#this will only make their random assaults worse but nonetheless i think he deserves it

[essektheylyss]

Okay but can FCG actually take a level in gunslinger. If any cleric in this show has the energy to go full "I'm a healer, but— [cocks gun]" it is FCG.

[r-lath-ma-vhenan]

Suns and moons don't stay together; they only eclipse one another.

@sickboywithagun

{{ – It started raining at seven in the morning today. At first it was large, fat drops, spread out and infrequent – it wasn’t long until the sky darkened: the soft pinks and oranges of a far away sunset fading into gray like a saturating bruise. That’s when the rain really came. Hurtling down towards the pavement and grass; branches and leaves darkening by the water. Earth soaked, nourishing the gardens and hydrating a world in need of substance.

I sat out in the rain today. The cement was warm and wet; the bumps and rocks etched pictures into my thighs and the grass painted streaks of gold and emerald atop my skin. And I just sat there, thinking about you as my hair grew matted and water poured in rivulets down my face… wondering, hoping, trying desperately to let you go.

So I tucked all these memories of us away in one of those gray clouds and I listened to our music and I danced in the lull between storms.

And when the rain came again… the clouds and I, we both let go of us…

—

I was numb. I wasn’t sure when it started but he didn’t like it when I couldn’t produce enough emotion to channel it into something visible on my features, obscured by a stoic expression. He couldn’t read numb. He was unable to see that the reason for my detachment was because I was feeling all too much at once and I didn’t know how to ventilate it without hurting.

Because I was afraid to hurt – and I feared that my solution to our growing problem would be the worst of all hurts.

Heartbreak.

Our night ended with the same frustrations: him with his rough hands trying to coax my clothes off, and mine shackling his wrists and preventing him from going any further. He pushed but never enough to actually be considered assault. I would mumble softly about how I was only fourteen (we were almost four years apart) and that pressuring me would only make me deny him more. Then he would groan and roll away from me, severing our tangled embrace. I started playing with fire at such a young age, making out with a boy I loved but never allowing anything more even though our connection was strong enough to be considered safe. Safe meaning that at this point in our relationship… there shouldn’t be a need to be afraid of regret.

It wasn’t just his hands, though. It wasn’t the only reason why I decided to make this the night.

One of the main arguments we’d been frequently having at the time was his growing involvement with his family’s business. I was never told the details. He’d get random phone calls during our time together and have to leave without a good enough excuse to ease my mind. Bruises would blossom across the bridge of his nose and scabs would form upon his knuckles. Pretending like nothing was happening behind the scenes, I would demand answers and he’d sit there and lie to me like it was nothing. I would threaten him about how I couldn’t do this and then he’d reel me back in with the sweetness I remembered when we first began to know one another.

That was it, it seemed. I kept waiting for it to blow over and hoped the boy I knew from before would show up. But it never settled. And he was hardened into something that only hurt when I tried holding him against me, attempting to push my own softness into his pores. I’d been wishing for weeks until…

Until that one morning when my mother told me that she loved me. It wasn’t exactly unusual for her to say that to me, really, but the look in her eyes was what planted the seed of my decision inside of me. They warned me. They reassured me that I was strong. Sympathetic and caring, my mother’s eyes told me that she knew I had courage somewhere inside of me.. I just had to dig for it. And all day at school I was consumed within myself. Chiseling through my empathy and pity to finally lodge my mental pickaxe into an ivory chest where something red and pulsing resided in. It quivered, looking like a shriveled raisin; shuddering with the fear of regret, shame and disgust. And suddenly I knew that no matter what happened, I had to take care of myself first. Because how could I treat others if I treated myself like this? I locked myself in the bathroom at sixth hour, weeping and coming up with a goodbye speech in the last stall until the bell rang. I’d shut down, deeming myself as a corrupted system… numb.

I ended up waiting until after school let out which was only a few weeks after I had come to terms with my conclusion. Summer; he graduated and I’d go back to high school next fall, starting my sophomore year. Nonetheless, it was still something I had to work up the nerve for. His anger didn’t phase me. I worked on mechanics, repeating the words I rehearsed all day in my head. I couldn’t even register his pain and his tears (if they were even genuine) – nothing he did could bait me back into this existence. Some might think of that as courage but I didn’t. It was cowardly of me to fall distant from my own body so that it could do the things that needed to be done. Break his heart. Walk away without turning back. Avoid him, which would be easy considering I’d be in class and he’d be doing whatever it was a mafia prince did. My mother’s eyes were wrong. I, Briar, was not brave at all.

The household van was parked in his driveway already, my mother having predicted this outcome. How long did she know? Inquiries bounced around inside my skull but I couldn’t say anything… because my emotions were suddenly exploding out of me at the sight of her driving me home, one of her hands reaching for mine. She didn’t say a word as I wailed and wiped my snot on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. I shouldn’t have been so upset because I’d lost him before I’d even had the idea to break it off. Which was probably worse because I wanted so badly to work it out with him, see the changes, wasting my energy on relentless hope. I lost a friend who’s presence would still be etched in the walls of my house. The new appliances he bought my mother; the countless times he’d play with the tarot cards, shuffling and pretending to read our destined future; the videos saved on the family desktop of piano recitals we got to attend, my mother filming him on stage and me clapping; the phone charger still plugged into the kitchen socket that only fit his phone; and the knowledge I learned from our martial arts class, knowing how to defend myself all because he wanted to make me stronger and better. And there I was, sobbing in the passenger seat because I only gave him origami cranes, crystals and now a broken heart. I felt cruel. I felt terribly selfish. My mother squeezed my hand which only made me blubber harder because I didn’t deserve to be consoled.

I didn’t know it then… but even though I don’t consider myself courageous that night, I figured out that it wasn’t the breakup that needed it. It was the recovery.

—

{{ – Nino Matteo Abruscato, you were my first love, and now I’m letting you go…