that deep, primal desire to chase and attack. Humans have both predator and prey instincts inside of us, so you would have to completely leave the predator behind to escape the Hunt. I think a good way to do this would be the get rid of your teeth, or nails, whichever you use to cause harm. Daisy was able to temporarily leave behind her power in the Buried, but as soon as she got out, she started starving. I think this is a good argument that you could partially cut off your power by using a power that opposes it in some way, but you would have to give up a part of yourself to make it stick. As soon as she had the freedom and ability to hunt again, that was when the urge came back, and she eventually succumbed to it. Getting rid of the parts of your body that do harm wouldn’t completely stop you if you were dedicated enough, but it’s the choice to do so that matters. This one is a bit more of a symbolic choice, and you could probably do something else to your body that would prevent it from hunting, but I am going with the cooler option.

To escape the Hunt, tear out your teeth and claws.

The Lonely- Probably all you have to do to escape the Lonely is just…be around other people. I’m sure this is easier said than done, but there are lots of ways to commit to other humans. Get married, join a club, make a blood pact and permanently bind yourself to another human. The possibilities are endless! This one, I think more than the others, would require a bit more of a continued effort. I know that the whole point is to make one drastic, permanent change, but the Lonely feels like something that’s easy to relapse into. Maybe it’s the depression metaphor, I don’t know, but I don’t think this one has as easy a solution as the others. It’s hard work forcing yourself to stay connected to others, and it’s something most people in real life struggle with. Giving up any of these powers is a difficult choice, which is the whole point. Life is hard, and we have to make tough decisions. Anyway, I’m okay letting this one be a bit more abstract.

To escape the Lonely, bind yourself to others.

The Slaughter- This one is very similar to the Hunt in terms of actions, so I think the solution might be similar as well. Destroying your weapon would fit well, but it is just way too easy to pick up something else and continue hacking and slashing away. To give up violence entirely, you might have to destroy a significant part of your body. For the Slaughter, I think we should go with a less physical act. The opposite of violence is healing, so maybe become a doctor? You would have to really commit to helping others instead of hurting them, and that is too easy to go back on. I think the sacrifice made here would have to be emotion. Anger and the desire to hurt would go away if you couldn’t feel anymore. I don’t know how you would do this, except through drugs, but that isn’t permanent. There is probably a part of the brain you could destroy that causes emotion. It’s not the same as the prefrontal cortex, which we destroyed back in the End section, so at least it’s not the same solution twice. Honestly, the drugs could work if you did them long term, it’s about the choice anyway. However you do it:

To escape the Slaughter, remove your emotions.

The Spiral- The draw of the Spiral is the power to lie and deceive. There are many ways to do this, and there are probably just as many ways to stop yourself from doing it. However, there is one way that I think fits very well and is absolutely a permanent change: destroy your voice. This is actually the first one I thought of because even though it’s not technically the only way to stop yourself from lying, it fits very well thematically. Michael as the Distortion calls itself the Throat of Delusion Incarnate, so what better way to break yourself off from the same power then by tearing out your throat? It’s not perfect, but I like it so much that I’m going to pick it. I don’t know how one would go about destroying one’s voice, except with very careful surgery. Or screaming for a very long time.

To escape the Spiral, destroy your voice.

The Stranger- We got our answer to this one in the Q&A. Run naked through the streets, and make sure to engage with everyone who talks to you so that you can’t hide. Utterly terrifying. It makes perfect sense though; we heard from the Not!Them that beings of the Stranger hate losing their anonymity. Whether by switching skins, tricking the mind, or looking so generic that no one can remember your face, being known is antithetical to the Stranger. There are probably other ways to go about losing your anonymity then running around naked. You could get up on a stage somewhere and pour your heart out, or publish an autobiography. Basically anything the Eye would like. As long as you are putting yourself out there in a way that you can’t take back, you should be able to successfully cut yourself off from that uncanny fear.

To escape the Stranger, make yourself known.

The Vast- This one might actually be easier than the Buried, because it’s not purely spatial. It includes things like longevity, our insignificance in the face of a massive universe, and large scary things in general. A Vast avatar would hate to be enclosed, but they would also hate to be made responsible. They enjoy making others afraid of their insignificance, but what if they were important to the universe? What if the world was actually very small, and they fit neatly into it instead of being lost? There’s a lot of different ways to go here, so narrowing down one sacrifice might not be the best answer. I can’t really think of any one action that makes a person feel as though the world is small and trapping them. Giving themselves to the Buried would, probably. A direct contrast is the easiest answer.

To escape the Vast, trap yourself in a small place.

The Web- Avatars of the Web are manipulators, through and through. There are so many ways to manipulate a person that no one action could prevent you from doing that, so this one would likely vary a lot between individuals. That movie director who had people puppet him in his own house comes to mind, I think giving up your freedom like that is a good way to do it. Being paralyzed wouldn’t stop you if you used your voice to control others, and giving up both would suck, but if that’s what you need to do, then I guess it’s your choice to make. Maybe all you would need to do is let someone else tell you what to do, and fully trust them. That would be difficult, coming from the Web where everything is tied together and you know how easy it is to manipulate you.

To escape the Web, give up your autonomy.

[lurking--shadows]

A/N: I keep seeing people like my old Jacob Frye x Reader post and now I'm low key simping for him again so I figured a lengthy drabble would suffice to get me back into this game. If you have any suggestions, even if for random characters don't hesitate to ask! I do apologize for not putting much interaction with the battle scenes. It's not my best area and rather go straight to their interactions outside of it.

Word Count: 1,374

Characters: 7,424

Prompt: "I think I'm in love with you."

"Not the best idea you ever had, but I'll happily take it."

Why did you have to join along with Jacob and his shenanigans? Why must you torture yourself? If it weren't for his dashingly good looks (don't ever tell him that, he already had a substantial ego as it is, no need to further enlarge it), you wouldn't be in this situation at all. 

He had pleaded for your assistance in taking out a Blighters hideout in the heart of Westminster. He explained that conquering the hideout would benefit in conquering all of Westminster. If it had been a random hideout you would've declined. However given how much of a hindrance they've been as of late, on top of Jacob giving puppy eyes (an adorable sight, you may add), it was impossible denying such a request; though you had claimed you were only doing it as part of your duty as an assassin. 

You had known the twins for quite a long time during your time in the British Brotherhood of Assassin's. You had trained alongside them up until the twins' father had passed. During that time you developed a long-term crush on the younger twin, which Evie had noticed. For years she would tease you about it. Well, she did, until you began teasing her about Henry once he came around. All of a sudden she would hush you with a red face. Anytime he needed help, you were right by his side. You didn't know if it was due to that crush of yours or if it was because you knew how reckless he was. 

Probably both.

It was no easy battle either, much to your displeasure. Jacob had decided going in with a bang would be the best bet. Note: it was not; a bad decision really, but it's from Jacob, what did you expect? It was harder for you to stealth your way in since they were alarmed and already heading your way. A lengthy battle filled with scattered dead bodies and a bountiful of curses towards Jacob, which he laughed at when able to. You did get the occasional hit, however, the worst damage you had gotten was a deep gash on your arm. You had focused entirely on the blight in front of you, giving the blight on your side to slash his knife on your raised arm. You had hissed in pain, the burning sensation worsening after handling the blight in front of you. Jacob noticed your hiss and took out the blight before he could do more damage. Luckily that had been the last blight needing to be taken down. A successful mission, excluding that hefty gash on you. 

While awaiting for rooks to come and establish themselves, Jacob began tending to your wound. Well, tried to at least. It was entertaining seeing him struggling to find clothes and water in the hideout. You weren't sure if it was due to fatigue or worry. Regardless, it somewhat resembled a headless chicken running about. While he was busy searching, you took a blight's shirt and tore a strip to wrap around your arm in order to stop the bleeding. You ended up searching for an aide kit as well since you figured you would have better luck finding it than Jacob, who was spewing curses. If you weren't so lightheaded you would have laughed. Minutes had passed and your search was uneventful, causing you to slightly panic. 

In the midst of your panic, Jacob came behind you and grabbed your shoulder. You jumped before turning around and grabbed his arm with your injured one, pain shooting up your arm. With a hiss, you released his arm to cradle your injured arm to your chest. 

"Now what was the point of doing that, knowing it was going to hurt?" Jacob scolded, his eyebrows furrowing while he squinted. 

"What's the point of grabbing me, knowing it was a bad idea?" You retorted, sarcasm oozing in your voice. A scowl formed on your face as you glared at him. Jacob could only roll his eyes, "Just sit down so I can tend to your wounds unless you wish to let it get infected." He warned. You glared at him once more before letting out a sigh and sitting on a nearby crate. There was no point in arguing with him, with him being as stubborn as a mule it was futile. It didn't help you get more light-headed by the minute either. So, you caved in and let him tend to your wounds with no remarks. 

It was silent as Jacob tended to your wounds while you alternated between looking at him and looking at your wound. For as reckless and thoughtless as he is, you were impressed by his skill in cleaning out your wound and bandaging it. You couldn't help but watch his skilled hands tending to you and let your thoughts wander.

"You're staring," Jacob mumbled, his eyes not once leaving your arm. Your eyes widened and looked away as you ignored the burning sensation on your face. 

"So? How else am I supposed to make sure you don't do more damage to me?" You raised an eyebrow, though a smile toyed with your lips.

"I'm wounded that you believe I'm incapable of catering to injuries. How do you think I can fight after every mission?" A frown took over his face, his eyes glancing up at you before dabbing your wound with antibiotics. You hissed in pain, getting a small apology from Jacob in the process. 

"I figured it was either Evie or a rook cleaning your wounds if it were dire enough."

“Continuing to wound me, I see? The least you could do is tell me what you’re thinking.” He let out a small chuckle, dropping the antibiotic rag and unwrapping the bandages.

You had grown silent, chewing on your lip. You were debating telling him, though you feared losing the relationship you have with Jacob. It wasn’t just your crush that lured you to him. No, it was his personality. With him, you felt so carefree and able to joke around (even going as far as pranking each other). He was really the only one you felt you could let your walls down besides Evie.

“Dove?”

“I think I’m in love with you.” You blurted out, looking up at him and watching his reaction. His eyes weren’t on you and instead focused on finishing up bandaging your arm. Though he had no real emotion on his face, he was quiet. Nerves began to eat at you. What if it wasn’t mutual? Did you ruin it? 

"Not the best idea you ever had, but I'll happily take it." He looked up at you with an eyebrow raised, a smirk on his lips. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “And joining you in this foolery was better than being in love with you?”

“A poor mistake, really.”

You let out a snort. You mulled over his words, butterflies flowing through you. ‘I’ll happily take it’. You paused, “Wait, so you’re fine with this?” Confusion was written all over your face. It wasn’t exactly a rejection, nor was it really an acceptance. What..?

Jacob stood up, and before you could react, he placed his hands on the side of your legs, effectively trapping you. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer to you. “As if my response weren’t any clearer, let me give you a more concrete answer.” He leaned closer until your lips connected. Your hand instinctively went to cupping his face as you reciprocated the kiss. Your lips felt as if they were perfect for his own. If you were able to, you would kiss him all day if he permitted. He pulled back, much to your displeasure. Slightly panting, you look down at his lips before staring into his ocean blue eyes that was staring into your own.

“Did that answer your question?” That cocky smirk was still on his face, causing you to scowl.

“Just shut up and keep kissing me.” You gripped his shirt and crashed your lips onto his. He let out a small laugh against your lips. He listened to your demand and deepened the kiss. After all, who was he to deny such a request from someone he’s been enchanted by?

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 5

<- Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 ->

Summary: You get a call. Dr. Chilton’s recovery has taken a turn for the worse, and he might not survive. 

CW: hospitals, medical procedures, angst

1,583 words

Fifteen days. Seven surgeries. Seventeen blood transfusions.

You rushed to his hospital room straight after work, not even stopping at home to change or get something to eat. After the call you’d gotten, you were too nauseous to eat, anyway.

Glowing orange heat lamps hung over his bed, like the ones they use for hatchling chicks at the farm when they’re too young to regulate their own temperature. He had all but vanished under a thick pile of blankets.

You remembered how much of a baby he could be in the winter when his feet were cold. How he’d make you shriek by tucking his icy extremities under your warm pajamas, and how you’d squirm and swear at him and laugh until you finally settled back against his chest. His hands were always freezing, but his body was like a steam engine pumping out heat. Under the blankets with him, trapping each other’s glowing warmth between your entwined bodies, the coldest nights were always so cozy.

There was nothing cozy about this.

Frederick’s temperature kept dropping despite the doctors’ efforts to stabilize it, and it had dipped dangerously low. He was barely moving. It tore up your heart to see him so helpless. If his temperature didn’t come up soon, he could die.

You knew that. The rational part of your brain knew that he wasn’t out of danger yet, that this wasn’t a surprise. He told you he needed to write that article right away because he might not have much time left. But you didn’t think it would really happen—that he could fade so fast.

“Hey, Frederick… I’m here,” you said softly, sitting beside him. There was no indication he was aware of you being in the room. The only signs of consciousness were feeble, rasping, wet moans.

He coughed weakly under the pile of white sheets.

They had already increased his antibiotics regimen at the first warning signs, but his cough was developing into a respiratory infection, and getting worse. All the smoke and water he’d inhaled and the tubes forced down his throat were taking their toll on top of everything else collectively beating his immune system into submission. He was so sick.

You wanted to crawl under the covers, wrap yourself around him, and keep him warm. He could slip his icy fingertips under your shirt, and you wouldn’t complain.

All you could do was sit beside him, talking to him about your day, and hope that, if he could hear you, your voice was comforting. That he even wanted your company. You listened to the monitors, reassured by their continued steady beeps, terrified they might suddenly stutter and fall, and tried not to cry.

You hated being so helpless.

***

Sixteen days.

For the second time, you walked into the hospital doors in the morning to find he was gone. Over night, his condition went critical. The infection had turned into full-blown pneumonia. He was still alive, thank god, but he was intubated again, and put on a ventilator with paralytic drugs keeping him unconscious.

He was, effectively, in a coma.

Every time you thought he was getting better, he slipped away again. Two days ago he was fine. He was dictating notes and being the cranky asshole you loved. Now a doctor had to thread endoscopic instruments down into his lungs to clear the secretions, because he couldn’t even cough.

A nurse gently patted your shoulder to get your attention. You weren’t sure how long they’d been standing there.

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but do you know if your fiance has any family, anyone who might like a chance to say goodbye?” Your face drained of color and the nurse quickly worked to reassure you, “He may still recover. Nobody here is giving up, but…”

But his chances weren’t good.

“I don’t know. I… I can try to call his mother, but...” For someone you were about to marry, you didn’t know much about Frederick’s family. All you knew was that he had a sister who died a long time ago, his parents were egregiously wealthy, and they almost never spoke. His mother sent a card, which had earned nothing but hostile silence from Frederick. That was all.

He had always been lonely, your Dr. Chilton. Before you, anyway. He was charming, but an expert at keeping people at arm’s length. Desperate for connection, but always looking for it in the wrong places. You still weren’t sure how you’d manage to slip past his defenses. But his family wasn’t coming.

You were the only one by his bedside, waiting to see if he woke up. Alone in your terror that you might never hear his voice again.

***

Twenty-five days. Eight surgeries. Eighteen blood transfusions.

Chilton was out for over a week. Days crept by as you tortured yourself reading statistics like “pneumonia acquired in the hospital can be fatal as often as 33 percent of the time,” and “pneumonia increases mortality rate in burn patients by 25 percent.”

You were a mess at work, sobbing in the bathroom until they told you to go home. But you couldn’t stand being in that giant, empty house without him.

You had dinner with your old boss, Jack Crawford, to take your mind off things. The last time you saw him you screamed your throat raw, but he had always been a friend and mentor, and right now he was the one person who understood what you were going through.

He talked about Bella, and how hard it is to watch a loved one fading away. About the darkness he failed to see in Will Graham—skirting just shy of accepting responsibility for Frederick’s fate. You distinctly did not take back calling him negligent and incompetent. Still, despite everything, you knew Frederick held him in high regard. It was what got him in so much trouble. You encouraged Crawford to visit when Frederick was feeling better. If he got better.

Then dinner was over as quickly as it began, and you were alone again.

Every day that a ventilator kept him breathing, you wondered if that was the day you were going to get the phone call. You couldn’t bear it. You lived in the hospital waiting room, making meals out of vending machine Pop Tarts and the latest scraps of information the nurses could give you.

Surgery was risky on a patient already in critical condition, but the doctors decided to perform a bronchoscopy to drain a lung abscess. After that, his pneumonia began to improve. A few more days, and he was off ventilation, and in the hyperbaric chamber.

The moment you heard he was awake, you sprang up from your chair the waiting area (swayed with dizziness for a moment) and shambled to the oxygen therapy room.

***

“You look terrible,” he joked. His voice was quiet and hoarse, but you laughed a little too hard, sniffing and rubbing your eyes as your body shook. It was good to see a week unconscious had restored his cheery mood.

Ducking and weaving your head, you tried to get a good look at your reflection in the curved glass. When you caught a glimpse, the depth of dark circles made you recoil back from yourself.

“I couldn’t go home until I knew you were OK,” you explained. “I guess I could use a shower. And some sleep.”

Frederick observed you sympathetically. He was still bandaged head to toe, and what bits of skin did show were as red and inflamed as ever. He hummed in agreement. “All this beauty rest has done wonders for me.”

You laughed again, and it brought a smile to his cheeks and a sparkle of humor to his one good eye. At least he still entertained you.

“It is flattering that you would destroy yourself on my behalf, but you really ought to go home and take care of yourself.” He rolled his eyes upward cheekily, “I cannot have my adoring public discover I am marrying such a slob.”

Your heart missed a beat at the mention of marriage.

Leaning close until your forehead bumped the clear barrier, you pressed your palm to the glass. He lifted his hand off the bed, reaching toward yours, but could only make it a few trembling inches before he winced, and his arm fell back down, limp. He swore. Then he gave a self-deprecating chuckle to hide the frustrated wetness building in his eyes.

“Really,” he said without malice. “You should go home.”

“I can’t. You just woke up.”

“How long has it been since you slept?”

A few self-conscious mumbles were all you managed in response. He huffed knowingly.

“I promise not to die. You need rest.”

Your head did feel heavy, and it was difficult to keep your eyelids from drooping. “But it’s so empty. The house is so empty without you,” you sobbed.

“I know,” he said quietly, after a pause. He hated to see you like this, hated that you were suffering because of him.

“Just a few more minutes? I want to stay with you for a little while.”

“That would be nice.” His voice welled with such sincerity your heart broke. “Thank you.”

Soon, you thought. Soon you’d be taking him home with you, and your lives could be normal again.

[hydra-collector]

Ripped Apart

AO3

Pairings: Intrulogical

Characters: Logan Sanders, Remus Sanders (all other sides mentioned)

TW: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, ocean creatures, gore/body horror (referenced, doesn’t actually happen), cursing

Words: 1,844

Summary: Remus gets much-needed comfort.

Note: Takes place roughly after POF.

Bite your tongue.

He felt the muscle conform to his teeth.

Harder.

Harder.

Bite it off.

Don’t.

Do it.

He bit until it bled, but not hard enough.

Please bite it off.

He would just cut. He wouldn’t have to think about this anymore. He’d forget. Healthy- healthier distractions.

He knew what he was. He knew he was self-destructive, unhealthy, depressed, even dying if you were to count where his thoughts had been going lately.

Just cut and it’ll go away.

What will? There’s the chance cutting would make him want to-

Cut your arms off.

No. He wasn’t going to do that.

You should.

He would bleed out and die, probably.

Then do that.

Just fucking cut.

That voice was constantly pestering him. Remus didn’t mind the intrusive thoughts, sexual jokes, murder, other people’s gore… none of it bothered him. But a while ago the thoughts of killing and hurting and dismemberment had begun being directed at himself. He hated it. He hated himself. What a disgusting being he was. The only way to make them stop was to give in. At least a little.

The blood that came was comforting. It felt humanizing, and reminded him his veins were still pumping. He was still alive.

It was grounding, but also saddening to some extent. He felt like this giant piece of shit that hurt anyone he touched. Part of him was so glad to be in this exhilarating whirlwind called life, no matter how hated he was, but the other part wanted it to end. He never knew if it was selfish or not. Sometimes he wanted so badly to fuck up his relationships with all his friends, if they even considered him a friend, and just erase himself from Thomas’s mind. Sometimes he felt trapped. Thomas never let his ideas free into the world. What was the point of Remus existing at all if he wasn’t going to be used to better Thomas’s content?

Was that his problem? Did he think Thomas was the problem and it was really him?

He sighed and set the razor aside for a moment.

Tell someone if you’re not going to rip out your internal organs.

Who could he tell?

Remus was still scared that Janus despised him, and he was never good with emotions anyway. He supposed he could talk to Virgil. But he’d left the dark sides. Why would he want to talk to either of them? Especially about sensitive topics. Patton was empathetic and theoretically would be good to talk to, but he’d hurt him. He hated intrusive thoughts, why would he want to talk to the embodiment of it? And there was no way he was going to talk to Roman.

Logan?

Logan, he was pretty sure, didn’t hate him. Rather, they’d talked before Remus’s first appearance and now could probably consider themselves friends. He knew Logan (even though he did shove teeth up his nose) and Logan talked to him. By choice.

He kind of liked Logan.

A lot.

Maybe too much.

He was the only side that Remus could give something the others thought disgusting, weird or creepy, and care about it. Talk about it. He’d even invited Remus to join in some chemistry once, (it did not go well; that did not happen again) and dissected all the dead animals he found. They talked about things the other sides wouldn’t dream of thinking about. And Remus loved science, especially about living things, because there were new, weird things always being discovered. The deep sea is full of wonders like squids and octopi, huge whales, tiny things, so many different species.

Just cut a little more. Then you can see Logan. He’ll help.

Will he?

“Logie! Teach me how to feel like a human again!”

He bounced his steps into the hall, Logan seemingly off to do work.

“You’re not a human, Remus.”

“I felt like one before, though.”

“Why not ask Patton for assistance? He’s much more well-versed in emotions than I am.”

“You’re the only one that likes me.”

“I doubt that’s true. Sure, the other sides may dislike your rather random thoughts, but why would that give them reason to dislike you? You’re a wonderful side.”

“That’s probably not true. No offense to you. I was hoping to find someone to stop me, but you don’t have to. I might cut off my arms and bite out my tongue. Ooh! Or blow up my legs! How long would it take for all of that to kill me?” He smiled a twisted, tortured smile, digging his long fingernails deep into his palms.

“Remus, are you alright? Would you like to sit down? I can get you anything you need, you seem like you could use it. Anything, I can help.”

“Logan, I haven’t been okay for months. Years? Probably my entire life.”

“Please, come sit down.”

Logan led him, hand on his back, to his room, walls blue and books stacked neatly in rows. He pushed aside his laptop from his bed to sit Remus down.

“Ooh, does the nerd wanna fuck?”

“Remus, I need you to be at least semi-serious right now. Did anything specific happen to make you feel like this? Are there any other notable emotions I should be aware of? And what can I do to help?”

“I’ve been depressed for,” he counted on his fingers, “I don’t know how long, but a while!” He said this far too cheerily.

“Okay, that does not sound good. Why did you tell me now?”

“I decided I either give in and destroy myself and wait to die or tell someone. I figured I can do it anyway after I’ve told someone, so I might as well. Ooh, should I write a note?” He grinned at Logan, beginning to scratch at his hands and arms.

“Remus,” he took the creative side’s hands in his own to prevent further scratching, “don’t write a note, don’t kill yourself. It is illogical to take away a part of Thomas’s personality, no matter how inessential you may think you are.”

“I don’t want to, but I have to. Everyone will stop being miserable because of me, I’ll stop being miserable because of me, I’m sure as hell not gonna be missed-”

Logan pulled their hands up to his face, making the impulsive decision and kissing the dark side’s knuckles lightly.

“I’d miss you.”

Remus gazed upwards, surprised. Logan retracted his hands from Remus’s.

“I apologize,” he still didn’t let go of his friend’s hands, “that was unnecessarily intimate.”

Logan could swear Remus’s eyes sparkled.

“No, it was okay. I don’t think anyone’s… ever done something like that.”

“Would more physical affection help with your mental state? If so, I shall provide it.”

Both were desperate for it.

Remus nodded and Logan sat next to him, at first giving an awkward hug, but soon the two moved to lean against the wall and grew more comfortable, supporting each other’s weight.

“I’m bleeding.”

“Remus, did you-”

Before he could even finish his question, Remus’s sleeves were pulled up, smearing the blood still oozing out of the fresh wounds.

“I love them. They’re so pretty. They’re dark and warm and satisfying and I don’t have to chop off my limbs-”

He had a visible reaction to thinking about it again, hitting his head with his now bloody hands.

“Why do I remind myself-”

Logan took Remus’s hands again, keeping them away from his head, as well as each other, in case he started scratching himself again. It hurt him to see him like this. He waited a moment until he was fairly sure Remus could sit for a bit without hurting himself, left to wet a washcloth from the bathroom and brought in the First Aid kit.

“I wanna see them though.”

“Remus, let me. They’ll get infected.”

“Even more fun!”

“Remus, no.”

“Remus yes.”

“What?”

“Didn’t expect you to understand that.”

“Are you going to let me clean those?”

“Can I make more after?”

“No, this is incredibly unhealthy. On quite a few levels. Not only does self-harm directly impair your physical health, but additionally indirectly affects physical health by worsening your mental health, which is probably the worst effect.”

“They make me feel better though. And stop me from dying. Even if cutting technically hurts me, it’s probably keeping me alive.”

“It’s not a healthy coping mechanism. At some point it won’t be enough.”

“It’s enough now.”

“Like Janus said, don’t wait until you’re having a mental breakdown- or in your case, once you’re about to die- to take care of yourself. It only ends in misery, Remus.”

Logan only just realized how close the two of them were. He’d leaned forward, hands on Remus’s upper arms, holding the two of them too close for normal comfort. But right now it was oddly okay. He could feel Remus’s breathing on his face, irregular and nearing sobs. He should give him room to cry, but he’d grabbed onto Logan as well, so apparently didn’t want to.

“I already hurt so bad, why do I want more of it?”

Remus sniffed before burying his face into Logan’s shoulder and letting his tears flow into the black polo.

“Please hug me. Or clean them. It doesn’t matter. Just touch me. And in a non-sexual way, for once.”

Logan took his chance to gently wash the cuts with his rag. Remus continued crying while he applied the antibiotics and wrapped gauze firmly around his arms. Remus cried when he was done, falling on his chest with enough force that he ended up on his back, surprised. He adjusted this position so it was comfortable for the two of them, leaning against pillows he moved next to the wall.

He rubbed Remus’s back and upper arms, shoulders, held his hands, squeezed his torso, hoping it was helping. Remus turned his head and opened his eyes, which had at last stopped crying. He stared at Logan, maybe a bit too long.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“No.”

Remus contemplated for a moment, then decided to say it, grinning widely.

“Can I kiss you?”

“W-what?” His cheeks turned red.

“Can I kiss you? I don’t have to.”

Logan thought for a moment, looking at Remus’s face, then slowly nodded.

He held Logan’s face with his hands and kissed him softly, causing him to get even redder.

“I did not expect that.”

“What?”

“It was remarkably… unlike you.”

“Want another more like me, Lo?”

“I hesitate to ask what that would be like.”

Remus grinned. Less pronounced than the previous ones of the day, but it was more real and meant so much more than those had. It lifted Logan’s heart a little.

“Are you feeling a little better now, Remus?”

“I don’t really wanna die anymore, so probably.”

It was a massive relief to Logan to hear that. He started smiling, which Remus smiled back to.

Logan, after some silence, kissed him on the forehead. He held him as long as he could.

Remus needed every second.

[graffitibible]

how do killjoys treat raygun burns? i genuinely have no idea and i know you've already gone pretty in-depth with raygun wounds in general but i was curious about the treatment

cw: we’re gonna be talking about medical stuff and injuries in here. i’m not gonna include any graphic pictures and also i’m gonna warn anyone who wants to do further research that some of the images that’ll come up are gonna be pretty damn graphic. tread carefully!

SO i’m gonna be going off this ask here, and running with the assumption that raygun burns probably both bleed and burn. thats important since thats gonna affect how youd do treatment. it also means that raygun injuries are messy. most burn injuries in the real world can cauterize - theyre unique in that the site of injury is usually sterile at the time of injury. however, since the rayguns in this world are capable of making someone bleed (rather a lot too, if the comics are any indication), that means that these wounds can get pretty gnarly.

the important thing about how rayguns in danger days seem to work is that they are not pure laser bolts! if they were, they’d be able to pass through something and cauterize it pretty neatly, like a lightsaber. the raygun blasts have an obvious physical component - they can physically knock someone back, for example, and we see sparks shower when people are shot in the music videos. so rayguns in danger days have an apparent kinetic component to them: you are basically applying heat to the human body at high velocity. 

ONCE AGAIN, THIS GOT LONG. THE REST IS UNDER A CUT. mind the content warnings above!!

other than that, we’re not sure what specifically the makeup of the lasers like...are. electromagnetic radiation? plasma? heat? electricity? i doubt its pure electricity since that would be more consistently fatal, but it is some kind of bolt that has both heat and velocity on its side to be sure, but thats the extent of what we know.

now logically, this would actually cause the human body to like. explode. cause thats what happens when you apply that much heat to something made of mostly water. getting hit with a bolt of something that hot would cause all that water to boil off abruptly and then the steam would fucking parboil you. not a fun way to go though it is funny that the steam would be the thing that causes the most damage. so yeah actually a very gory kind of injury.

obviously thats not what happens in danger days, since no one to my knowledge Fucking Explodes when theyre hit with a laser bolt. but lasers from rayguns can make blood FOUNTAIN OUT OF A DUDE’S GUT in the comics so obviously they can do a hell of a lot of damage (the mvs are way less explicit but they also werent allowed to like, swear in the mvs and had to tone down some of the violence and shit so im taking the comics canon as the more “realistic” one wrt rayguns here) the science here is kinda...eh, cause laser bolts don’t appear to be a penetrating injury but rather a messy “burn and blister” kind of injury that are nonetheless capable of making someone eat it pretty quick.

but this is danger days and this is kinda where science goes to die so here is how i view laser injuries in the universe:

danger days laser bolts have a kinetic or explosive quality to them.

what this means is that the injury is twofold: first, the heat damages the external layer of skin. i’d hazard that we’re talking second-to-third degree burn levels of injury on immediate contact. second, the kinetic energy released at that velocity and force generates an explosive impact that does damage to surrounding tissue.

what’s left is an injury that both burns and bleeds. my take on it is that the bolt impact creates the open wound, while the heat intensifies that damage and disseminates it. you need a temp of maybe 300ºF and higher to cauterize a wound so lasers would have to burn at least a little bit lower than that since the injuries do consistently bleed. but since the human body is pretty sensitive to high temperatures that works out in our favor seeing as if you heat things too much, again, the risk is that we would Fucking Explode.

lots of burn injuries, especially third degree and higher, tend to bleed. since thats the closest thing i have to compare to a laser wound in danger days, thats going to be my basis here.

treating a raygun injury is likely to resemble burn treatment in a lot of ways

burn treatment stuff varies a lot and i will spare you guys from googling this and going “oh thank you google images thank you for showing me what a graphic third degree burn looks like i am so glad that i know this and that this is in my search history and keeps popping up in my search history im SO GLAD.” 

burn injuries go by degrees. first degree is like mild sunburn basically, and only affects the epidermis or external layer of skin. second degree affects the top and middle layers of skin and can leave blisters. third degree burns go all the way to the subcutaneous fat layer and can leave the skin white and charred. fourth degree burns can go through nerves and muscles and even down to the bone and can cause permanent damage that requires amputation. at fifth degree you have significant risk of organ injury and at sixth it’s basically like “fifth degree, but with the common side effect of Death.” 

again im not linking to anything here because pretty much every information article you get on this stuff is gonna have some nice graphic images. so if you look this stuff up on your own do it at your own risk or have an image/media blocker extension ready if that kinda thing squicks you out

the main takeaway is that any burn from like the third degree downward can be very brutal and hard to heal over - they can cause swelling and severe scarring and the destruction of the epidermis and hair follicles means that new hair won’t grow. add to that the idea of raygun blasts tearing open that external layer of skin that means that you can get burns that go in pretty deep which would go a long way to explain how it is a weapon that doesn’t appear to have a lot of “penetrating” energy is capable of killing someone relatively immediately, especially if theyve got that initial kinetic impact thats capable of tearing open the dermis and making the injury go deeper.

im going to tentatively say that raygun injuries are basically full-thickness burns with a few bells and whistles. basically, they destroy the epidermis and the layer of skin below it, the dermis. thats the level of third/fourth degree burns and worse, essentially.

so, serious burn treatment usually goes as follows:

clean! that! wound! it’s best to do this in a sterile environment, cause otherwise youre gonna end up blistering the injury and agitating it further. you wanna get all the dead tissue and gunk off the burn.

pain medication. with most burns the nerve endings can get pretty fried and you might not immediately experience any pain, but since raygun injuries go a little harder than your average burn, thats probably not the case. people definitely consistently react in pain after theyre shot with a raygun in the both the mvs and the comics. so yeah, its painful. pain medication is nice to mute that feeling.

antibiotics and/or tetanus shots to make sure that you don’t get an infection

intravenous fluids containing electrolytes as well as a diet high in protein and nutritional supplements

antibiotic ointments/creams for the injury

skin grafts to close the injury since a burn of that severity would have difficulty closing completely on its own. yikes.

continuous monitoring of the patient to prevent sepsis and eschar from fucking with the blood vessels and healing tissue.

obviously killjoys do not have the benefit of a fully stocked hospital. if youre in bat city youre probably gonna be in more luck. but if youre slumming it or if youre in the zones, heres what i imagine the killjoy diy procedure would likely be:

application of water over the wound. cool water is best, not ice-cold (alright alright alright alright alright etc)

cleaning the injury comes next to prevent infection. ideally you would use soap. do not scrub as youll agitate the wound

pain medication might be helpful here, but who knows if thats common out in the zones - and i imagine city-born killjoys might have some hang-ups with taking meds, so who fuckin knows there.

bandages, ideally clean ones, would help cover up the injury and keep it from the elements in time for it to heal. that will also cover up the skin while the bleeding heals up. keep the wound as closed from infection as possible.

check up on the injury consistently especially since the burn probably wasnt sterilized on impact the way most burns are. a messy injury like that one can go south very very quick.

realistically i doubt that skin grafts are readily available. its recommended that you stay out of the sun and avoid lots of exercise that might risk reopening the injury. and that...is going to be nigh impossible if youre a zonerunner lol. its likely that improper treatment can lead to infection and then death. it is also likely that too much agitation of the injury can lead to the wound reopening, infection, and then death.

if you get stuff like light grazes, where the bolts clip you but dont fully impact you, that means youre like to get some surface-level burns that cover a larger surface area. theyll heal quicker if you treat them right, but thats a larger area thats open to infection. burns that go deep into the skin have more immediate fatality risk. there could be variation here as well! maybe a laser gun with a lower or dying charge will do less damage. maybe some guns have fancy “stun” settings that don’t do permanent damage.

the human body is surprisingly resilient and can recover from a lot. but burns are no joke and a raygun blast can easily be fatal either immediately or a little bit after the fact. even if you survive the blast, there are likely to be a lot of repercussions to taking a serious hit, which im again basing on the noted consequences of major burn injuries

likely consequences of surviving a raygun hit in the zones:

scarring. especially without skin grafts, this ones gonna be a gimme, and likely permanent. serious burns can leave lots of color changes to the skin as well as keloid tissue (which is a raised, lumpy kind of scar tissue. you can google it if you want but as i warned before: images might be pretty grody). this would also prevent the growth of new hair in those areas. most hospitals try to excise this and replace it with skin grafts to speed healing but like i said thats not likely to be an obvious solution in the desert.

nerve damage. burns that go super deep can permanently remove the feeling from the affected part of the body. this is likely to be permanent. deep contact usually remains intact but stuff like subtle pressure changes can be outright impossible to sense. this can also cause contractures in the affected area.

weakness in the affected area. related to the above point, damage to muscle tissue and nerves can reduce range of motion, strength in that area, and more.

itching and pain at the site of injury. pretty self-explanatory. that one might get better as you go on depending on how good the medical treatment was at the time of injury.

inability to sweat. the destruction of sweat glands in affected areas are possible if the burn goes deep enough. in the desert this can be very bad news lol

psychological trauma. a given. any traumatic injury can have long-term psychological effects.

my main takeaway here is that killjoys who’ve been in lots of serious firefights are gonna have a sHITTON of scarring, some of it obvious. lots of killjoys looking pretty fucked up. lookin wiped out. my other takeaway is that surviving a raygun blast is pretty dependent on getting care for it as soon as possible, cause the infection/hemorrhage risk seems pretty high.

ofc this is just me analyzing this shit to hell and back and it’s probably nowhere near that scientifically DENSE im just detail-oriented as hell. so take or leave this answer, whichever you like lol. i like writing the nitty gritty details of injuries since i generally wanna emphasize how rough life in the zones can be so this is something im interested in exploring.

[albertasunrise]

Not Alone

Summary: ‘So now that I have awoken what do you plan to do?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘We find our next job.’ she stated, her face devoid of any emotion which made her impossible to read. ‘We?’ he questioned as he moved his head in order to look at her better. ‘We.’ she replied

Warning/Content: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hospitalisation 

Paring:  Ezra/ Cee

~§~

The ship edged closer and closer and Cee allowed herself to smile, they were going to be okay. Her ears picked up labored breathing beside her and she turned her head to see Ezra looking at her, his lips parted slightly as he struggled to suck in a breath. His lids were growing heavy, his skin pale as a thin layer of sweat formed. She could see him slipping.

‘We’re almost there.’ she said as she tapped his cheek.

Her touch pulled him back a little and his dark brown eyes opened wide as he tried to stay awake, the pain getting a little too much to bear.

‘Why did you come back for me?’ he questioned, voice strained as he held her gaze.

‘I couldn’t leave you behind.’

‘Even after all the sorrow I’ve caused you?’ he quizzed, his pain evident on his face.

Cee said nothing, her eyes drifting to his stump and then to the station they were approaching. She felt a pang of guilt for the man's current state. It was because of her that he’d lost his arm and if he still had them both he would have been able to harvest the gems and he wouldn’t have been stabbed. There was a loud bang as the ship made contact with the station, followed by the sounds of the docking equipment locking the ship into place.

‘We’re here!’ she said as she unbuckled her belt and looked over to him.

He was weakly tried to unfasten himself but failing miserably. Tears fell freely down his cheeks as he tried to breathe through the pain, pained moans escaping his lips as he looked to Cee for help. She leaped to his side and helped him out of his seat and to his feet, holding him steady as he wavered. She helped him over to one of the bunks towards the rear of the pod, holding his head as he laid down and then lowered it gently onto the pillow.

‘I am going to go get help.’ she said as she sprinted to the door.

‘Well I won’t be going anywhere.’ he jested as he gave her a weak smile.

Cee gave him a brief nod and then pushed open the door and disappeared into the dark hallway. He watched her leave and when he was sure she was gone he allowed his emotions to pour out of him, tears leaking from his tired eyes as his breathing quickened. He didn’t want to die but he knew his chances weren’t good.

§

Cee returned a little while later with a bag full of medicines, a sour expression across her features as she pulled open the door and slunk back inside. Ezra was still lying where she’d left him, his eyes shut but his labored breathing alerting her to his still being with her. She walked briskly to his side, dropping to her knees and rummaged around in her bag for the medicine she’d acquired.

‘No doctors?’ he asked, his eyes cracking open as he felt her lift his shirt.

Cee said nothing. She grabbed a syringe and stabbed the needle into his arm which elicited a pained moan from the man. She then pulled out some wipes and started to clean it, wincing at the sight of the jagged bloody flesh. Happy with her work she pulled out a bag and using a scrap of material she tied to one of the metal beams on the ceiling. She then pulled out a long tube with a needle at one end and pushed the needle into a vein on the top of his hand before taping it in place and connecting the other end to the bag.

‘Whats that?’ he asked weakly as he watched her work.

‘Antibiotics.’ she said plainly, perching herself on the other bunk opposite his.

‘Thank you.’ he said weakly as he gave her a small smile.

‘You’re welcome.’ she said as she relaxed her shoulders and smiled back at him.

‘I still don’t understand why you are helping me.’ he said as he panted ‘I have caused you so much pain.’

‘You are also all I have now.’ she interrupted as she looked at him with a stone expression.

Ezra kept quiet then, taken aback by her statement but finding himself touched by it also. He could feel the painkillers she’d injected him with starting to work and his muscles relaxed, his eyes growing heavy.

‘Get some sleep.’ she said as she laid down on her own cot and pulled out one of the bars of food they’d scavenged from the tent.

‘You don’t have to tell me twice.’ he joked as his eyes drifted shut.

She laid there and listened to his labored breathing, watching the shaky rise and fall of his bare chest. She hopped to her feet and grabbed a blanket from the cupboard beside her bed, pulling it over him and hiding his grim wound beneath the green material. She felt her own exhaustion getting the better of her and she sunk back down onto her own bunk and pulled her blanket over her thin shoulders. She was woken up by the sound of Ezra gasping and groaning, his eyes rolling around in their sockets as a fever ravaged his body. Cee jumped to his side, pressing her hand to his brow and hissing at the heat that radiated from his skin. He looked right at her but his eyes were glassy and there was no recognition in them. She sprinted to the door, pushing it roughly and jumping through the awkward entrance into the hall. She knew that Ezra needed a doctor or he wasn’t going to make it, and that wasn’t something she was going to let happen.

§

When she’d returned to the pod the medical staff and they had quickly shifted Ezra onto a stretcher and carefully carried him out of the pod and to the medical facility aboard the station. It was bright and clean which stood out in stark contrast compared to the dingy graffitied halls that Cee had experienced until this point. They had placed the injured man onto a bed, one person placing a mask over his face as another inspected his injuries.

‘What happened to him?’ the doctor asked as he looked Ezra over.

‘I had to cut off his arm because it was infected and it was killing him.’ she started as she stood in the corner and watched them as they worked ‘he then got stabbed trying to save me from a crazed merc.’ she finished as she sniffed and wiped away a fresh tear.

‘Shit he’s lucky he’s lasted this long.’ one said as another walked to her side.

‘We’ll do all we can for him but you need to leave.’ they said as they placed a comforting hand on her shoulder ‘we’ll contact you when we’re done.’

Cee nodded, allowing the man to guide her out of the door and into the dim hall beyond. She made her way back to the pod, sitting on her bunk and proceeding to stare at his empty one. She thought about all that had happened. Her father’s death and the incidents after that. She thought about how just a few days prior she had hated Ezra and now she felt herself praying for him to recover and not knowing what she’d do if he didn’t. She sat there for hours awaiting the message to say she could go and see him. When that message had come through she’d made her way back to the medical facility and was shown to a separate room that was lined with beds down either side. Ezra was in the far right corner of the room, old equipment sat either side of the bed, blaring out different sounds that meant differing things.

‘He’s stable but the infection is aggressive.’ the Doctor stated as they came to a stop at his bedside ‘I’m afraid his chances aren’t great.’

Cee didn’t reply, just stared at the prone form on the bed. Tubes stuck out everywhere but the one down his throat was the one that took her most by surprise. She’d never seen someone in a hospital before and so all the equipment was alien to her.

‘I’ve just realised who you are.’ said the doctor which grabbed her attention ‘how is your father doing? He’ll probably want more sleep aids soon.’

‘My father is dead.’ she said plainly, her lack of emotion taking the doctor by surprise.

‘I’m sorry.’ he stuttered before turning and leaving.

She grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the side of Ezra’s bed. Climbing onto it and hugging her knees as she watched him, the sound of air whooshing followed by a soft click filled her ears and she realised what it was. It was a machine that was breathing for him. She could feel her emotions bubbling just below the surface and she fought hard to keep them in check. Pulling her headphones over her ears she sat there and watched him. She wouldn't leave his side, he was all she had now and she had to make sure he lived. The days blurred into weeks as Erza remained in his coma and showed no signs of waking. Cee had told herself that it was a healing sleep. That he was resting like she’d told him to and that he’d wake up soon and return to his usual chatty self.

§

Another few weeks passed and Ezra started to make slow but steady progress. He was able to breathe on his own but the infection continued to ravage him, not spreading but not dissipating either and so he lay there shivering under the thin sheets of the medical bay. The doctors came and went but they were starting to become a little more optimistic of his chances, all of them impressed he’d made it this long. Cee sat at his side every day. She either read to him or she would sit and write her book in the hope that eventually she could read it to him when he woke up. She watched him as he continued to sleep, his eyes dancing beneath his lids, and his teeth chattering as his body shook.

‘Come on lazy don’t you think you’ve slept enough?’ She joked as she scribbled away in her book.

‘Well why don’t you get stuck by a blade and see how long it takes for you to get over it.’ said a weak voice which made Cee jump in her seat.

‘Ezra, you awake?’

‘Mhmm.’ he nodded weakly as he squeezed his eyes tightly and then opened them, squinting as the light burned his sensitive retinas.

‘About time.’ she said with a smile as she stood over him.

‘How long have I been here?’ he asked as his eyes came to rest on her, finally adjusted to the white light of the medical bay.

‘A little under a month.’ she stated as she sat herself back down again ‘Doctor said you were in something called a coma.’

‘Is that right?’ He replied, watching her as she opened her book and starting to write again ‘and you’ve been here the whole time?’

‘Yeap.’

Ezra blinked at her, watching the pen dance on the page she wrote on. He still wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t just left him there to die in the green but he was grateful, the fear he’d felt as he laid there and waited for death to come was not something he wanted to experience again.

‘So now that I have awoken what do you plan to do?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘We find our next job.’ she stated, her face devoid of any emotion which made her impossible to read.

‘We?’ he questioned as he moved his head to look at her better.

‘We.’ she replied, her eyes locking with his as she gave him a curt nod.

‘Why we?’ Ezra gave her a bemused expression.

‘Well you have nowhere to go and I’m a kid.’ she started, eyes still focused on what she was writing ‘Makes sense for us to continue working together. Besides you only have one arm now so you need all the help you can get.’

Ezra’s eyes drifted down to his stump, a small tear developing in the corner of his eye as he remembered the procedure. His emotions had spilled out of him like a damn with a crack as he listened to her cut at flesh and bone, the crack when she made her way through and it came free. He had felt himself becoming more attached to her after that, a part of him wanting to protect her as if she was his own flesh and blood. So when he’d been wounded by the mercenary and he lay there bleeding out as the dust settled on his exposed flesh all he had cared about was her escape. It had been the most selfless he’d even been, urging her to leave him and save herself as he struggled to accept that he was dying. When she had returned for him though his heart had warmed at the sight of her, happy that she hadn’t chosen to leave him behind. He had hoped that he would survive and that he would be able to stay with her, to protect her but in reality, he knew he needed her more than she needed him. He said nothing more, feeling himself growing tired again he chose to sleep and wait to talk about the future. He drifted off knowing he wouldn’t be alone and neither would she.

[lisarichardsonbylines]

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

on

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/