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rambleonwaywardson · 4 months ago

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Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 12

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Sometimes I think about how the first chapter of this AU was like 2k words and basically experimental. But. Now we're here. You asked for a 10k word chapter and so you shall receive a 10k word chapter because there is just so much. So much.

---

In one year, the earth circles the sun exactly one time at approximately 67,000 miles per hour. A tiny speck of paradise hurtling through wide open space at 30 kilometers per second, one astronomical unit away from the star that breathes life into our souls.

Within 365.25 days, Earth rotates on its axis 365.25 times, each rotation taking almost exactly 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds.

Within 24 hours, anyone could be doing just about anything on our peculiar little green and blue planet. When I sleep, someone else is taking their morning jog, and if that jog takes 20 minutes, then that person still has 1,420 minutes to fill. Ideally, I would sleep the entire time that that person jogs, plus at least another five hours. But I’m not sleeping. How can I?

So instead, if I sleep for the entire time that that person jogs, plus another three hours, if I’m lucky, then that leaves 74,400 seconds in my day. Each of those seconds, at this moment, is dedicated to keeping you alive.

Except for these few, as I stand outside watching the sun set on a world that you are not standing on. I have been ordered to step outside, to take a break, take a breath.

So I do. I take a deep breath, and I hope that my own breath can somehow fill your lungs, too.

I take a breath, and I look at the endless expanse of Earth before me, bathed in an orange and gold hue that feels too peaceful, too beautiful, for the nightmare moment that is enveloping my entire being.

There are approximately 120 seconds from the time the sun hits the horizon to the moment it slips below. However, when any layman attempts to time this event, it will likely take longer. This is because a refraction of roughly 0.6 degrees, caused by light’s decreased velocity through a dense mass of air, creates an illusion to the observer that the sun is more than a full diameter higher in the sky than it actually is.

A peculiar thing to think about, now. Physics, however, serves as a reminder of the conditions in which we exist, the miracle that is the complexity of our lives. It is a reminder of the fact that even in pain and uncertainty, this world is beautiful, and this is why we do what we do.

During this prolonged period of time, though, I look at the sunset, and I know that somewhere out there – up there – there’s you. In those extra moments caused by the refraction, I know you are alive. I pretend that I can feel your heartbeat in mine. I pretend that if my heart keeps beating, so will yours. Because I know that if the breath goes out of your lungs, if the life is extinguished from your soul, I just might cease to exist, too.

–

November 20 Nassau Bay, TX

Gale doesn’t sleep. He barely even closes his eyes because every time he does, the only thing he can see is a funeral that may or may not come to pass, a tri-folded flag, a missing man formation, Bucky’s picture on a stand beside his casket. The mere idea that Gale might be able to sleep right now is absolutely laughable. His right hand still burns from where the glass sliced it open, and he curls it into a fist, focusing on that pain.

He lays wide awake in the darkness in a too empty bed. Alone, so alone. And he thinks about their wedding night. Two silver rings in the moonlight. Bucky’s body on top of his, moving in time to the beating of their hearts. The warmth of his skin, his hands holding Gale’s waist, breathy laughs against his neck.

It’s been so damn long since Gale last felt Bucky against him, held his hand, kissed him goodbye. Nearly a month. And now, in the darkness of the world and the darkness of his mind, Gale feels a rising panic because he can’t recall the exact feeling of Bucky’s hand cupping his cheek. How is it fair that a feeling he’s been familiar with for half of his life can disappear from his brain in the blink of an eye? How is Gale supposed to live the rest of his life without ever feeling the warmth and comfort of Bucky’s body against his, when he can’t even recall it properly after just one month?

He lays in his empty bed, staring up at a ceiling that he can’t see. He shuts his eyes tight even though it makes no difference, and he tries to remember their wedding night. Bucky sipping champagne out of the bottle, biting roughly at Gale’s lower lip, stripping them both down one item of clothing at a time until their expensive wedding tuxedos were strewn haphazardly on the floor. He thinks about Bucky pushing him onto the bed, hovering over him with a desperate sense of hunger and need and love. He thinks about Bucky’s voice calling him angel and doll and darling. He thinks about Bucky’s body on his, Bucky’s mouth kissing him all over, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s fingers in his hair. He thinks about the familiar and comforting scent of him, Gale’s favorite scent in the entire world.

After he said goodnight to Marge and closed himself away in his bedroom with the dogs, he sat on his bed, the sleeve of the Yankees sweatshirt pressed to his nose. No matter how much he breathed in, it just didn’t smell like his husband anymore. His biggest problem in the last 24 hours has been reminding himself to breathe, but all of a sudden, he was near hyperventilating with the panic and the need to have something that still carried Bucky’s scent. How is he supposed to go the rest of his life without ever smelling that again?

He tore through Bucky’s dresser, sifting through every shirt and sweatshirt he could find, but they were all clean. Nothing but the scent of their laundry detergent. Stupidly, Gale had done the last of Bucky’s laundry after he went into quarantine, just a normal, meaningless house chore that all of a sudden feels like it took everything away from him. Leaving him with nothing.

If Bucky doesn’t make it home, someday Gale will forget the smokey-sweet scent of him. Someday he’ll forget the feeling of Bucky’s hands, the warmth of his body curled around him, the softness of his lips. He’ll forget the exact way Bucky smiled at him, and the way it made his heart soar every single time.

He’ll forget, because that’s just human nature. Someday, he’ll realize that he can’t recall those things from memory, that they’ve somehow slipped away, and he will grieve all over again.

How can it even be possible to forget?

Alone in the darkness, thinking about their wedding night, he lifts his hand to his mouth. He presses the wedding band to his lips, and he holds his breath to keep from sobbing.

By 1am, sleep seems to be a lost cause, something Gale knew before he even slipped into bed. They’re experiencing a cold snap in the Houston area, with night time temperatures dipping into the mid to low 40s, but he doesn’t care. He wanders through the house bundled in the damn sweatshirt with a thin throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders. In the kitchen, he looks at Maggie’s drawing stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and he presses his hand to it gently as he passes. Pepper and Meatball walk after him as he opens the back door leading onto the patio.

When Marge finds him about 20 minutes later, he’s curled up in a chair with his knees pulled to his chest. It’s a new moon, and he stares at the pitch-black sky, wondering if the fact that he can’t see the moon is better or worse than it looming over him. He has no visual of the world that his husband is stuck on. He has no visual of the world to which John’s life may be sacrificed, where his body and soul may be committed to the metaphorical deep. He keeps his ring finger pressed gently to his lips, and the dogs lay on the ground, guarding him, their thick coats shielding them from the cold.

“You have to be freezing.” Marge sits down in the chair beside him, wearing one of his own sweatshirts that he’d lent her for the night. She looks worriedly at his bare feet pressed into the chair, turning pink from the biting ocean air.

Gale shrugs, because he doesn’t know. Didn’t notice. Doesn’t care. His feet are a bit cold, and he’s sure it should be registering more than it is. But it isn’t. “He’s up there somewhere,” he says instead.

She follows his gaze, looking into the darkness. She thinks about how he’s always been this way, since they were just kids. He feels so much and doesn’t show it to anyone but a select few. He holds so much in, and he feels weak for letting it go. She can see the way this is destroying him, and she can see the way he feels like it shouldn’t be. “Gale, you know, it’s okay if you-”

“I’m fine” Gale bites out. “I need to be fine.”

Marge sighs and takes his hand, the one that isn’t pressed to his lips. She’s spent a lifetime trying to make him understand that he doesn’t need to be fine. She’ll keep trying, no matter how many times he pushes her away. “Gale, your husband might be dying.”

He yanks his hand away and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t say that.”

Marge doesn’t give in, because it’s what he needs to hear. She just takes his hand again, and he doesn’t pull away this time because they both know he needs something to hold onto. “You do not have to be fine,” she says gently. “Actually, you shouldn’t be. It’s normal to not be fine.”

He scoffs, because they both know where he came from. He can’t process all that right now, so he doesn’t. “It’s funny,” he says. “The people who were saying shit about him are either silent now or saying even worse.”

Looks like our prayers were answered.

Fag deserves it.

Maybe we should send all the queers to the moon.

He hates social media. He always has, but he uses it now and then anyway, even when he knows he shouldn’t. There’s some little masochistic part of the human condition that doesn’t allow you to look away from things that smother you in anger. Earlier tonight, he had to chuck his phone across the room just to make himself stop scrolling through the hate.

He knows that the popular reaction to John Egan, Artemis 3 mission commander, has been overwhelmingly positive. Gale knows that the world is on the edge of their seats, holding their breath right along with him, as they wait for updates about Bucky’s condition. He’s seen the outpouring of love on the news and social media tonight, sending him thoughts and prayers even though thoughts and prayers seem so meaningless now. He supposes it’s nice that people are thinking of him, thinking of John, praying for his survival instead of his death.

Our hearts go out to Major Gale Cleven and the entire NASA community at this time.

But there’s something about a goddamn death wish that is just so loud.

“I know it’s hard,” Marge says, “but you really should stay off social media. You won’t touch it with a ten foot pole most of the time and now is when you wanna doom scroll?”

It’s a joke, and there’s some humor in it, but Gale doesn’t laugh. “Someone left something in my mailbox the other day. Praying the queer dies on the moon.”

Marge goes tense, frowning at him. He wilts a little under her stare, knowing she wishes he would’ve told her before. “Have there been any more? Has anyone contacted you directly?”

Gale looks down at his feet, which are slowly turning a brighter red. “No.”

“Look at me, Gale.” Marge taps his hand, demanding his attention. “You let me know immediately if anyone does, okay?”

Gale shrugs, but at her pointed look, he gives a small nod, and then he goes back to looking at the moonless sky. They sit for a couple of minutes before Marge squeezes his hand again. “Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing, even if you don’t.” She gently tugs at his hand until he unfolds himself and stands up from the chair, and she’s relieved when he follows her back into the house, bare feet padding quietly on the cold ground.

When she tries to guide him down the hall to the master bedroom, though, he stops and shakes his head. “No.”

“You need to sleep.”

“No,” he insists. “Not in there.”

Marge watches him, and part of him feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He’s seen combat, flown fighter jets, passed survival training with flying colors, stayed on the international space station, and all manner of other unthinkable things. He shouldn’t be reluctant to sleep in his own bed. He shouldn’t feel afraid of the dark. His heart rate shouldn’t be skyrocketing at the mere thought of walking into that room. But his feet are planted to the ground, and he can’t make himself move. He twists the ring around his finger, and he holds his breath.

Marge grabs him gently by the arm again and tells him to look at her. “Take a breath,” she says. So he does. “Go to the living room, okay? I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”

When she returns, Gale has actually done as he was told and is sitting on the couch, both feet planted firmly on the ground. The dogs lay on the floor, Pepper watching him curiously and Meatball resting his head on his paws, on alert for anything that might hurt Gale. The dog doesn’t expect trouble to come in the form of Marge, but when she hands over the pillow, Gale squints at it skeptically before pressing it close to his face, and he chokes on something that resembles a sob but doesn’t quite make it that far. Meatball jumps up immediately to nuzzle at Gale’s arm, and Gale idly pats him on the head as he breathes in the scent of the pillowcase.

It’s John’s. Smokey and sweet.

“I switched them,” Marge says.

So much panic, looking for something, anything, that still smelled like Bucky, and it was right beside Gale the whole time. Right on the other side of the bed, waiting.

He has an urge to clutch it tight to his chest like a child with a blanket, to sob into it until he’s out of tears and out of breath. But he smiles, and then he frowns, and then he scrunches his nose to keep from crying, and then he almost smiles again. Marge sets the blanket beside him on the couch, and she steps up close to him. She runs her fingers through his hair before leaning down to kiss him lightly on the top of the head. He wants her to tell him that everything will be okay, that John will be alright and he’ll come home and this will all just be another story to tell someday. He wants her to hug him tight and say that everything will work out. But at the same time, he doesn’t. He wouldn’t believe her if she did.

Two things can be true. Gale can know that the odds are against Bucky in every possible way. And he can also believe with his entire heart that Bucky Egan is capable of making it through anything.

All of it can be true and all of it can be false and none of it can take the pain away.

So instead, he thanks her, and she tells him to get some sleep. He lays down on the couch, alone in the darkness, and he buries his nose in the scent of his husband. It’s the only thing in the entire world that can make him fall asleep for the few hours he has left before he has to get ready for work again.

180 minutes.

10,800 seconds that are devoted to keeping Gale alive instead of his husband.

–

Rosie has been obsessively running the same calculations that he knows they’re running on the ground. By now, a task force has been assembled at JSC, consisting of engineers and medical professionals, dedicated entirely to anticipating every outcome and figuring out how to keep John alive through them all. They don’t communicate with the crew fast enough for Rosie’s comfort, though.

The human body follows rules, until it doesn’t. And microgravity, i.e. a lunar environment, is definitely not a place where rules can be expected to apply. No human has been on the lunar surface since 1972 – the data on how the human body responds to any given situation in this environment is extremely limited.

There are several major problems with having an incapacitated astronaut on the moon. On one hand, a lunar environment with fractional gravity in a climate- and pressure-controlled lander may work in the body’s favor relative to zero-gravity – compared to if this had occurred onboard Orion. However, at least onboard Orion, the return to Earth could be accomplished faster without having to risk launching an incapacitated astronaut that may or may not still be experiencing decompression symptoms at high speed from partial to zero gravity, followed by a several day return trip where any number of things could go wrong.

Keeping Bucky stable is top priority, and will not be easily accomplished if he doesn’t wake up before Starship’s departure from the surface. And the longer he stays under, the less likely it is that he’ll wake, and the more likely it is that he’ll experience further complications.

So if stability is the major concern, then another key issue is what they call the “backpack problem.” Too much stuff, not enough space.

Any given spacecraft has storage and mass limitations in order to meet launch and functionality requirements. Orion itself can only fit so much equipment, and for years several different teams have been tasked with determining what materials are and are not crucial to have on board. This includes medical equipment. Orion and Starship are only equipped with so much in the way of medical supplies, quantities of which were pre-determined by detailed analyses that attempted to account for almost any given situation and calculate the likelihood of those situations occurring.

In short, a bunch of scientists ran a bunch of simulations to figure out what catastrophes were relatively likely to occur on Artemis 3, and then they ran more calculations to figure out what supplies would be required to deal with those catastrophes.

Oxygen is one problem. Ideally, Starship and Orion should both have enough oxygen to operate for the mission duration as well as account for any emergencies. In order to mimic a hyperbaric chamber, the amount of oxygen circulating through Starship’s crew cabin had to increase significantly for a few hours. Bucky’s decompression rash worsened again after pressure was decreased, necessitating an additional course of recompression therapy. As long as symptoms begin to alleviate, which Rosie suspects they will, further recompression shouldn’t be needed, and their oxygen supply should be good to go.

What he’s more concerned about is fluids.

Bucky’s been on an IV basically since Curt got him back into the lander and jammed the catheter into his arm. The IV delivers water, electrolytes, and minimal caloric intake to his body while he remains unable to eat or drink, but the short-duration lunar exploration missions are only equipped with the anticipated minimum amount of IV fluid that would be needed in a given event considered relatively likely to occur.

Luckily, these calculations did consider an incapacitated crew member. Between Orion and Starship, the crew has 44 liters of IV fluid on hand, enough to provide intensive care for one average-sized male for 6 days. The problem, however, is that NASA researchers assumed transportation back to Earth would begin 24 hours after an incident, with the return taking a maximum of five days. Bucky’s already been receiving saline for over 24 hours, and a decision was made not to abort from the surface while he was unconscious and decompression effects were unclear. He and Curt won’t rendezvous with Orion for another 2.5 days. From there, the return trip will likely take 3 to 3.5 days, barring Houston giving them an alternative route. In total, if Bucky remains incapacitated for the duration, including the past 24 hours, he’ll need continuous IV treatment for seven days.

No less than one day more than was planned for. One day more than they have the supplies for.

They’ve passed the planned-for assumption of beginning transport back to Earth within a day of injury. No one knows if or when Bucky will wake up. No one knows if further complications will require additional fluids. A seizure or cardiac arrest, for example. Or, god forbid, any other incident or illness that leads another crew member to need fluids.

Rosie is running the calculations, and he knows JSC is, too. They’re trying to figure out how to keep Bucky alive in the short term without potentially screwing him over in the end.

And the clock is ticking.

–

Curt hasn’t slept any more than Gale has. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Bucky, unconscious on the ground, blood in his helmet and his leg crushed under the rover. He doesn’t think anyone at all is getting much sleep right now, though, and he knows Houston is working around the clock on concerns that Curt doesn’t even know about. This isn’t his first rodeo; he knows how it goes. They’ll have a task force assembled by now running through every possible scenario that Curt can’t even fathom up here on his own. But they won’t communicate with him about a single one until it comes to pass, because they want him to focus on keeping Bucky alive. So they’ll feed him instructions as needed, and he just has to follow them.

Follow them and don’t fuck it up. Don’t kill his best friend.

He’s been in life or death situations before. He’s single-handedly held together a copilot who was bleeding out all while safely landing a plane. He’s saved copilots – friends – and he’s lost them, too.

That’s just how being a pilot goes, sometimes.

He’s watched a casket draped with the stars and stripes be marched to a grave. He’s listened to the bugler play and the riflemen send off a three volley salute. He’s tri-folded a flag and watched as it was presented to a loved one trying with all their might not to fall apart right there and then.

If he has any say at all, he will not, under any circumstances, allow Gale Cleven to be on the receiving end of that flag.

What sucks is that he doesn’t have any say. All he can do is do as he’s told, and on a minimally stocked space exploration vehicle, his capabilities are limited.

That’s what he’s thinking about as he sits by the lander window, eating bland as fuck chicken and rice out of a rehydratable bag. Space Oddity plays in the background and he mumbles along: “Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong, can you hear me Major Tom?”

The same song Bucky sang as they approached their landing site. Back when they never expected the end of the song to apply.

Bucky is still very much unconscious and dead to the world, lying motionless on the fold-out cot that was stored in the Starship med bay. Curt’s glad he had the wherewithal to remember that the cot existed, much less where it was stored, because trying to care for an unconscious patient with decompression sickness and a broken leg would be a bitch in one of the hammocks they typically string up to sleep in.

Despite the general horror and the sudden need to recall his astronaut medical training, Curt’s daily tasks have become monotonous. Check Bucky every hour, do whatever he needs to do for him, and talk to Rosie and Houston about his condition. When he’s not doing that, he does housekeeping tasks. He’s taken inventory of their food and medical supplies twice already. He’s vacuumed all of the filters and vents. He’s checked the integrity of their climate-control systems more times than he can count. He’s checked in on the video feed of their LEAF plants, which he is simultaneously excited and sad to see are growing as hoped, even though he hasn’t been able to give them proper nutrients in the last day.

Mostly, he’s spent a lot of time just pacing the lander, listening to music, longingly staring out the window. He wonders if yesterday morning was his last lunar EVA. If it was, well, how can he complain? How many people get to step foot on the moon at all? And he got to do it a small handful of times. He’s spent more time on the moon than any man ever. He got to do what he’d always dreamed of doing, see what he always dreamed of seeing. It was better than he ever imagined, so how lucky is he?

But he also only got to do about half of their planned EVAs, and he feels fucking cheated.

He wishes stepping outside was as simple as just walking right on through the door for a leisurely stroll, but stepping outside like that on the moon means instant death. Instead, an EVA requires 30+ minutes of pre-breathing and securing himself into a bulky and complex spacesuit, followed by egress from the lander through a pressure lock. The process to get out of Starship alone takes up time that Curt simply doesn’t have, not while he has to constantly monitor Bucky, check in no less than every hour, and be immediately available if Houston notices something off.

All Curt can do is look at the lunar surface out the window, longing to step onto that fine foreign soil one more time.

He’s angry, and he doesn’t know at who. He’s not angry at Bucky; how can he be? That would be absurd.

Or maybe he is? Maybe he is mad that Bucky’s random but perhaps avoidable accident ruined their moon mission. Maybe he is mad that Bucky got them both into this mess. But that’s selfish as hell, isn’t it?

He’s mad at himself for even thinking that.

And he’s definitely still mad at himself for allowing the accident to happen, even though everyone tells him it’s not his fault.

Maybe he’s mad at whoever at NASA didn’t quadruple check the quality of the rover wheels.

Maybe he’s mad at whatever gods may be listening.

Maybe there really isn’t anyone to blame and it was just shitty, shitty luck, and now Curt has to while away up here, dedicating his days to making sure John Egan doesn’t die on the fucking moon.

Fix You by Coldplay plays in the background. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you.

Curt chucks his empty chicken and rice bag at the wall.

It strikes just to the right of the console, and bits of rice tumble out onto the floor and stick to the console buttons. Curt feels like an idiot for a moment before he gets mad again. If nothing else, it gives him another thing to clean instead of just stewing in fear and anger that he’d rather not acknowledge. So, with a glance at Bucky to ensure he is, in fact, still laying completely still on the shitty little cot, he turns up the music and sets to work.

Eventually, the song changes to Afterlife by Avenged Sevenfold. I don’t belong here, we gotta move on, dear, escape from this afterlife.

It’s sad and it’s angry and it’s everything Curt feels.

His little bubble of frustration is burst by Benny’s voice in his ear. “Smokey would like me to ask you if you’re okay.”

Curt: “Yeah Benny, I’m just great, thanks for asking. Any reason? Or is watchin’ over my comatose best friend the kicker?”

Benny: “We’re concerned, down here, about your music choices today.”

Curt: “My music choices?” Curt huffs, shaking his head as he stops his aggressive scrubbing of the console.

Benny: “So far, we’ve documented you listening to, among others…” Benny pauses, as if checking a list he’s been provided. Which is exactly what he’s doing, because apparently the Flight Surgeon is keeping a list of the songs on Curt’s sad boy hours playlist.

Benny: “Rocketman by Elton John, Champagne Supernova by Oasis, Unsteady by X Ambassadors, Bigger Than the Whole Sky by Taylor Swift, Take Me Instead by Zero 9:36, White Ferrari by Frank Ocean, Gone Away by the Offspring, Before I Go by Billie Eilish, and now Fix You and Afterlife. Not to mention, Wake Me Up When September Ends, during which you substituted November for September.”

Curt: “Clever right?”

Benny: “We’re impressed with your range.”

Curt: “I’m a man of the arts.”

That’s only a fraction of the songs that have been playing over the last few hours, basically all of them, for lack of a better word, angsty as hell.

Benny: “You doin’ okay, Curt?”

Curt: “I’d like the record to show that I also had a dance party to early 2000s pop earlier this morning.”

Benny: “Yes, the flight controllers particularly enjoyed singing along to Girlfriend. But, Curt-”

Curt: “We’re a little somber up here, Benny. Not gonna lie.”

And then he shuts off his coms, because that’s enough of that, and he sings along to Move Along by the All American Rejects as he heads over to check on Bucky. Again. Even when your hope is gone, move along, move along just to make it through.

“Hey bud, how ya hangin’ in there?” he asks as he stands over Bucky’s cot. Despite his bad mood, he’s been trying to talk to Bucky throughout the morning. Rosie told him that that’s a good thing to do with coma patients. ‘Cause that’s what Bucky is now: a coma patient.

“Everyone’s real worried about you. He won’t talk to anyone but Marge, but Gale’s in pieces. He does a good job of hidin’ it at work, but Benny told me he isn’t doin’ too hot. That’s probably not somethin’ you wanna hear, but I thought someone should tell you. Maybe, if nothin’ else, that’ll convince you to wake up. He needs you, ya know? I’m worried about him…if ya don’t make it. Defies the laws of nature, huh? Buck without Bucky.” Curt sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “So just, y’know, wake up when you can, okay? I don’t wanna fly all the way back to Earth with your fuckin’ dead body.”

They only have a couple of days until they depart from the moon, and Curt is not at all thrilled by the prospect of having to shove Bucky’s unconscious body back into his OCS suit and strap him into the commander’s seat. Especially with a broken leg.

“You owe me big time, just so ya know, for cleanin’ you up and all. You’re my best friend, but this is a lot closer than I ever fuckin’ needed to be to ya.” Curt chuckles as he raises Bucky’s shirt to inspect his abdomen. The movies never show you all the maintenance that goes into a coma patient, the hygiene tasks and all. Curt wishes he could’ve just gone on not knowing about any of that, but he’s had to do some things he’d really rather never discuss again since Bucky conked out on him.

He took care of most of that earlier, though. Now he just checks him all over for signs of the decompression rash, and he’s satisfied to see that while Bucky’s skin is still mottled all red and purple, it’s fading and no longer swollen. Then he unwinds the bandage from around Bucky’s head and reports to Rosie and Benny that the gash on the back of his head looks alright. They tell him to clean it real good again and replace the bandage.

He had to shave off some of Bucky’s hair yesterday to assess the wound. He knows he’ll be pissed about that when he wakes up.

All sorts of bio-med sensors are stuck all over Bucky’s body, so Houston can monitor his vitals. It seems to be about the only thing they talk about. Bucky’s oxygen levels, his heart rate, his blood pressure, his temperature. His leg, his rash, his head wound. The first lunar exploration mission in over 50 years has become a critical test in off-world life support and medical communication.

Bucky’s been breathing well on his own, and Curt thanks the fucking stars for that even as he triple checks every hour or so. He looks for the steady, though weak, rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, and is relieved every time to see that it’s there. He honestly doesn’t know if they have a breathing tube on Starship, and if they do, he does not want to figure out how to shove it into Bucky’s body.

Benny informs him that Smokey would like to increase Bucky’s pain medicine, so Curt adjusts the IV accordingly.

Every once in a while Bucky’s hand will twitch or something. Curt’s been told that that’s normal, and nothing to get excited about unless the movement is in response to some sort of stimulus. Which, so far, it hasn’t been. Even when Curt accidentally jostles the IV catheter inserted into Bucky’s arm.

He intentionally tests Bucky’s motor response just to make sure. First with a trapezius pinch, then a sternal rub, and finally by applying pressure to one of his nail beds, as Rosie instructed him to do yesterday. All of these tests are meant to apply mild pain to the patient to see if it generates a response. But none of them do.

How To Save A Life by the Fray plays in the background. I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness, and I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life.

“Still no motor response, Rosie,” he says.

“Copy, Curt.” Rosie sounds just as tired as Curt feels, and his voice carries a defeated tone that he doesn’t like.

“What are the odds of getting him through this?”

Rosie is quiet for at least a full minute before he responds. “I don’t know.” No one likes to hear the doctor say they don’t know. “He seems pretty stable now, but the longer he’s unconscious, the less likely it is he’ll wake up. I’m worried about the IV fluid. Houston’s working on scenarios for… well.”

“See how little they can give him and still keep him alive,” Curt mutters. Because no one knows how long he’ll need it.

“Mhm.”

If Benny is listening in, he doesn’t say a word.

Curt rubs his thumb mindlessly over Bucky’s brow, hating how broken and defenseless his friend looks. Here’s a man who has always taken the world by storm, who has always thrown caution to the wind and lived life to the fullest every damn day. One of the bravest, though perhaps most reckless, people Curt knows. A man who loves so much and is loved by so many.

He knows that if Bucky has to die, he’d like it to have happened on the moon. That’s the kind of heroic end to the saga of his life that he’d be proud of. Nothing menial, like growing old or having a heart attack. Something spectacular, out with a bang like an exploding star.

But at the same time, that characterization belongs, in part, to the young man Curt knew out of college. Bucky’s very much the same person he was then, but he’s changed, too. Now he’s married. Curt looks at the ring on Bucky’s finger, which he found in his personal preference kit this morning. He knew Bucky would want to have it, but Rosie and Smokey cautioned against putting anything around his neck, so he took it off the chain and slipped it over Bucky’s ring finger, where it belongs.

John Egan is a married man, and he loves Gale with so much devotion that Curt isn’t sure he’d be okay with dying up here after all. Maybe he wants to grow old. Maybe he wants to have as much time with his husband as humanly possible. Maybe he wants a damn finally; he’s mentioned it maybe once to Curt, just as a vague possibility after seeing how good Gale is with the neighborhood kids. What kind of cruel universe must this be to rip Buck and Bucky apart now, just weeks after their wedding? Before they even have the photos back? Before they get a chance to really find out what the rest of their life together can be?

“I’m worried about Buck,” he confides to Rosie after a while.

“We all are,” Rosie agrees.

“He tries so hard to act like he’s fine. Benny told me he punched a mirror.”

“Sounds like Buck, honestly.”

Curt sighs and leaves Bucky be, wandering back over to the command console. “I’m kinda worried that if John doesn’t make it, Gale won’t either.”

Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift plays in the background. Just close your eyes, the sun is going down, you’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now.

“We’ll hold him up, get him through it,” Rosie assures him. Because there’s no other choice.

–

Bright lights. Ears ringing. Pain.

Pain.

Awful pain. In his head. In his leg. His leg is on fire. He feels sick.

He can’t move. Can’t fucking move.

Someone is saying Gale’s name.

Gale.

Buck.

Angel.

Make the pain go away. Please.

–

Benny: “Curt, do you copy?”

Curt: “I’m here, Benny.” Curt is picking mindlessly, dejectedly, at a little grain of rice still stuck in one of the console buttons.

Benny: “John’s heart rate has increased significantly.”

Curt frowns and leaves the console be. Bucky was fine just minutes ago. Well, not fine, but stable. Ish. Uneventful, at least.

But when Curt approaches the cot, his breath catches. He feels his own heart rate shoot up as he stares at Bucky.

Bucky is staring right back at him.

–

Gale mindlessly thanks the custodian who’d been called into Mission Control, just moments after he arrived for Red Shift, for cleaning up the coffee at his feet. Gale was given absolutely no warning, but he could tell by the way everyone stared at him when he filed in with Marge and Croz that something had happened. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he made a beeline for Benny.

When Benny told him that Bucky had opened his eyes, the cup in Gale’s hand simply was no longer in his hand. It tumbled to the floor, spilling hot black coffee all over the place, including over his nice leather oxfords which are definitely now ruined.

Bucky had opened his eyes just about an hour ago. The way Curt tells the story, he opened them when he was talking to Rosie about Gale. “It’s your name, Buck,” Curt tries to tell him. “He responded to your name.”

Gale doesn’t really believe it, chalking it up to a coincidence, even as he feels his heart swell with love and longing just a little bit.

Bucky was able to track some, but not all, movement. He wouldn’t blink on command, and he didn’t reliably respond to physical stimuli. He also didn’t keep his eyes open for more than 15 minutes, and he seemed to be in some state of panic at first. But it was something. It was enough to fill Mission Control with some semblance of a flickering hope, clawing its way to the surface. There’s a hesitant chatter in the room today, unlike the eerie silence of yesterday.

So things continue as normal. Well, as their new normal. Macon sits beside Gale, ready to jump in if needed. Gale talks to the crew about their tasks. He tries to make Curt feel like his time on the moon hasn’t gone to waste by discussing LEAF and his findings on the LDA sites.

“Think I’ll be able to get back out to the greenhouse?” Curt asks him at some point.

Gale looks at Clark, who shrugs, because no one knows. “I don’t know, Curt,” he says honestly. “I sure hope so.”

Because he knows it would mean a lot to Curt to be able to finish at least one experiment up there.

And he knows that if Curt is allowed back on the surface, it’s because Bucky is stable enough to be left alone. It would mean Bucky was awake, moving, talking. So Gale wants Curt to be able to conduct that last EVA more than anything.

By about 1:30pm, things are going smoothly. The tension is coming down, albeit cautiously. Gale is breathing easily, even if he keeps pressing his ring finger to his lips when he feels a sudden rise of panic. Even if he keeps flexing his bad hand just to feel something.

He glances to his right out of the corner of his eye when he becomes aware of a suspicious amount of activity. Flight controllers are whispering in each other’s ears, passing a message down the front line of consoles like a game of telephone. When Croz leans over towards him, Gale hits him with a glare. “Don’t even think about whispering in my ear.”

Croz nods and sits back, talking at almost normal volume. “Marge wants to know when you last ate anything.”

Gale rolls his eyes and looks over the other flight controllers, who are watching curiously, to glare at Marge at the end of the line. She shrugs and looks at him expectantly. She full well knows when he last ate. “Had a granola bar this morning,” he tells Croz.

Croz looks just as unimpressed as Marge. “Dude. That doesn’t count. Did you eat dinner last night?”

Gale shrugs. No. Marge tried to make him. She ordered pizza. She raided his kitchen to make a salad with lettuce that looked like it might start wilting at any moment. She shoved crackers and peanuts and gatorade at him, just trying to get him to put something in his body.

He doesn’t deserve her.

He didn’t have any appetite. He ate half a slice of pizza and nearly threw up purely from the nerves consuming his body from the inside out. He managed some gatorade, a few crackers, and then he adamantly refused anything else other than this morning’s coffee and a granola bar that had almost no caloric value.

“Buck,” Croz says, in a voice that carries too much concern and judgment for Gale’s liking. “The last meal you had was that sandwich? It’s been almost 24 hours.”

Gale doesn’t think now is a good time to tell Croz that he also hasn’t really slept in even longer.

Macon shoves his shoulder from the other side. “Man, you need to eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Gale insists, leaning back in his chair and making a point of studying his computer screen, even though there is absolutely nothing of interest on it.

Croz and Macon both look at him like he’s insane combined with some expression of pity that Gale wants to slap off both of their faces, and they each give him some variation of “no you’re not.”

“I can’t leave right now,” he sighs. He motions to his computer, where he has Bucky’s vitals displayed along with telemetry from Orion and Starship. He’s mid shift. And he doesn’t want to bother any of the assistants to go get him something from the cafeteria when he doesn’t think it’ll stay down anyways. He sips his coffee. Only his second cup of the day, including the one he’d spilled when he was only half finished with it, which is surprising considering he’s over halfway through his shift.

Macon shakes his head and pulls out his wallet. He hands Gale five dollars. “Go get something from the vending machine. I can cover for a few minutes.”

Gale stares at him, and Macon stares back, challenging him to disagree. Gale looks at Croz, then down the row at Marge, who is watching him carefully. The other flight controllers pretend not to watch. “You’re no good to John if you pass out on us,” Croz tells him, using the same logic Gale used on Curt the day before.

Reluctantly, Gale grabs the five dollar bill, removes his headset, and leaves Macon at his post, listening as he informs the crew of the temporary CAPCOM change.

Trying to convince himself that it’s fine, that Macon has it under control, that there’s nothing Gale can handle that his substitute can’t, he decides to stop in the bathroom real quick, too. Then he wanders down the hall to the vending machine, looks at its contents with extreme distaste, and puts in a random number. With a bag of trail mix in hand, he heads back to Mission Control. Just as he walks through the door, though, he sees Marge running up the center aisle towards him, her heels pounding on the carpeted floor. Everyone is turned to watch them.

Her eyes are wide, her face pale, and Gale grips the trail mix far too tight to keep from dropping it.

He’s only been gone for three minutes.

Three fucking minutes.

–

“Fuck, fuck! Macon? Rosie?” Curt’s hands hover in the air over Bucky’s convulsing body, unsure of what to do.

“What’s happening, Curt?” Macon asks. Dr. Huston had informed him just seconds ago about another sudden increase in Bucky’s heart rate.

Curt: “A seizure, I think.”

Rosie: “Shit.”

Curt: “What the fuck do I do?”

Rosie: “Can you get him on his side?”

Curt tries to get his brain to catch up, analyzing Bucky’s condition. His broken leg is jerking uncontrollably, and he has that IV in his arm. But fuck it.

Curt: “Yeah, yeah I think so.”

Carefully, Curt lifts Bucky from the side and tries to rotate him even as his body fights back. The IV pulls awkwardly at his arm, and Curt hauls him back closer to the IV bag to loosen the slack. He’s worried about that leg staying stable.

Curt: “He’s on his side.”

Rosie: “Hold him steady, okay? We don’t need him falling off the cot, and make sure his head stays in place so he doesn’t choke.”

Macon: “Let me know as soon as it stops. We’re timing it here.”

Curt nods, even though absolutely no one can see him. He holds Bucky down with all of his strength, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut through this ugly, terrible turn of events.

He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He can hear Bucky’s limbs jerking against the cot. He can hear Rosie trying to reassure him. He can hear another Taylor Swift song playing somewhere in the background. Soon you’ll get better, you’ll get better soon, cause you have to. He clenches his jaw and tries to breathe, and he hopes Bucky will keep breathing, too.

Please. You have to.

It’s the longest 53 seconds of his entire life.

–

A seizure.

Marge rushes forward to take Gale’s weight as he nearly collapses. They’re both worried for a moment that the lack of sleep and the lack of food and the fear and the nerves have caught up to him, that he’s going to pass out right here in the doorway of Mission Control. His head spins, his vision goes black around the edges. But his arms tighten around Marge, and he clings to her for dear life.

“Breathe, Gale,” she says. “Breathe.”

Gale draws in a barely controlled breath, and Marge rubs his back. Breathe, angel.

–

Harding sends him home this time, insisting that he needs to rest. Gale is too exhausted at this point to argue, even though he wants to punch someone or scream into a void. He knows Harding won’t back down, and he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so he listens for once. He lets Macon take over. He doesn’t fight.

Marge insists on driving him home even though her work day isn’t over yet. Once again, no one trusts him to be alone. He resents that. He’s flown a damn fighter jet in worse condition. He can drive himself home.

What he doesn’t consider is that maybe it’s not just that no one trusts him to be alone, but also that they don’t want him to have to be alone. They want to be there for him. They want to get through this together.

Either way, he doesn’t fight Marge too much either, not when she levels that look at him, eyebrows raised in a dare while her eyes are wide with concern, a frown etched into her face. He’s rarely been able to stop her from doing what she believes she needs to do, and he won’t be able to now. He thinks he’d rather have her there anyways, because part of him is afraid to be alone.

So in the hallway outside of Mission Control, she tells him to go to the car and wait while she gathers some things from her office. He nods wordlessly and watches her walk away.

Outside, it’s raining again. A cold November rain that’ll drench you to the bone and leave you shaking uncontrollably if you give it a chance. It’s the kind of downpour that reminds you how alive this world is, reminds you of the fact that the Earth keeps turning no matter what. Gale used to find that thought comforting – no matter what happened in his life or in anyone else’s, at least the planet would go on, a constant, one of few things that could be relied upon.

But now it makes him irrationally angry, because how is it fair? It doesn’t seem fair that the world is still turning when Gale’s entire universe has slammed on the brakes, skidding to a standstill. It’s not fair that the Earth goes on when his husband isn’t on it. It’s not fair that Gale himself will be expected to just keep on living if John doesn’t return. It’s not fair that the sun rises and sets and the birds sing and the rain comes down in torrents when Gale feels like he wants to rip his heart right out of his chest because it may never beat right again.

It’s not fair that the universe he loves so much, that the little moon that he’s always loved so much, has done this to him. It’s not fair that his life’s work has done this to him. It’s not fair that his husband has done this to him-

And oh god what a horrible thought. How terrible is he to think that?

He’s angry. He’s so fucking angry.

He’s angry at the world and he’s angry at the moon and he’s angry at NASA and Harding and Mission Control and everyone who keeps acting like he isn’t a grown ass man who can very well take care of himself, because he always has since he was a little boy with parents who couldn’t be bothered.

And he’s fucking pissed at his husband.

He’s so goddamn mad at John Egan for leaving him here on this planet that just keeps on fucking turning. He’s mad at Bucky for abandoning him just weeks after their wedding, for putting him through the absolute worst pain of his life. He’s mad at Bucky for making him imagine a world without him. He’s mad at Bucky for not staying safe in the first place, even though Gale knows with his entire being that it’s not his fucking fault.

But he’s so, so alone here, and he doesn’t know how to keep going. He doesn’t know how to keep breathing. He can’t be Buck if he doesn’t have Bucky. He can’t be anyone. He can’t be at all.

And it hurts. It hurts and he’s fucking scared and he needs to be okay but he’s the furthest thing from it.

He wants to scream and he wants to throw something and he wants to get drunk and he wants the pain to go away.

He wants it to stop. He wants to wake up from this goddamn nightmare in his husband’s arms, John’s voice whispering to him that it was all just a bad dream as he strokes Gale’s hair.

He wants John back.

But he’s not here.

He’s not fucking here. He’s somewhere out there and even if his body is returned to this planet, John himself may never come home.

So Gale stands alone in the freezing, pouring rain, drenched to the bone in water and anguish, and all of a sudden, he can’t feel a damn thing.

It feels like relief at the same time that it feels like Hell. He doesn’t want to feel any of it anymore, but how much of a fucking coward does that make him?

“Gale? Is that you?”

“Gale?”

“Buck?”

Someone grabs him by the shoulder, and he turns his head. It’s Sandra, fresh from some sort of mission training.

She looks at him, and she frowns. But it’s not quite with pity like everyone else. It’s more like disapproval, but in a compassionate way. She’s holding an umbrella in her other hand. She’s dry for the most part, and Gale looks down at himself. He’s drenched to the bone and shaking uncontrollably.

Sandra shifts the umbrella over so it’s covering him, even though it leaves her half exposed, her blue flight suit quickly getting soaked on one side. “Come on, love. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Supposed to meet Marge at her car,” he mumbles.

Sandra shakes her head. “Well you can’t very well get in someone’s car like that. Let’s see if we can dry you off.”

Gale doesn’t protest this, either. Just lets her lead him back inside. He wonders how long he was standing out there, but decides it couldn’t have been too long at all since they run into Marge as soon as they’re through the door. She’s half running down the hall, no doubt not wanting to make him wait too long. But she stops short when she sees them.

She looks devastated, and it makes Gale feel guilty. He watches as she sighs, defeated. “Come on, hon,” she says. She takes Gale’s other hand, and both women lead him back down the hall.

–

By the time they get to Gale’s house, him and Marge in one car and Sandra in another, Gale isn’t shaking anymore. The girls found enough towels somewhere to at least start drying him off, leaving him looking more like a wet dog than a drenched cat. He found one of his spare flight suits in his office, which he hasn’t been in in weeks. So when he steps out of the car – even with damp, scraggly hair – he looks more like Buck Cleven, astronaut, than Gale Cleven, flight controller and grieving husband.

Maybe that’s a good thing, since his front lawn is swarming with reporters and camera crews.

“Shit,” Marge mumbles as she pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition.

Gale rubs a hand over his face, but he figures he should have expected this. It was only a matter of time before the media sought him out for a comment on his comatose husband’s condition and how he himself is coping. Or perhaps they want a comment about the integrity of the space program. Or about whether or not he still plans to follow through with Artemis 4 after what’s happened.

The rain is clearing up, but it’s still drizzling. He pulls a pair of aviators out of his bag anyways and puts them on in an attempt to hide the puffiness of his eyes. If it’s Major Buck Cleven they want, that’s what they’ll get. He isn’t going to give all the homophobic assholes of the world the satisfaction of seeing a photograph of him in shambles.

When he steps out of the car, Marge and Sandra step up to flank him on either side, and they push their way through the crowd.

“Is Major Egan awake yet?” someone asks.

“NASA will release an update on his condition tonight,” Marge assures them.

“Major Cleven, how are you holding up?”

“No comment,” he says.

“Is NASA considering suspending the moon program?”

Marge looks to her left, seeking out whoever asked. “No.”

“Are you still planning to fly on Artemis 4?”

“Yes,” Gale says.

“How did this happen?” “Is Major Egan stable?” “Is anyone at fault here?” “How can NASA justify continuing these dangerous missions?” “Is this why you decided to get married before the mission?” “What do you have to say to everyone saying he deserved it?”

The fag deserved it.

Gale whips around, trying to differentiate between all of the men and women shouting at him. He doesn’t realize that he’s practically seething until Sandra grabs him roughly by the arm and pulls him forward.

“If you want a comment, contact my office,” Marge yells over them. “Now I need y’all to leave before I call the police. This is private property! Hear me! Go on!”

Sandra shoves Gale through the front door.

–

By 4pm, Gale has more or less managed to calm himself down again. Between the two terrifying women traipsing around his home, he’s been convinced to eat some of the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, and he manages not to throw it back up. Marge practically shoves painkillers down his throat when she notices the way he keeps grimacing at the pain of his bad hand but incessantly flexing it anyways.

“You need a fucking tranquilizer is what you need,” she tells him. He glares at her, and she raises her hands in surrender.

Benny comes by with the dogs, no doubt having been updated on Bucky’s condition as well as Gale’s. With the rain letting up, he’s quickly followed by Jane and Maggie, who probably saw the dogs through the window and came bounding out to play with them. Minutes later, Mrs. Mason shows up with a giant tupperware container full of food.

She shoves it at Marge when she answers the door. “I’m sure that boy isn’t eating right,” the old woman says, and she’d be correct. “So I made a pot pie casserole. None of that lasagna bullshit.”

Marge laughs and thanks her before inviting her inside, too.

Soon, the entire quiet street is lined with cars as Red Shift, having passed the torch to White Shift, starts showing up at the house. Every single one of them. Croz, Bubbles, Dr. Huston, Clark… everyone. Every single person who witnessed Gale fall apart today. Every single person who saw him nearly at his fucking worst showed up to keep him company. To share their worry and their fear. To find comfort in their little community. To try to hold each other close and make each other smile when the world seems to be crumbling around them.

Gale finds himself in a house crowded with more people than he thinks he’s ever had over in his entire time in Houston. He finds himself surrounded by friends. Friends who hug him and pat him on the shoulder and offer words of sympathy. And friends who tell shitty jokes and break into his pantry and try with all their might to make him laugh and act like things are normal.

He watches Maggie and Benny play with the dogs, and he watches Mrs. Mason essentially proposition Albert Clark. He watches Croz’s one year old son crawl around on the floor with Bubbles and Sandra. He watches Jane teach Marge how to french braid her own hair.

It’s… nice.

Dr. Huston walks over to him where he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. “Chick wanted me to let you know how sorry he is,” he says.

“Mmm.” Gale nods, taking a controlled breath. The thing is, he knows Harding did what he had to do. He knows he can’t blame him. But it still hurt.

“He wanted to come tonight, but he thought you could use the space. He’ll be hosting a press conference to update on John’s condition.” Gale nods, and Dr. Huston pats him on the shoulder. “You’re doing alright, Gale,” he says.

Gale thinks that that’s kind of an odd thing to say. Not “John will be alright” or “everything will be alright,” but “you’re doing alright.” Maybe it isn’t that odd. Maybe it’s just an acknowledgement that there’s no right way to respond to a situation like this. An acknowledgement that Gale’s emotions and the way he chooses to express them are valid. It strikes a chord in him that he didn’t know was there. But Huston just nods and walks off to join in a conversation with some of the other flight controllers, leaving Gale alone again.

His heart and mind go back and forth in a violent tug of war between feeling lonely in a crowded room, and feeling less lonely and more loved than ever. His home is full of life. Filled with people of all ages who came together because he needed them. Because they needed each other. Because none of them wanted to be alone. Because none of them have to be alone.

Gale turns away, though, and he walks outside onto the back patio. The sun is setting, and he watches the oranges and pinks of a post-storm Houston sky flood the heavens above. He watches the sun dipping below the horizon, and he thinks about the refraction. The Earth keeps turning, even when his husband isn’t on it, even when Gale feels like his world has stopped. He takes a deep breath, and he hopes that if he keeps breathing, John will keep breathing, too.

He has to.

---

Part 13

Side note: big big shout out and round of applause for my long time beta reader @mercy67 who has followed me across fandoms, encouraged my return to writing, and learned these characters for the sole purpose of reviewing said writing. Most of this was written yesterday so they really came through when, in the 11th hour, I asked if they'd read this over so I could get it out to you guys.

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creepling · 11 months ago

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i had a eureka moment the other day and now i have a theory about potential killers and maps that may or may not come to the tcm game.

so yknow you have the radio/news broadcasts in the loading screen before a game, and they can sometimes be heard during gameplay. there is a lot of clues talking about crime that has happened within texas and especially in Newt or near it. this is where we know about johnny killing a college student and being attacked by her friends. they don’t say his name, but describe the killer as “late 20s, dark hair and eyes and multiple scars on his face and arms”. the devs confirmed this when they said how he got the scar on his arm.

we also got hints of nancy before her release in these broadcasts. strings of men dying in unknown circumstances and had poison in their system. this seems to fit nancy’s “black widow” characteristic and we know she has a hand for poison and hallucinogens.

this is when my theory comes in. surely when it comes to killers, not all can be part of the slaughter family. big families exist, but say the game does really well and it has years on running, getting new dlc third monthly. that becomes a lot. so why not open to have killers loosely related to the family but not blood related. neighbours, other insane families. what about the people the cook work with at the gas station? (seen in the movie, ie the guy that cleans the van), or maybe nubbins is part of a community of graverobbers that know each other?

here are potential characters and mals that might be in the game. sorry if i get names or details wrong, im doing it by ear:

martin wembley is mentioned in the broadcasts when his home was raided by police confiscating his animal jars. some were human remains, which he claims to not know about and thought it was “just regular animal stuff”. is this a potential killer? or someone buying nubbins’s weird oddities? either way, his hobby is questionable and can be linked to the family, especially nubbins. the broadcast ends saying he is held for questioning

a male body found near devil’s river off highway 163, SW texas, found by a hunter. this is also the location two female bodies were found supposedly a year before this event. all bodies have evidence of stabbing and strangulation. in gameplay nancy says “have you ever heard of devil’s river?” and i am guessing this is where nancy disposes unwanted bodies that johnny kills to ‘clean up his mess’, as the method of murder is very similar to his. devil’s river would be a very unique map and i hope we get more info about it.

there is also hints johnny may have been caught by police but let off due to lack of evidence. when cops followed a lead to a motel they found 36 year old Kelsy Keo (sp?) being subdued by a man ‘whos named is withheld’. it seems that he talked his way out of it, saying kelsy agreed to it during intimacy. he denied being the infamous killer that cops were looking for, and with the current timeline, it seems johnny was let off. could this kelsy be a potential new victim in game?

three youths are vandalising Lexington, TX. their work has been described as depicting ‘famine and the macabre’, similar to how the texas chainsaw massacre is described. authorities think 2 of the youths are sisters, but cannot confirm. could this be a possible duo that might be new characters? or is the string of animal bone vandalism painting a bigger picture to potential new maps?

justin austin is another name mentioned when he was arrested after a case of food poisoning was linked to his meat factory. he admits some of the meat was “tainted” by a rat infestation. he awaits trial for his carelessness and lack of food hygiene. could this hint to the slaughters possibly selling their meat is make ends meet? are there more people turning to cannibalism due to lack of resources and steady income like the family? with a game about cannibals, it’s hard to believe rats are causing this problem.

a high school dance was intruded by two men, Hackett Wayford and his son Grant and they attacked the teenagers with bladed weapons. the football team managed to tackle the men before they caused more harm. one boy who tackled them said they were “freak strong, like bulls or something”. they say nothing about their motives, but their mention of strength is interesting as it would make for good potential new killers. the use of freak also implies their strength was inhuman, so can the powder in game also be used as a performance enhancer later on for potential new killers? if it can give nancy visions, it’s not that far fetched.

“the terror of I40” is the murders committed by sissy on her hitchhiking journey from california to texas. it says it took place between 1971-1972 so in canon sissy returned to the family sometime in ‘72. with a razorblade, she attacked a man in his home but he was able to fight her off. sissy fled the scene, but the man never reported the incident right away for an unknown reason.

Hellum’s Ranch is a location mentioned when police arrived at the scene from a report about cattle abuse. instead, they found men dressed in white clothes and sun glasses poisoned and slumped in chairs. some where holding King James bible, which has association with the KKK. one man also held an item which the police described as a ‘manifesto’. it is unknown why these men poisoned themselves, but the police found large quantities of the substance in the area. is this ranch a potential new map, linked to a dark past? to me, i think this could lean more into a Jonestown situation than a KKK one. with the men holding bibles, poisoning themselves, wearing clothes similar to the Jonestown cultitist, it’s uncanny.

there is also a random mention of the Marfa Lights in the broadcasts. how this is linked idk how, considering the theories of them are linked to UFOS. Marfa, TX and its setting could be a new map in the future, but that’s the only thing i can think of.

Omar Parly (sp?) is a man mentioned for multiple offences in different counties. he spent 5 years in prison and continued crime after his release. his current whereabouts is unknown. potential new killer?

Gerrard Gaines found a burning truck on ‘his back forty’ (idk what this means sorry). on inspection he found the burnt body of an unidentified male and a large bag of money 30 feet away. i find this one VERY compelling as this man shares a surname with Danny. who is the unidentified man? why is there money? and is this man related to danny? if that’s danny in the car, and gerrard is related to him, is someone paying him for his troubles of losing a relative? if so, who? im completely stumped on this one and my assumptions are far fetched.

personal belongings are found to be linked to a missing couple, Tim and Tiara Divine. they disappeared during their roadtrip through the country of texas. their IDs where scattered near a river assumingly to be disposed of if they are previous victims of the slaughter family. since they are missing, maybe they are still alive and being held captive by the slaughters, hinting to potential new victims?

#texas chainsaw massacre #tcm game #headcanon #johnny slaughter #sissy slaughter #nancy slaughter #nubbins sawyer #drayton sawyer #bubba sawyer #scout.rambles

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igncrxntripley · 2 years ago

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deal with a demon pt. 3

synopsis: two men betrayed by the judgement day have a heart to heart, and y/n officially begins training with finn even though the wounds of wrestlemania are still fresh for everyone.

a/n: let this hold you over while i work through the last few requests this week and come off of a super busy week of classes

mentions: SFW, minor descriptions of violence, fem!reader, slight emotional manipulation

taglist: @thesithdiaries @cassiesgreta @roseheartsworld @theworldofotps @babybatlover @ripleyswhore @auburnwrites @obl1vionblackhart @emogoblin-666 @hereliespumpkin @blxxdshxteyes @neptune-lover @bunnysmyname @i-have-issues-lol @ares-athena @thatonepansexual2000 @witcherfromwallachia

houston, tx. august 1st, 2022.

"it is time to kill what i have created.” edge vowed, staring straight into the camera. it had been two months since the judgement day betrayed him, and now he was back to get his revenge. “finn, damian, rhea. i am going to end judgement day.” he said, dropping the mic to the mat and letting the crowd react with claps and cheers. his message couldn’t have been any clearer; he started this mess, and he was going to end it before it got out of control. what edge didn’t expect, was how quick the three-person group at the time was in pressing each and every one of his buttons.

the unmistakable music of the judgement day hit as edge stood alone in the ring. he head quickly turned to the top of the ramp, where damian and finn stood with microphones in their hands and sick smirks on their faces. “edge, come on now.” damian began, the crowd greeting them with boos. “that was cute, actually, for you to make that little speech and pretend like it was going to intimidate us.”

finn nodded in agreement; he was already laughing and chuckling at how foolish he believed the hall of famer was being. “hilarious, truly.” he said in agreement. “you know, from the sounds of it you believe it’s going to be...easy. it’s going to be a walk in the park to end what you started, right?” he smirked. “best believe, edge; we aren’t going down without a fight. and the three of us will make your life an absolute living hell.” edge could be seen from the ring, frustration and anger all over his face as he watched the two men closely. he hadn’t reached for the microphone he’d just dropped, ready to put up a fight if he needed to. but little did he realize, the judgement day wasn’t coming out to fight.

damian put his hand on finn’s shoulder and smiled in solidarity with one of his partners. “speaking of which, rhea has something for you.” their heads turned to the entrance, while edge’s face filled with rage; his nostrils flared as rhea made her way out to stand with the boys...but was dragging something behind her.

y/n. an unconscious, limp y/n with bruises and scratches on her arms and face. what the audience hadn’t seen, was rhea taking the piss out on the rated r superstar’s daughter while the boys had their fun tormenting him. hit after hit, kick after kick...she caught y/n off guard while she waited for her dad backstage, and she had officially become nothing but a toy the judgement day was dangle above edge’s head.

rhea dropped y/n off in front of the boys, the three of them standing by her and laughing as they watched the lone man in the ring. edge crawled through the ropes and ran up the ramp, the judgement day retreating backstage and your dad not even bothering to chase after them. he knelt next to her body, a groan leaving her lips as he pulled his daughter closer. “y/n?” he asked in panic as he took in y/n’s bruised face. “hey baby, you’re okay.” edge brushed some hair from her face as officials ran out to the ramp to help.

her eyes, one of them already turning into a swollen black eye, opened and made eye contact with the man above her - her role model, the one who inspired her to become a professional wrestler. “dad...i...” he quickly shushed her, the rage flowing through his body like lava but doing his best to remain calm for his daughter.

“i know, kiddo. i’m sorry.” in that moment, your dad knew he needed to keep his promise. he was going to end the judgement day, at whatever cost. not only because of what they did to him, but now because of what they did to the people he loved.

--- ---

edge couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed; a match that he could’ve won, something he’d been preparing weeks and months for, and he lost. why did he lose? not because of something he did; no, it was because someone he loved turned their back on him. again. and you of all people were the last he’d expected to do this to him. he could handle the betrayal of the judgement day, he could handle his disciples exiling him from something he created in order to help the new generation of talent - but his daughter? one of the loves of his life? the thought alone was bewildering.

as he sat in his thoughts and began to strip himself of the in-ring persona that was edge, unwrapping the tape from his wrists, he looked up at a knock on the slightly open door. edge was expecting beth, who’d offered to give him some alone time so he could calm down. but instead he was met with the face of an old friend who recognized this betrayal all too well. someone who was still dealing with the heartbreak and hurt of his own child stabbing him in the back.

“hey..” rey said softly, sitting down next to edge and putting a hand on his back. when he’d watched everything from backstage and saw you - someone he’d known since you were born, someone he considered a niece - do this to her father, he knew he needed to talk to your dad. “i’m sorry, man”

your dad shook his head and tossed the used tape into his bag, his elbows resting on his knees and gently shaking his head. “i can’t believe it, man.” he said softly. “after everything they’ve done to us, and they still got to her.” he ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked at rey. “how can four people who want nothing but to cause chaos and pain get to someone who has her whole career ahead of her? who doesn’t need them to be the next best thing in this business...what could she want with them?”

rey shook his head and looked at edge with sympathy. “i’ll never know.” he said softly. two men, both betrayed by their children because of the judgement day, having the same conversation. two men, who still hadn’t processed their own betrayals that had happened months apart. it was unbelievable to both of them. “i still can’t believe what they’ve done to dominik. and now y/n...i wish i could say i couldn’t imagine how you feel.” he said sadly.

edge shook his head again and held rey’s shoulder as well. “i know, it’s okay.” he said. “i don’t want to give up on her...i know the old y/n is still in there somewhere. i just need to get through to her somehow.”

--- ---

it had been almost a week after wrestlemania; everyone needed a couple of days to digest what had happened. not only did you need time to distance yourself from your family and others in your original circle, but finn needed time to heal some pretty nasty injuries from the match. as soon as everyone had their time to recover, the real work began.

finn wanted to start training you, building up your already diverse set of skills in the ring so that you could be more dangerous than you ever had. you thought your dad had already done a good job, but now it was time for finn to only elevate what you’d already been given.

standing alone in the gym was an oddly calming feeling. normally you’d be there, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people around you who’d stare and watch like a hawk; those same people who didn’t know you as y/n, but knew you as edge’s daughter. many of them had known you since you were in diapers cheering your dad on from the crowd or backstage as they helped babysit you. that wasn’t going to be the case any longer, though. you were ready to start over. they were going to find out who y/n was, and what you were truly capable of.

you cherished these moments alone, standing in front of a punching bag as you adjusted your gloves. the music playing over the speakers only boosted the adrenaline pumping through your veins, and you began to work drills with the bag just as your parents had done with you since you began your career.

--- ---

right. right, left. right, left, kick.

“come on, y/n.” your dad coached from the side, watching your small frame hit the punching bag with as much force as you could manage. you were fresh out of school and taking the idea of professional wrestling seriously for the first time in your life. sure you’d always appreciated it because you watched your dad and beth do it your entire life, but this was the beginning of your own journey. and you still had a lot left to learn. “the longer you hesitate to make a hit, the more opportunity an opponent has to get right back at you.” he told you. “be smarter, kiddo.”

you blinked the sweat from your eyelashes as you listened to your dad. with his direction, you started trying to hit harder and faster than you were before. even though you were trying your best, it didn’t feel like it was good enough.

with one last kick and a frustrated groan, you walked away from the bag and started to pace. your hands, hidden beneath an old pair of beth’s boxing gloves, rested on your hips as you tried to get your mind together. “i can’t do it.” you mumbled to yourself. “it’s no use, dad. i can’t do it.”

“yes you can.” your dad said quickly, standing with his arms crossed as he watched you. while your dad was normally loving and was the best dad you could ask for, training with him brought out a seriousness that you didn’t see often. edge didn’t play when it came to training for the ring, and he made that clear with you from the moment you discussed professional wrestling as a possibility for you. “give yourself a chance, kiddo. it’s only been a few weeks.”

you took a deep breath. “but this is supposed to be the easy stuff, and i still can’t figure it the fuck out.” you groaned again and sat on the apron of the practice ring, taking the gloves off in frustration. your dad began the walk over to you, but you couldn’t even look up at him; you were ready for him to tell you just how disappointed he was, or to get back up and get back to work. but instead, edge sat next to you on the apron and wrapped a gentle arm around your shoulder. the sweat on your forehead rolled down into your eyelashes, and you wiped them with frustration as your dad pulled your closer.

“it’s not that you can’t figure it out.” he told you softly. “you’re still learning. you’re finding your own way to make it all make sense; that’s not a bad thing, baby.” your dad gently rubbed your arm as your leaned against his shoulder. “you really think i caught on that easily? or mom? or anyone else? we’re doing this on your time, y/n. and i’ll be there every step of the way.” in that moment, you believed your dad. you knew he was being sincere, and he sealed his words with the best hug and a kiss a father could give their child in a moment of encouragement just like he always did.

where did everything go wrong?

--- ---

that was one of the last times you remembered your dad being so...comforting. so gentle when it came to your in-ring career and preparation. you couldn’t remember the last time you had a moment like that with him, where his arms wrapped around you in comfort instead of show; where he told you it was okay to do things in your own time, not comparing you to the men and women you grew up around when he’d take you to work. instead, he built you up only to drop you like a toy he was done playing with. he became focused on himself and his own career, and now you were paying the price for it.

it hadn’t even registered that tears were streaming down your cheeks as you continued the drills. they mixed with the droplets of sweat running down your face, and the soft cries mixed with your heavy breathing prevented you from even hearing someone enter through the door behind you.

when finn entered the room, he smirked to himself as he watched you attack the bag with purpose. he already knew how talented you were, and he’d been excited to build upon the great foundation of skills edge had already developed with you. not only that, but it was just another poke at the man who originally built the judgement day and made it his mission to end the group.

that smirk on the irishman’s face quickly disappeared though when he heard the gentle sobs leaving your lips. finn let the door close behind him, and the noise made you turn around in shock at the fact that he was there already. you quickly sobered up and wiped your face, discreetly taking some tears with it, but the knowing look on his face said it all as he paused the music on the speaker. “what’s wrong?” he asked.

you shook your head; it wasn’t finn’s business what you were dealing with or thinking about. he was your training partner (barely), not your therapist. “i don’t want to talk about it.” you mumbled and slipped the gloves off of your hand. “it’s fine. let’s just get this over with.”

finn was stubborn though, and you were going to learn that the hard way. he dropped his bag off and stood in front of you with his arms crossed; you’d never admit it, but he reminded you of your father for a split second. “clearly it’s not, because i walked in here and heard you crying.” his tone was gentle, even though he looked intimidating. “i get that you might not want to talk about it, but if there’s something i need to know then i want to hear it so i can help you.”

you hesitated talking to finn at first. you’d just met him - like, really met him...but you’d also just betrayed your dad for him. you turned your back on people you loved because he promised you something your family couldn’t get to you. but he was right; he needed to know what you were feeling so he could respond in the best way possible. so you sat down on the ground, finn following you and doing the same across from you, and you fidgeted with the chipped nail polish on your fingernails. “i’m just thinking too much, that’s all.” you said softly.

your new training partner watched you carefully; what you didn’t see, was the way his heart throbbed in his chest at seeing you in pain. “thinking about what?” finn didn’t know if you’d answer, but it was worth a try.

“about my dad.” you shrugged, deciding to start trusting finn a little more than what you had originally planned. “about where...where i went wrong. why he gave up.”

finn bit his lip and leaned in a little, wanting nothing more than to wipe the stray tear from your cheek. but he behaved and held himself back. “you didn’t do anything wrong.” he said softly. “he’s wrong; he was more focused on himself, his own comeback, his own career. your dad had every chance to take a step back and let you have your moment, but he couldn’t. just like he did with rhea and damian.”

the judgement day alone was a sore subject and something you weren’t sure if you were ready to unpack, so you pushed that aside for now. “i want to believe you but it’s really hard.” you admitted. your eyes met finn’s, and for the first time in a long time he gave you a gentle smile that didn’t feel...predatory. he was being genuine. and instead of your stomach turning, you felt...butterflies? is this what butterflies feels like?

“you don’t have to believe me yet.” finn said softly, resting a gentle hand on your knee. “but just let me do what i need to do, and i promise you’ll get what you deserve. recognition, and a belt around your waist.”

with a small nod and a smile of your own, you put your own trust in finn. whether or not it was a mistake, you didn’t know. but you could be patient.

#wwe imagine #wwe x reader #wwe the judgement day imagine #wwe the judgement day #finn balor #finn balor x reader #finn balor imagine #finn balor headcanons #{:deal with a demon:}#{:finn balor:}

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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 months ago

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Zack Beauchamp at Vox:

The New York Times once described Tucker Carlson’s Fox News hour as “the most racist show in the history of cable news.” In the past week, allegations of bigotry involving his new show on X have come from a rather different corner: his fellow conservatives. The fight started April 9, when Carlson published a friendly interview with Palestinian pastor Munther Isaac. The pastor — who has reportedly praised the “strength” of the October 7 attackers — argued that Israel is no friend to Christians: It bombs them in Gaza, represses them in the West Bank, and restricts their ability to proselytize inside Israel proper. The interview went viral, receiving over 30,000 reposts so far. Erick Erickson, a prominent radio host and former Carlson ally, spoke for many on the right when he labeled Tucker a “pro-Hamas” ally of “the antisemites on college campuses, and the terrorist-supporting progressives of the American left.” Carlson has, according to Erickson, become “willing to use his platform and formerly earned trust and reputation to persuade the easily manipulated to believe the lies he used to rail against.”

Rep. Dan Crenshaw (R-TX) wrote a blistering post on X that attempted to banish Carlson from the conservative movement entirely. “Tucker’s MO is simple: defend America’s enemies and attack America’s allies. There isn’t an objective bone left in that washed up news host’s body,” Crenshaw wrote. “Tucker will eventually fade into nothingness, because his veneer of faux intellectualism is quickly falling apart and revealing who he truly is: a cowardly, know-nothing elitist who is full of shit.” While Erickson and Crenshaw are seen as more establishment-friendly voices nowadays, the outrage at Carlson was shared even by some in the right’s Trumpier corners: Even the sorts of people who oppose Ukraine aid laid into the former Fox host after the Isaac interview. Only an openly antisemitic fringe of the conservative movement — the so-called Groypers — seem to be gleeful, believing that pitting Israel against Christians can bring old-school European Jew hatred to contemporary America.

“It’s waking people up. It’s making people aware of the fundamentals — which is first and foremost that Jews are not Christians,” said Nick Fuentes, the leading voice of the Groypers. “Once you get into those basics, you can start to build upon that and get to where we are.” So is what Carlson suggests about Israel and Christians accurate? And what does the right-wing backlash against him say about the state of the conservative movement today? Broadly, I think there are basically three key answers to these questions:

It’s true that Palestinian Christians are suffering, though it’s largely because they are Palestinians rather than because they are Christians. Carlson’s message, however, does less to draw attention to the plight of the Palestinians than to pit Jews against Christians.

In trying to excommunicate Carlson, conservatives are pretending that he’s changed — but he’s really the same guy he always has been. The antisemitic and otherwise bigoted things he said on Fox were far worse than anything in the Isaac interview and received only a fraction of the internal right-wing condemnation.

Carlson is exploiting legitimate criticism of Israel to fan the flames of Christian antisemitism, which has become a growing problem on the right even as much public attention recently has focused on the left wing.

Israel doesn’t persecute Christians, but it does oppress Palestinians

Christians are a small minority inside Israel — about 2 percent of the total population. But this mostly Arab group’s numbers are growing, and they tend to do better than their Muslim peers in socioeconomic terms. A 2021 report from Israel’s Central Bureau of Statistics found that Israeli Christians were more likely to get a college degree and less likely to be on welfare attainment than Muslims and even Jews. Israeli law guarantees formal freedom of religion, and there are no legal restrictions on Christian worship. There is some restriction on missionary activity, but that typically only affects travel visas for foreigners rather than Christians living in Israel. No one in the country has been prosecuted for missionary activity. That’s not to say Israeli Christians have no problems. Jewish extremists occasionally harass Christians in Jerusalem, and there are tensions surrounding the city’s holy sites. Danny Seidemann, a leading expert on Jerusalem, has warned that settler plans for the city threaten the historic Christian presence there. But this, per Seidemann, is less a reflection of hostility toward Christians per se than it is a reflection of the generalized settler goal to control all the land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.

But while the Israeli state does not officially discriminate against Israeli Christians, it does oppress Palestinians — and Palestinian Christians suffer along with their Muslim brethren. From churches bombed in Gaza to Israel’s “security barrier” cutting right through Bethlehem, Palestinian Christians experience Israeli occupation the same way that other Palestinians do: as violence and unfreedom. “The major threat to Christian communities and institutions is dismissiveness. They’re not seen,” Seidemann writes. “What’s seen are Palestinians and Arabs who are always suspected terrorists.” Most of Isaac’s comments in the Carlson interview were focused on explaining how the general cruelty of the occupation hurts Palestinian Christians. But Carlson’s additions — such as saying Israel is “blowing up churches and killing Christians” — go a bit further. He suggests that Israel is targeting Christians as a class, and that the Jewish state is fundamentally hostile to Christianity.

[...] From openly espousing the “great replacement” conspiracy theory to suggesting that immigrants to the United States are dirty and diseased to peddling the same sort of antisemitic lies that motivated the 2018 Tree of Life synagogue shooting, Carlson consistently worked to make some of the most dangerous fringe ideas in American politics palatable to mainstream Republicans. This flirtation with antisemitism isn’t a break from Carlson’s longstanding persona but an extension of it.

The internal conservative discourse on Carlson is thus both substantively and psychologically revealing. Substantively, it shows that the right is willing to forgive or downplay antisemitism unless it’s somehow linked to criticism of Israel — in which case there’s a zero-tolerance policy. Psychologically, it shows there is a powerful need to reconcile conservatives’ previous love of Carlson with the reality of who he is, requiring implausible contortions about his changing radically after leaving Fox.

[...]

The right’s growing antisemitism problem

In the past few years, the Groypers have looked more influential than many on the more mainstream right seem to appreciate. In 2022, Nick Fuentes finagled an invite to Mar-a-Lago and had dinner with Donald Trump. More recently, popular podcaster Candace Owens has outed herself as a Groyper-adjacent antisemite. While this turn led to her departure from the right-wing Daily Wire, it also showed how much the movement has made inroads on the broader right. During the Owens saga, Daily Wire CEO Jeremy Boreing sat down for a conversation with Fuentes that was streamed on X. Speaking to a man he had once called “a wicked little s**t with evil ideas,″ Boreing praised Fuentes as a “most talented” and “very funny” broadcaster — and invited him to be a guest on a Daily Wire show. There’s a lot of evidence that right-wing antisemitism is rising. While much attention has been paid (rightly) to left-wing antisemitism after October 7, academic research suggests that antisemitic attitudes are disproportionately concentrated among right-wing young adults. Right-wing extremists are responsible for nearly all of the deadly attacks on Jews and Jewish institutions in recent years. Trump’s own rhetoric has long been rife with antisemitic stereotypes and conspiracy theories.

Tucker Carlson, like Candace Owens, has learned that criticizing Israel in right-wing media spaces comes at a great cost. Even before his recent interview with Palestinian pastor Munther Isaac, Carlson has pushed antisemitic tropes.

#Candace Owens #Israel/Hamas War #Israel/Palestine Conflict #Palestine #Antisemitism #Groypers #Erick Erickson #Dan Crenshaw #Munther Isaac #Tucker Carlson Network #Tucker Carlson Uncensored #Nick Fuentes

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nightlylaments · 11 months ago

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— nightlylaments. a writeblr reintroduction.

heyy, writeblr! it's been a while since I joined the community, and i've been pretty inactive, so I thought I should reintroduce myself. also, since I have more than one wip now, I thought it was time for me to make a master list even though three of them don't have any posts yet. all of my works will contain black mc's, other poc characters, and mentions of mental health. i mainly write fantasy, but i want to get into mysteries and poetry. i am also tag and ask friendly. i love talking about my wips so pls don't hesitate to ask questions. carrd | pintrest | spotify

about me.

my name is Tee, she/her, 22, and I am an African American from tx.

I'm a recent college graduate with a bachelor's degree in criminal justice

I enjoy writing fantasy, magical realism, and mysteries

in my free time, I like to read, cook, and paint. I also enjoy playing games, photography ( I have two film cameras), and listening/finding new music

my wips.

she who owns tragedy | a na dark fantasy.

a girl made of destructive magic and a boy made of shadows. their fates are tied together by prophecy, and they can either save or end the world. [ introduction ] . [ tag ] send an ask to be +/-

midnights in ebondvalley | na fantasy romance with a hint of mystery and horror.

twilight meets nacy drew in louisiana with southern gothic vibes.

the anatomy of a heart | magical realism.

romeo and juliet retelling that follows a girl from a family whose women are cursed to lose pieces of their hearts after heartbreak. chronicles the boys and men who have stolen pieces of her.

untitled | horror and magical realism.

think Jennifer's body and ginger snaps, but the mc is the token black girl, and it explores black feminine rage.

ungodly hours | gothic romance tinged horror and murder mystery.

a girl is raked with grief when her best friend is found dead, his brother wants nothing but vengeance. when the police refuse to help, he takes the case into his own hands, forcing him to make a deal he's not sure he can keep. [ introduction ] . [ tag ] send an ask to be +/-

✧ will be updated as i post/update wips ✧

#writeblr reintro #black writblr #wtwcommunity #writblr intro #looking for mutuals #writeblr friends #writeblr community #tag games #took me a month to make this.#im gonna be active this time.

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upontherisers · 7 months ago

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oc introduction: straighten up and fly right

masters of the air has unfortunately woven itself into the very fiber of my being and the girls are writing themselves at this point. i’m not going to call it a fic yet, but i will be writing for my mota OCs under the title of Straighten Up and Fly Right. i’d like y’all to meet the women of thorpe abbotts (and beyond) circa 1943. more are on their way.

The Air

1st Lt. May Vera West, 23, of Upper Marlborough, MD - Bombardier, Gin’s Joint

Please, call her Vera. Klutzy in a way that makes the fact that she’s still alive a miracle. It’s a wonder she got through training. Gets caught in a lot of awkward moments. Nervous but not anxious. Mousy, energetic. A quick thinker and a rule follower—not an insubordinate bone in her body.

Cpt. Virginia “Ginny” Franklin, 25, of Seattle, WA - Command pilot, Gin’s Joint

Sly talking, suave blonde bombshell with a face for the pictures. Chews gum in a way that’ll make your heart pound. Hell of a pilot. College girl. Loves her “sisters” (her crew) and every woman under her command. Quite friendly but not to the British. Can and will charm every CO out of worrying about the competency of her crew. Very laid back, a little (a lot) messy.

1st Lt. Mahalia Summerton, 24, of Ypsilanti, MI - Pilot, Blue Baby

Only daughter of a Ford factory worker and church secretary. Worked her way through college and into a pilot’s license. Chooses fighter planes over the big birds once she joins up and leads her own squadron of Red Tails in Italy. No-nonsense and aloof to strangers, protective once she opens up. Bold.

The Ground

Hazel Keene, 23, of Akron, OH - Secretary to the Air Executive

Affable and effective, and good at getting a lot out of people while keeping her own cards tight to her chest. Came over to England with Bucky, making her one of the more senior staffers on base. Is one of those people who can find whatever you're looking for within a few seconds while you looked for over an hour.

Lola Rosales-Mooreland, 19, of Presidio, TX - Clubmobile hostess

Small town banker’s daughter making her way into the wide world, wielding her miraculous medal against temptation and tragedy with less and less efficiency. Tries not to be a goody two shoes but can’t quite break the habit of trusting blindly in authority. Loves to dance. Sweet tooth.

Roberta “Bobbie” Chambers, 24, of Arlington, VA - Clubmobile hostess

An Army brat who runs her Clubmobile like a world-class regiment. Doesn’t accept any less than the best and doesn’t accept excuses. Tries to instill a sense of purpose into her girls beyond quaint patriotism; donuts can win the war and by God it’ll be hers that will. Will never admit how much she likes dancing. A morning person. And it's Bobbie, not Roberta.

Sgt. Dellarose Williamson, 21, Detroit, MI - Mechanic

Knows machinery better than most people know themselves. There’s no such thing as a lost cause, just a thing that needs a little love. Brushes off every slight about her height with a bright smile and dimples that make you feel bad about razzing her. Has a busy mind that can run away from itself sometimes. Runs on three hours of sleep and a strong black coffee.

#straighten up and fly right #my writing #vera west #ginny franklin #mahalia summerton #lola rosales mooreland #bobbie chambers #dellarose williamson #tryna get this out before i start reblogging prompts

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reasoningdaily · 1 year ago

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Try That in A Small Town Small Town: Jasper, TX, population 6900 Tried: To Get A Ride Home in Jasper, Texas, on June 7, 1998.

James Byrd accepted a ride home from Shawn Berry and two friends.

Instead of taking Byrd home, the three men took Byrd to a remote county road, beat him severely, spray-painted his face, Slashed his throat urinated and defecated on him, and chained him by his ankles to their pickup truck before dragging him for about three miles.

Shawn Berry, Lawrence Brewer, and John King dragged him for three miles behind a Ford pickup truck along an asphalt road.

Byrd, who remained conscious for much of his ordeal, was killed about halfway through the dragging when his body hit the edge of a culvert, severing his right arm and head. The murderers drove on for another 1+1⁄2 miles before dumping his torso in front of a black cemetery.

#texas #Jasper Texas #lynching #1998 #James Byrd lynched in Jasper Tx #James Byrd #never forget James Byrd

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bahoreal · 5 months ago

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ok i finished watching! not sure what they'll do with the premise if they get another season (i assume it will keep going as a franchise until it is no longer profitable even though it would have been perfect to end it there, if i was in charge id do another 3 season arc starting from season 4 since a lot of the cast didnt return but im not in charge, so, ) but that was a good season, super enjoyable but i do kinda feel like i want to go rewatch three body (TX VERSION) to give my brain something to chew on 😂 it was a good way to wrap up the plots but the lack of historical accuracy started to get to me just a little bit, this was much more speculative fiction, which isnt so much a problem with romances but the lack of societal heirarchy and increasingly different stakes from previous seasons just slightly missed the mark for me and im not 100% why? i got the feeling this season didnt fully lean into the setting being part of the plot and had to push and pull to get a good ending for penelope which wasnt particularly necessary.... still enjoyable tho. im so happy nicola led that she did an incredible job

#bridgerton #the more whimsical costuming and set design also contributed but i enjoyed those so it was allowed lgjfjfjhdhs #yeah overall like 7/10 but ill be honest if i wasnt biased as fuck for nicola it wouldnt have been that high

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thiefbird · 8 months ago

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tagged by @oleolesimeeligen but making a new post to save everyone's dash from a post challenging "do you love the colour of the sky" for length! Thanks for the tag <3

❤︎ are you named after anyone?

no, i was named after the poem Afton Water by Robert Burns! So indirectly i was named after a Scottish river? Anyway heres the poem: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43799/afton-water

❤︎ when was the last time you cried?

couple months ago when i reread the first temeraire book and levitas died. my poor baby deserved so much better than rankin

❤︎ do you have kids?

jesus fucking christ on a cracker no

❤︎ do you play/have you played any sports?

i did fencing in elementary/middle school, and i both competed in and taught archery through high school! currently i am a sedentary rock but if i continue being in less pain+fatigue i may think about joining a roller derby league, bc clearly im not obviously queer enough

❤︎ do you like sarcasm?

yes. im not always good at it when other people do it but i do enjoy it

❤︎ what do you notice about people when you meet them?

hair colour and how their voice sounds. im moderately faceblind and have difficulties with audio processing, so i cant tell their facial features well and i dont understand WHAT they're saying, but i will recognise voices and hair immediately

❤︎ what’s your eye color?

blue-grey but if i wear purple my eyes look purple which is funky

❤︎ scary movies or happy endings?

scary movies i love to terrify myself

❤︎ any talents?

eh? i can write okay i can sew okay i can crochet+knit tolerably well and i can play guitar well enough

❤︎ where were you born?

austin tx. you can probably doxx me with just the info in this one post idgaf

❤︎ what are your hobbies?

knitting writing drawing crochet cosplay and historical recreation

❤︎ any pets?

my beloved cat. she has next to no teeth bc her body keeps making anti-tooth antibodies and then i have to pay 500 buckaroonies to have them removed but it is worth it because she is the cat of the world

❤︎ how tall are you?

5'5" short king

❤︎ what are your favorite school subjects?

no longer in school but the 3 months i went to high school were at an absurdly tiny charter school. it was so small they couldnt support a concert/marching band or an orchestra so the two music classes offered were classical guitar and "rock band" which was essentially a free and in-school version of the School Of Rock summer camps. we learned like fifteen songs and how to set up and do live mixes and at the end of the semester we did three shows (one for the middle schoolers during school hours, one for the high schoolers during school hours, and one after school) and i blew out a microphone and gave a whole horde of middle school kids a sexuality crisis by being Visibly Queer and also cool af

❤︎ what’s your dream job?

either the person who picks out fabrics for period piece films, or captain of a reproduction napoleonic war era frigate. i d charge billionaires absurd amounts of money to serve as ratings on my frigate. they have to sign waivers saying im allowed to have them flogged and also the frigate is not responsible if they die. i am actively seeking investors for my Billionaire Torment Ship

tagging @sapphirablue @gabrielnovakgoestomyschool @everythingmustmoveon @sesamie @glowing-blue-feathermage and also YOU if you want to do it <3

#tag game #thiefbird speaks

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loving-n0t-heyting · 2 years ago

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homosexual regret:

Thinking back on why I stayed in the closet/denial for so long even when I was in an extremely liberal social environment in an extremely liberal city/state living with my extremely liberal parents; I can remember one moment in particular I was chatting with someone on a dating site when they mentioned they were interested in actually dating rather than discreet hookups and freaking out about it. This is the behaviour of a good Evangelical father of three living in Waco, TX with his trophy wife making sure they don’t learn what he gets up to in the woods with his hunting buddies, not a weird single nerd with a civil rights lawyer dad attending a school where about half the student body in 2011 seemed to get arrested at occupy protests

Part of the explanation is the obvious. Homophobia in its overt forms, heteronormativity in its ambient forms, lots of other repressed identity issues, my political discomfort and confusion with a lot of the gay rights movement at the time, etc. Plus I was bi, so I could just do straight dating yea?*

But another part is that everybody would have made such a huge fucking deal if I “came out.” Plenty of ppl back before obergefell were capable of being nice if you started dating yr own sex but nobody was capable of being fucking normal about it. The soft bigotry of obsessive fascination. I think in some ways this was worse if you were bi bc “mono gay but I’m just yr ordinary girl/dude” was a Type of Guy ppl had worked on but if you are actively choosing same-sex relationships when you have the option of straight dating instead* you can’t just like, pass it off as a weird little constraint you have to live with

This is why when I came out to parents I did it right after an even bigger personal revelation and just dropped the fact I was looking for a samesex relationship in conversation without giving them the chance to press for details. I fucked up so many decisions during that time but aggressively casual decloseting was one I look back on with pride

~~~~~~~~~~

*ofc in actuality I did not have the option of straight dating, as don’t large swaths of actual straight ppl. The standard costs of doing business in het dating/hookup culture are so obscene (on both sides) that a reasonable person would instantly regard them as dealbreakers, the way most normies immediately discount a potential relationship where you have to move halfway across the globe, throw out yr entire wardrobe, grow yr hair out in one of those padawan rat tails dyed vomit green, and fuck exclusively while wearing a fullbody gorilla suit—all for the sake of like, Some Guy with minimal redeeming qualities beyond compatible bits. But this collective insanity requires a heavy dose of the red pill to perceive

#comphet is everywhere it is all around us

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ivygorgon · 2 years ago

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Sharing Women's March open letters and petitions. Please sign and share!

14 states have already banned abortion, and more restrictions are on the way. Here are a few of the latest GOP proposals:

⚫ A 12-week abortion ban in Nebraska

⚫ A 6-week ban (because GOP attempts at a full ban failed three times) in South Carolina

⚫ A bill that charges abortion patients with MURDER in Alabama

We HAVE to fight back.

Our state-level mobilizations *are working.* We helped elect a pro-choice state Supreme Court justice in WI and brought national attention to the abortion pill case that started in TX. But we CANNOT stop now.

TY! -Women's March

SIGN ON: TELL THE COURTS TO STAY OUT OF FDA APPROVAL OF ABORTION MEDICATION Medication abortion is safe and effective, and it should be readily available everywhere. Add your name right now to DEMAND the courts stay out of FDA approvals >>>

SIGN ON: TELL THE JUDICIAL SYSTEM TO STAY OUT OF FOOD & DRUG ADMINISTRATION APPROVALS! A Trump-appointed judge may strike down the FDA’s approval of a critical abortion medication later this month. The ruling would set a dangerous precedent that radical right-wingers can challenge the approval of ANY medication they don’t approve of — like the birth control pill or emergency contraception (aka Plan B). We need you to take action to tell the courts to stay OUT of FDA approvals!

ATTN: SOUTH CAROLINA LEGISLATIVE REPUBLICANS Check out our letter to the South Carolina GOP below, then sign it as is or add your own spin:

Make your voice heard

As you well know, abortion bans will not end abortion. Instead, you propose penalties so extreme – so draconian – that they will terrify women into compliance. Your goal was never to “protect life.” It is to control our bodies. You should know: We won’t go back. We’ll fight back. I’m signing this letter to voice my ongoing commitment to opposing any rollback of our human right to reproductive freedom.

ATTN: RON DESANTIS, FLORIDA REPUBLICANS, & THE STATE BOARD OF EDUCATION Sign our open letter condemning the Don’t Say Gay law in Florida! Make your voice heard The cruel “Don’t Say Gay” law is harming Florida students, teachers, and families. Instead of expanding it, you should be repealing this attack on LGBTQ+ Floridians! Despite your fear and hate-mongering, LGBTQ+ people — including kids — always have existed and always will. We will keep fighting for them to be treated with the respect and dignity they deserve. We know that more of us are in solidarity with the LGBTQ+ community than agree with your regressive and cruel legislation. Women’s Marchers and our allies WON’T stop fighting for a world where all of us can be safe as our authentic selves. We WON’T let your hateful legislation stop us from supporting LGBTQ+ Floridians, and we condemn the “Don’t Say Gay” law.

ADD YOUR NAME TO OUR DEMANDS TO PROTECT REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH CARE ACCESS! We demand reform of our broken judicial system. We demand that state and local leaders defend access to mifepristone despite this illegitimate ruling. We demand the FDA issue guidance to disregard the decision. We demand the Biden administration implement a whole-of-government response to this public health crisis. We demand pharmacies execute their mandate faithfully and with the health of their patients rather than the personal ideologies of a few politicians in mind. Sign on to sponsor our demands >>>

REMOVE CLARENCE THOMAS FROM THE SUPREME COURT Congress must impeach Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas now! Justice Clarence Thomas has violated his oath and broken the law by failing to disclose decades of luxury vacations and private jet travel from billionaire and GOP megadonor Harlan Crow. Crow also paid the private school tuition for a Thomas family member. Sign our petition, stating loud and clear: No one is above the law, and Justice Thomas must be held accountable and removed from his position of power.

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nursingscience · 2 years ago

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Medical Abbreviations on Pharmacy Prescriptions

Here are some common medical abbreviations you may see on pharmacy prescriptions:

qd - once a day

bid - twice a day

tid - three times a day

qid - four times a day

qh - every hour

prn - as needed

pc - after meals

ac - before meals

hs - at bedtime

po - by mouth

IV - intravenous

IM - intramuscular

subQ - subcutaneous

mL - milliliter

mg - milligram

g - gram

mcg - microgram

stat - immediately, right away

NPO - nothing by mouth

cap - capsule

tab - tablet

susp - suspension

sol - solution

amp - ampule

inj - injection

Rx - prescription

C - Celsius

F - Fahrenheit

BP - blood pressure

HR - heart rate

RR - respiratory rate

WBC - white blood cell

RBC - red blood cell

Hgb - hemoglobin

Hct - hematocrit

PT - prothrombin time

INR - international normalized ratio

BUN - blood urea nitrogen

Cr - creatinine

Ca - calcium

K - potassium

Na - sodium

Cl - chloride

Mg - magnesium

PO2 - partial pressure of oxygen

PCO2 - partial pressure of carbon dioxide

ABG - arterial blood gas

CBC - complete blood count

BMP - basic metabolic panel

CMP - comprehensive metabolic panel.

ECG - electrocardiogram

EEG - electroencephalogram

MRI - magnetic resonance imaging

CT - computed tomography

PET - positron emission tomography

CXR - chest x-ray

CTX - chemotherapy

NSAID - nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug

DMARD - disease-modifying antirheumatic drug

ACE - angiotensin-converting enzyme

ARB - angiotensin receptor blocker

SSRI - selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor

TCA - tricyclic antidepressant

ADHD - attention deficit hyperactivity disorder

COPD - chronic obstructive pulmonary disease

CAD - coronary artery disease

CHF - congestive heart failure

DVT - deep vein thrombosis

GI - gastrointestinal

UTI - urinary tract infection

OTC - over-the-counter

Rx - prescription

OD - right eye

OS - left eye

OU - both eyes.

TID - thrombosis in dementia

TDS - ter die sumendum (three times a day)

BOM - bilaterally otitis media (infection in both ears)

BT - body temperature

C&S - culture and sensitivity

D/C - discontinue or discharge

D/W - dextrose in water

ETOH - ethyl alcohol

FUO - fever of unknown origin

H&P - history and physical examination

I&D - incision and drainage

I&O - intake and output

KVO - keep vein open

N&V - nausea and vomiting

PERRLA - pupils equal, round, reactive to light and accommodation

PR - per rectum

QAM - every morning

QHS - every bedtime

QOD - every other day

S/P - status post (after)

TPN - total parenteral nutrition

UA - urinalysis

URI - upper respiratory infection

UTI - urinary tract infection

VO - verbal order.

XRT - radiation therapy

YOB - year of birth

BRBPR - bright red blood per rectum

CX - cervix

DVT - deep vein thrombosis

GB - gallbladder

GU - genitourinary

HCV - hepatitis C virus

HPI - history of present illness

ICP - intracranial pressure

IVP - intravenous pyelogram

LMP - last menstrual period

MRSA - methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus

MVA - motor vehicle accident

NKA - no known allergies

PEG - percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy

PRN - pro re nata (as needed)

ROS - review of systems

SOB - shortness of breath

TAH - total abdominal hysterectomy.

TIA - transient ischemic attack

Tx - treatment

UC - ulcerative colitis

URI - upper respiratory infection

VSD - ventricular septal defect

VTE - venous thromboembolism

XR - x-ray

w/c - wheelchair

XRT - radiation therapy

ASD - atrial septal defect

Bx - biopsy

CAD - coronary artery disease

CKD - chronic kidney disease

CPAP - continuous positive airway pressure

DKA - diabetic ketoacidosis

DNR - do not resuscitate

ED - emergency department

ESRD - end-stage renal disease

FFP - fresh frozen plasma

FSH - follicle-stimulating hormone.

GCS - Glasgow Coma Scale

Hct - hematocrit

Hgb - hemoglobin

ICU - intensive care unit

IV - intravenous

JVD - jugular venous distension

K - potassium

L - liter

MCH - mean corpuscular hemoglobin

MI - myocardial infarction

Na - sodium

NGT - nasogastric tube

NPO - nothing by mouth

OR - operating room

PCN - penicillin

PRBC - packed red blood cells

PTT - partial thromboplastin time

RBC - red blood cells

RT - respiratory therapy

SOA - short of air.

SCD - sequential compression device

SIRS - systemic inflammatory response syndrome

STAT - immediately

T - temperature

TPN - total parenteral nutrition

WBC - white blood cells

ABG - arterial blood gas

A fib - atrial fibrillation

BPH - benign prostatic hypertrophy

CBC - complete blood count

CO2 - carbon dioxide

COPD - chronic obstructive pulmonary disease

CPR - cardiopulmonary resuscitation

CT - computed tomography

CXR - chest x-ray

D5W - dextrose 5% in water

Dx - diagnosis

ECG or EKG - electrocardiogram

EEG - electroencephalogram

ETO - early termination of pregnancy.

FHR - fetal heart rate

GSW - gunshot wound

H&P - history and physical exam

HCG - human chorionic gonadotropin

I&D - incision and drainage

IBS - irritable bowel syndrome

ICP - intracranial pressure

IM - intramuscular

INR - international normalized ratio

IOP - intraocular pressure

LFT - liver function test

LOC - level of consciousness

LP - lumbar puncture

NG - nasogastric

OA - osteoarthritis

OCD - obsessive-compulsive disorder

OTC - over-the-counter

P - pulse

PCA - patient-controlled analgesia

PERRLA - pupils equal, round, reactive to light and accommodation.

PFT - pulmonary function test

PICC - peripherally inserted central catheter

PO - by mouth

PRN - as needed

PT - physical therapy

PT - prothrombin time

PTSD - post-traumatic stress disorder

PVC - premature ventricular contraction

QD - once a day

QID - four times a day

RA - rheumatoid arthritis

RICE - rest, ice, compression, elevation

RSI - rapid sequence intubation

RSV - respiratory syncytial virus

SBP - systolic blood pressure

SLE - systemic lupus erythematosus

SSRI - selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor

STAT - immediately

TB - tuberculosis

TIA - transient ischemic attack.

TID - three times a day

TKO - to keep open

TNTC - too numerous to count

TPN - total parenteral nutrition

URI - upper respiratory infection

UTI - urinary tract infection

V-fib - ventricular fibrillation

V-tach - ventricular tachycardia

VA - visual acuity

WNL - within normal limits

AED - automated external defibrillator

ARDS - acute respiratory distress syndrome

BID - twice a day

BP - blood pressure

BUN - blood urea nitrogen

CAD - coronary artery disease

CHF - congestive heart failure

CVA - cerebrovascular accident

D/C - discontinue

DKA - diabetic ketoacidosis.

DM - diabetes mellitus

DVT - deep vein thrombosis

EGD - esophagogastroduodenoscopy

ER - emergency room

F - Fahrenheit

Fx - fracture

GI - gastrointestinal

GTT - glucose tolerance test

HCT - hematocrit

Hgb - hemoglobin

HRT - hormone replacement therapy

ICP - intracranial pressure

IDDM - insulin-dependent diabetes mellitus

IBS - irritable bowel syndrome

IM - intramuscular

IV - intravenous

K - potassium

KVO - keep vein open

L&D - labor and delivery

LASIK - laser-assisted in situ keratomileusis.

ROM - range of motion

RT - radiation therapy

Rx - prescription

SCD - sequential compression device

SOB - shortness of breath

STD - sexually transmitted disease

TENS - transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation

TIA - transient ischemic attack

TSH - thyroid-stimulating hormone

UA - urinalysis

US - ultrasound

UTI - urinary tract infection

VD - venereal disease

VF - ventricular fibrillation

VT - ventricular tachycardia

WBC - white blood cell

XRT - radiation therapy

XR - x-ray

Zn - zinc

Z-pak - azithromycin (antibiotic).

AAA - abdominal aortic aneurysm

ABG - arterial blood gas

ACS - acute coronary syndrome

ADL - activities of daily living

AED - automated external defibrillator

AIDS - acquired immunodeficiency syndrome

ALS - amyotrophic lateral sclerosis

AMA - against medical advice

AML - acute myeloid leukemia

APAP - acetaminophen

ARDS - acute respiratory distress syndrome

ASCVD - atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease

BPH - benign prostatic hyperplasia

BUN - blood urea nitrogen

CABG - coronary artery bypass graft

CBC - complete blood count

CHF - congestive heart failure

COPD - chronic obstructive pulmonary disease

CPAP - continuous positive airway pressure

CRF - chronic renal failure.

CT - computed tomography

CVA - cerebrovascular accident

D&C - dilation and curettage

DVT - deep vein thrombosis

ECG/EKG - electrocardiogram

EEG - electroencephalogram

ESRD - end-stage renal disease

FSH - follicle-stimulating hormone

GERD - gastroesophageal reflux disease

GFR - glomerular filtration rate

HbA1c - glycated hemoglobin

Hct - hematocrit

HIV - human immunodeficiency virus

HPV - human papillomavirus

HTN - hypertension

IBD - inflammatory bowel disease

IBS - irritable bowel syndrome

ICU - intensive care unit

IDDM - insulin-dependent diabetes mellitus

IM - intramuscular.

IV - intravenous

LFT - liver function test

MI - myocardial infarction

MRI - magnetic resonance imaging

MS - multiple sclerosis

NPO - nothing by mouth

NS - normal saline

OCD - obsessive-compulsive disorder

OSA - obstructive sleep apnea

PCOS - polycystic ovary syndrome

PMS - premenstrual syndrome

PPD - purified protein derivative

PSA - prostate-specific antigen

PT - prothrombin time

PTT - partial thromboplastin time

RA - rheumatoid arthritis

RBC - red blood cell

RSV - respiratory syncytial virus

SLE - systemic lupus erythematosus

TB - tuberculosis.

It is important to remember that medical abbreviations can vary based on location and specialty.

Healthcare professionals should use medical abbreviations with caution and only when they are familiar with their meanings.

Patients should always communicate any questions or concerns they have about their medications or medical care to their healthcare provider or pharmacist to ensure they receive safe and accurate medical care.

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eviscerated-pineapple · 1 year ago

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I need to take a social media break.

Social Media Obituary…or Something.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicide attempts, self-harm, rape, incest, emotional, and physical abuse mentioned.

I first told my mom I hated her when I was about 6, right after we moved from Sacramento, CA to Dayton, TX circa 1999. My mom, dad and I were in a coffee shop on a dreary day—or maybe it was a restaurant, who cares—at a booth and I distinctly recall saying that as plainly as it was the color of the walls, and a great maliciousness then blossoming in me.

Why did I say this? I struggle with why I hated my mom so much as a kid. There were very good reasons as to why I did: the alcoholism; the drugs; she and my aunt leaving my cousin and I alone to fend for ourselves, as young as six and three, without knowing when they’d be back so they could go gamble and score.

I think that’s where the intense fear of abandonment came from.

The jury is still out on whether or not Borderline Personality Disorder’s physical component (i.e., an un-fully formed amygdala, which is responsible for controlling emotions and impulsivity) is present at birth and causes the personality disorder or if the personality disorder is responsible for this region of the brain not developing properly. Ah, the ol’ chicken and egg scenario.

It, along with cPTSD (complex PTSD) and trauma, can cause brain lesions visible through MRI scans.

While the people who stigmatize BPD try to figure out in what way I will abuse, manipulate, and ultimately damage them beyond repair, I’m still trying to figure out why I was never worthy of love.

I think the hate for my mom, partnered with her actions, was heavily influenced by my dad.

I haven’t spoken to him in about three and a half years. I was too young to first realize the issues with him, and there’s even a suspected repressed memory in there that was revealed in the last year by my mom.

My dad is a hateful, spiteful, sad, lonely, and untreated man. His anime saga includes being shipped off to fight the Vietnam War in 1963 at the age of 17 with the US Navy, having been told “he would see the world.” He was one of 12 children by my grandparents, a little Spanish woman by the name of Natividad Torres from which I inherited one of my middle names (Nettie), and a Spanish/German guy named Joseph Smith (“Schmidt” from what I was told and then that family’s emigration to the United States is what ultimately Americanized their name). I’ve heard that my grandfather was pretty…rough. Alcoholic and abusive, but oddly remembered fondly. My grandmother was tiny and sweet, and often mistaken for being Japanese from what I remember (to be fair, she very much did look Asian, not Spanish, and we’re all heavily mixed so who knows).

Anyway, I’m sidetracking. My dad became skilled as a sniper (“sharpshooter” as he affectionately referred to it, as if that made it any less horrifying to go through as a literal teenager), which was a skill he brought back with him to the US. I can’t say much more—maybe I’ll talk about that in length after he passes—but why do for free what you can monetize back in the States?

We lived in a house on Saxon Way in Sacramento where my childhood memories truly begin. I had a couple neighbor girl friends that accepted me and though found me weird, still made me feel welcome. I remember playing a LOT of Nintendo 64 and original PlayStation games, oddly realizing I liked girls along with boys as early as Kindergarten (for which I was vehemently bullied for by other girls—I didn’t know then what being gay was or that it wasn’t okay, and wouldn’t for a long time), pulling the head off my Barbies because they made me really uncomfortable and sticking Barbie’s head on Ken’s body (Ahh, that’s better. I want to look like Ken when I grow up!), and desperately vying for the toys from the boys’ section at Walmart.

My poor mom tried so hard to make me a little girl. I already have three half-brothers, each with different men, and she wanted her dream daughter. Unfortunately she instead received some sort of chimera child that was often mistaken for being a little boy despite the mid-back length hair.

I’ll never forget that doctor referring to me as my parent’s “son” when I got pneumonia at the age of 12. I digress.

One of my half-brothers came to live with us when I was about four or five. He was 17 and a standard troublemaker, trying to get laid and smoke weed, nothing to really write home about. Except my dad needed things to go his way entirely.

One night, my brother went down the street to hang out with some friends. My dad had the final straw with my brother leaving his bong in my dad’s Jeep, a clear challenge of authority according to my dad. We had an RV in our driveway by this time so my dad could escape the house when my parents began fighting over my brother or whatever else was going wrong. My dad took it upon himself to sit up atop the RV and wait for by brother to come back home.

He lied to the SWAT team that was called, whether by my brother, mom, or the neighbors, and said the discharged round they found was him recklessly firing in city limits at New Years in celebration. He did some prison time, paid some fines, and completed some community service.

I’m not sure he wanted to kill my brother or just intimidate him. I think he wanted to kill him and tried to goad my brother and his friends to charge him so it’d become self-defense. That’s just my theory, though.

Shortly after, we moved to Texas. My dad told everyone it was because of his family spread throughout the state, but only my mom and I knew the real reason: he wanted to ditch California and be free from his parole. My dad would fondly tell me that when he called around, his would-be Texas parole officer reassured him, “Sir, what you did there isn’t illegal out here. Come on out.” I was uprooted and lost the only two girlfriends I ever made because my dad couldn’t bear responsibility for his actions.

Things grew worse in Texas, but my mom was sober for as long as I can remember which was cool. I tried so desperately to make friends and developed my first crush in fifth grade on one of the popular boys. The bullying began in fourth grade, though. I started to get hairy arms and legs, acne, bushy eyebrows, and other androgynous characteristics that the other girls didn’t have. I became friends with two girls, Katy and Stormey, but didn’t know it was a ploy (and why not use their real names here? They’ll never see this).

They took all my secrets and hopes and fears and weaponized them in fifth grade. I started getting harassed for how hairy and ugly I was, being told I needed to shave my legs and wax my eyebrows, and at one point that, “[I’d] look a lot better if I took a sander to my face.”

For sixth grade, my dad moved us back to California but this time to Bakersfield—again because of family, but for real this time. One of my beloved uncles, a beautiful artist that painted hyper-realistic portraits using oil paints and a brush in his mouth (he was a quadriplegic), had passed from pneumonia because his sister, my aunt, denied him my grandmother’s home where he lived after my grandmother passed. This aunt was a real estate agent, and much like all the other Smith aunts and uncles, money was king. So out my uncle went into a month of homelessness before it ultimately killed him.

At least that’s the story I was told. I’ll never know the truth.

Bakersfield was hot, dusty, and terrible. For sixth grade, I had a terrifying teacher by the name of Ms. Laffoon who had anger issues. She’d punish us with physical exercise and flip desks (one of which hit me) in rage when someone didn’t turn in their homework. It wouldn’t be until I was an adult that I realized she should’ve been reported and arrested for various instances of child abuse against us.

From here, I’ll use initials in places of names.

P. was also an androgynous girl, but she hated me upon first sight. One time, she cornered me in the girl’s bathroom and picked me up by my throat and threatened me. For what, I have no idea.

S. was bubbly and loud but well loved. She and A. became best friends, and I was somewhat the third-wheel of the trio, but in eight grade was cast out because I told A. I was sick of hearing her bemoan boys all the time. A. told me she’d “beat my ass” at a time and place, but she was nowhere to be found.

G. was the first crush I ever had that was reciprocated. Our innocent little affair began in the summer between sixth and seventh grade over email, to which he confessed he liked me a lot. Wow, me?! Someone liked me for me!

I started band class in seventh grade and will never forget the entire class excluding myself huddled in Mr. Moynier’s office around the computer. To my horror, G. had shown the entire class my pathetic admissions of like for him, and something about this flipped a switch for me because I became a bully to others after. One stormy day, I wrote the head of band class (or who I recognized as their leader) a death threat via note, explaining that their actions are what lead good people to become school shooters. She told me later in high school she kept that note and vehemently apologized. I think she and I were okay after that.

In seventh grade, E. became my first boyfriend and kiss. I fell in love with him quickly and had never felt pretty or accepted before. In the almost year or so we were together, I learned at one point his asking me out was for a dare by the guys to ask the ugliest girl in school out. I dumped him not long after finding that out. I carried this complex I developed into every relationship I’ve had thereafter, and to this day I will never believe a soul that I could be found attractive, whether physically or by my personality.

I wrote Mr. Falk a suicide note that year after realizing I didn’t want to be around anymore. He was the first teacher I ever trusted, and we bonded over his beautiful sketch art, which I also partook in at the time. My mom thought I was a child prodigy because I could sketch photorealistic portraits of people and objects. Luckily, a focus on GATE and AP classes beat the absolute shit out of that dream to where I experience panic attacks to this day when I try to even attempt artwork of any media.

Mr. Falk brough the note to my house later that week and tearfully apologized to me, saying he was so sorry to betray my trust but he’s a mandatory reporter and needed to let my parents know. My dad was the one to answer the door when he arrived, cool and understanding as ever: “No, sir, I had no idea she was feeling this way. Yes, sir, we’ll get her to see a therapist.” Then once the door closed: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing spreading lies about the way we treat you?”

From there, it was a string of guys and one statutory rape relationship. I could never feel safe with any of them and was often cheated on for various reasons: flat chested, ugly, boyish, loud, obnoxious, bad sex, just felt like it, wasn’t into it, etc. But we’re jumping ahead a bit here.

My mom’s alcoholism and drug use escalated to new heights while we lived in Bakersfield, and I recently learned she used to buy meth from D.’s dad. Ha. Hahaha. D. was my supposed best friend and crush. I think he was genuine, though. I can’t fault him for something our parents did.

Ah, this leads me into high school and the crowd I hung out with. Two D’s and two J’s. One of the J’s was a giggle monster and a sweetheart. I once had a crush on him purely because he treated me the kindest. The other J. was a Dumpster fire of a person who I hate to this day. He could puke on command, sexually assaulted me publicly in the quad at Golden Valley by pantsing me in front of everyone to show all that “I really had a dick,” and almost broke my ankle once by shoving D. into me while we walked along a curb.

This J. will find me on social media throughout the years, a couple times harassing me about my breast size or lacktherof, and it won’t be until I was about 26 before I realized not all attention is good attention, so the blocking began. He recently followed me on my Twitch stream, the stunt I briefly had in early 2023, and I remember getting so much anxiety that I threw up after I realized it was him.

Sorry, tangent again. High school is when my Borderline traits began to come to the surface and the abuse against me was cranked to about a 7. My mom would get a DUI or two during this time and threw herself further into alcoholism the more my dad stonewalled and emotionally/psychologically tormented both her and I, but mostly her. He despised her, was disgusted by her, and wanted her gone. I’ll never forget crying and asking her why she and Dad didn’t get a divorce already because I was miserable.

She did leave when I was 14.

The winter after she left, my dad couldn’t make both rent and utilities, so we just went without electricity and gas. I was in mostly AP classes at this point and could barely manage my workload WITH such luxuries, so I began flunking. My AP Biology teacher approached me one day and asked why I stopped turning in homework and didn’t I know I’m flunking rapidly? Yes, I knew. But how do I do homework that requires a computer with no electricity? How do I juggle such a complex workload, even by college standards, solely by candlelight? My dad refused to take me to the library or anywhere else, and even before my mom left, he’d get his way by arguing that “he wasn’t my babysitter.” Despite the severe depression I was feeling by the time we lost power and hot water in our home, I thought this was just life and what others went through. People began noticing that I was dropping down to 90 pounds, unable to afford much of anything other than canned Ranch Style Beans that my dad insisted we eat (I gag to this day at the thought of eating these).

Even though my dad forced me to work after school and on weekends with him on his “palomitas wagon” as he affectionately referred to his meager pull-behind concession stand, we still couldn’t make ends meet enough to eat.

My AP Biology teacher took it upon herself to have the school host a canned food drive for us and the district paid several months of our utilities to help me out. I’d never been more mortified, and my dad had never been angrier with me. This was around the time he began becoming more meanspirited toward me, now regularly regarding me as “Boy” when I was at home.

It was hot and dusty on the trek home with DDJJ from high school, and one awful day I came home from school after being accosted by several dirt devils (dust tornadoes for the unfamiliar). I was already in a prickly mood and sick of life’s shit by this point, often deliberating the path of least resistance when it came to committing suicide. I came in through our open garage to my dad sitting at what used to be our dining room table when my mom was there, and what had been transformed into his project table for motorcycle engines and whatever stupid mechanic bullshit he had been cooking up at that point. He was enjoying Ritz and a can of cheez-whiz when I threw my backpack on the floor and flopped into a chair next to him. He chuckled at me with how caked in dirt my face was (I have oily skin even as an adult) and on the first, “Boy…” uttered, I took that can of cheez-whiz and beat the FUCK out of his face as hard as I could.

The thrill of power and adrenaline I had was amazing for all of three seconds until utter terror ripped through me with the face of contempt and venom I saw on him. He grabbed the whiz can, reared back, and changed trajectory at the last minute, launching it into our backyard sliding glass door.

He didn’t speak to me for about two weeks afterward.

About a month later, we moved three houses up the street to a bad deal home that he took up. By this point, this straight-A student was skipping school and desperately wanting out of life. Which was the lesser of evils? The angry, abusive father who directed his hatred for the Mexicans, Blacks, and women now toward me? (Oh, yes: my dad is also very racist. This was a norm for me that I wouldn’t realize until my late 20s.) Or the unreliable and shrill alcoholic mother who at least feigned love for me?

I called my mom to pick me up. This was my last opportunity to try to live a life with some blip of happiness.

My mom had rekindled her relationship with Dave, her first husband from the age of 17. All I knew about him when I moved in was that he looked like Bluto from Popeye and my dad treated his name like Voldemort’s, but I’d soon learn that both he and my maternal grandmother (her house that we lived in) were all just as awful as Dad but in different ways.

About a month into living in Sacramento [again] with my mom, grandma, and Dave, I woke up around 4 am to belligerent crying. My mom and Dave were wasted, and he open-palm slapped her for dancing with another guy at the bar they had gone out to.

Nope. No. No. No. Absolutely not. Not this all over again.

I called my dad almost 300 miles south. “What do you want me to do? Call the cops. But hide your phone in your panties; don’t let your mom have it.” Mom tried so hard to get into my room for consolation about her situation, and I was tired at this point of being the parent to my parents and enduring the emotional incest of both. I began slamming my bedroom door on her arm in attempt to break her elbow or shoulder, then locked it when she quickly faltered.

The cops came and arrested her for being drunk in public later that morning. She was quite upset that I called the cops on her and vowed to get me admitted to juvenile hall (yeah, it doesn’t work like that, but the message was still received that she hated me in that moment), moving into the street towards the two officers that arrived—and that was all they needed. I was left with Dave and my grandma, but I’d be damned to stay with them: so, I called my aunt, the one my mom would gamble and drink with about a decade prior.

I stayed with my Aunt Janie for a couple of days. She still abandoned my cousin and I for the casino or meth, but I was older at this point and the reprieve from the screaming, threats, chaos, and fear was welcome. My cousin Desiree was well versed by Janie’s antics at this point and was unphased, having learned to take care of herself by the sad age of 12 [and I had recently turned 15 at this point].

Unfortunately, Mom had been released from the drunk tank and was on her way by the end of the second day. Normally people are housed for about 12-24 hours in jail for drunk-in-public charges, but she was lucky and stayed the whole weekend due to their booking system going down during that time. And she. Was. Livid.

Everything that proceeded her short stint in jail was a blur, but it happened something like this: Dave left, my dad moved in, we lived in Sacramento together for roughly 2-3 months before the fights grew vicious enough that we needed to get out, and he and I moved into a 16-foot camper trailer to a mobile home court down the street for the next six months.

During this time, I began charter school and was in an accelerated program to catch up dropping out of Golden Valley to move to Sacramento halfway through my sophomore year. This charter program only required one hour a week for me to be in class and see my teacher, which afforded me enough time to get a non-palomitas wagon job and I began working full-time [illegally] for a nearby KFC for the next two years.

I graduated a year early and as a Valedictorian in 2010, right before turning 17. During this time, I endured:

More abuse from my father.

Dave trying to kill my mom, her now boyfriend R., and my grandma by burning their house down. The homeowner’s insurance resulted in my charred possessions garnering me a $4,000 check in which I bought my first SUV with.

Ended my almost two-year relationship with D. (unrelated to DDJJ at Golden Valley) who was my statutory relationship—I was 15 and he was 19, and everyone knew but didn’t give a damn.

An awful month-long relationship with C. who was an abusive Mormon-turned-Catholic-turned-Atheist-turned-heroin-addict. He let me take his virginity and when I had a miscarriage, he said I killed his son. Then he cheated on me.

A six-month-long relationship with W. who at that point had turned me into a massive stoner. Cannabis became my escape from reality from 2009 through 2011. He also cheated on me.

A one-month relationship with K. Who cheated on me with eight women.

A one-month relationship with E. He was nice but ghosted me after a month because he liked video games better.

And the worst birthday present I’ve ever received. One of the childhood girlfriends I had before I left for Texas re-entered my life, D. (so many D names). D. and her boyfriend W. promised me a good time for my birthday, and they knew just the trick: W. had a brother named Dustin, and Dustin was horny for just about anything. Including my naïve ass. For my birthday, D. and W. took me to Dustin’s house, barricaded the door to his bedroom from the outside, and giggled while I screamed for help as I was being raped.

I began attending Sierra College at 17 where I took one semester at 16 units while juggling a full-time schedule at KFC. I was tired, especially of taking care of my dad. By this time, we had moved into an apartment where I was covering half the rent and most of the utilities. Why didn’t he work all these years? Well…

While in Vietnam, he was stabbed in the back by a young Vietnamese girl of about 10. She met her untimely fate at his hand, but that back injury prevailed to the current day. He used this injury to get out of a good paying job when I was about three years old and retired early with Social Security disability. And once you’re on that, you can’t get it back if you forfeit it through taking another job. So, my dad has been working under the table and committing tax evasion for about 20 years.

While I was at Sierra College, I met C. and this was right about where my life became irreparably worse as my unknown and untreated Borderline and cPTSD symptoms were fully out in the open. Up until meeting C., I was vehemently against drinking of any kind because of my mom, but it was his vice. This was the beginning of what would become a terribly unstable almost five-year relationship.

From the age of 17 to 22, C. and I took turns hurting each other through cheating, drug abuse, physical violence by my hand on one occasion, suicide attempts and self-mutilation (also by my hand).

With Borderline Personality Disorder, there are nine criteria total, and one has to meet any five of them to be diagnosed. These nine are: fear of abandonment, whether real or perceived; unstable relationships; unclear or shifting self-image (or unstable/lack of identity); impulsive and self-destructive, behaviors through either binge eating, risky sex, spending issues, reckless driving, etc.; self-harm and/or suicide attempts; extreme emotional mood swings; chronic feelings of emptiness; and explosive anger.

I was diagnosed with BPD in 2014, less than a year before things with C. ended, and I had checked off all the boxes. I wouldn’t learn until 2018 that cPTSD shares quite a few of the same criteria as well.

Before summer of 2015, I had had very short relationships or one-night stands with five more guys and a 5250 hospitalization at Heritage Oaks in Sacramento from an almost successful attempt by hanging after I was raped via sodomy once more. I was so exasperated of life at this point, of feeling unloved, rejected, unworthy, ugly, unsuccessful, and by this time I was coming to terms with the contradiction that as an existential nihilist and Atheist, there couldn’t possibly be a god with treatment like this, but also maybe…my role in life was to be used.

Maybe that’s why all of this has happened to me. This is my God. This is my Higher Power: the concept that maybe rape and violence and mistreatment happen to certain people because that’s their pre-determined role. I decided I was a martyr for pleasure for others. I was unlovable, flawed, broken, and ugly: please, can we spare the pretty, successful, clean, and happy women/men/children and make me a beacon for hate and rape? If I can keep just one more guy away from all of that, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Because it’ll all make sense in the end, right?

My internalized misogyny and self-loathing warped my perception of life and how I navigate it well into the present day, and currently this is the concept I struggle with: that sometimes, bad things just happen for no reason other than wrong place and wrong time. To cope with my life experiences by the time I was 22, I began seeking out movies in the extreme horror genre: Salo, or a 120 Days in Sodom; A Serbian Film; Martyrs; I Stand Alone; Irreversible; Nymphomaniac; Cannibal Holocaust; Cannibal Ferox; I Spit On Your Grave (1978); Ken Park; Kids; Trash Humpers; Gummo; Trauma; Dogtooth; Antichrist; and more.

These movies became my personality. I never sought them out for shock value or to be perverse, but rather to feel less alone. My tastes in movies became ever more depraved, and some of you reading may be well versed in them. For those who aren’t, they’re snuff-film in nature. I’ve since switched to books as my current extreme horror genre: Eric LaRocca, Aron Beuregard, Samuel R. Delaney, Matthew Stokoe, and many other authors who cover topics of incest, rape, necrophilia, cannibalism: you name it. I’ve grown desensitized to just about anything and every time I indulge, I’m left with a widening internal void and adrenaline. Feeling miserable is my safe, my norm, and I’m used to it without ever being truly used to it. I like increasing my internal void in hopes that one day, there’ll be nothing left to feel and I’ll be free.

I met T. in the summer of 2015. We were together about six months before we got married. In 2019, we separated and to this day, I’m trying to idiot my way through the divorce. On New Year’s 2018, the last girlfriend I had named K. was sexually assaulted at a party we both attended. Her predator was the husband of the host, and K. told me about this the next day. The Husband tried the same on me, but I wasn’t yet drunk enough to fall victim. On K’s birthday, Friday April 12th, 2018, it was my turn and I was kidnapped and sexually assaulted by a Lyft Driver after my husband angrily left the tavern we were celebrating K’s birthday at.

I wandered downtown Sacramento for a couple of hours, drunk and sad with a dead phone. I wasted the last of the battery trying to contact T. but his phone was either off or dead. Then the Lyft Driver came and followed me. I ran into him twice in his car and he seemed nice, and I was desperate. I explained that my phone was dead, but he was okay doing this trip pro-bono because I seemed lost and stressed.

I didn’t know that fear would lead a person to try to jump out of a car going 70 miles per hour while the driver tried to forcefully digitally penetrate them.

The Lyft Driver gave up after my escape attempt and took me back to my apartment complex. I gave him the wrong apartment number and he locked me in his car until I complied with a disgusting, blubbery kiss. (This is indeed the story referenced further down in my Tumblr; some details in that story were fabricated, such as the date, names, and phone percentages to keep it hidden, but fuck it: the above are the true events.)

A part of me came unhinged that early morning and for the next few years, I would try like hell to make it out of this life, to include falling victim to one more account of rape by I., a guy from high school who tricked me into feeling wanted when I was finally reduced to dust emotionally.

But at least the Lyft Driver was charged just a few weeks after he was caught: https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2018/05/16/lyft-driver-charged-in-sexual-assault-of-passenger-in-fremont/

My dad suffered a severe stroke in July 2019. He called me from the hospital and told me he wanted to kill himself, and could I find the gun in his underwear drawer. “Dad, you’re not supposed to have guns. You’re a two-time convicted felon.” I found the gun and did the opposite by hiding it in another part of his house, some Frankenstein’s contraption he made himself. My dad was cunning and artistic like his brothers and sisters, and I’m convinced he could rig a gun out of tree bark and acorns at this point if it meant he could avoid the law.

He grew worse over time, forgetting who my mom was on occasion, forgetting key events, and went from being an Atheist to a megalomaniac Christian who would’ve married Trump himself if it weren’t for the whole being-gay-is-wrong thing. His comments towards me and my body became increasingly inappropriate, his racism proclaimed with less awareness of his surroundings, and the manifestation of PTSD from the Vietnam War came out in ways I’d never seen before. He also struggled to walk and move like he used to.

In February 2020, Dad called me and offered me a full-paid trip on a cruise to wherever I wanted, the catch being I had to come over and say hello. I thanked him and declined, then hung up. I haven’t spoken to him since and I also avoided being trapped on a cruise ship with hundreds of others as the world descended into panic over COVID-19.

I’m still reeling over my most recently ended relationship (or maybe I’m still with him? I don’t know—I’ve broken up with him several times now, but we try to repair and the dysfunction continues) and I’m not ready to add that here.

But I’m trying. I tried to drown myself while high on edibles last month, but the body’s will to survive even while heavily intoxicated overtakes the desire for the void (or afterlife depending on what you believe). I still struggle with thinking my only purpose is to give myself to others which has turned me into a workaholic, but I’d say throwing myself into perfectionism over insurance is several steps up from accepting rape as my responsibility and fault. I deal with emotional flashbacks (cPTSD symptom) almost daily and learned last year that I was raped by my dad when I was about three years old; the nightmares of him doing this to me over the years make a lot more sense now even though I don’t remember the details.

I’ve always wanted to bear my soul and experiences to someone who would understand but my resolve is that there’s no one that could possibly understand whether they had it better or worse than me. I often feel unsafe even when I’m home with my cats and nothing bad is happening and I walk through life with a sense of, “When will the other shoe drop?”

I’m really trying to be okay. I don't want compassion. I don't want pity. I don't want love. I don't want justice. I just want to know why the fuck I'm here and where do I belong?

#bpd #borderline personality disorder #trauma #writing #cPTSD #sexualassault #autobiographical

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