#to be fair to myself i was a teenager and hung out with an anti sjw crowd

[mahoutoons]

me when i remember i used to be one of those "if a woman chooses to wear makeup its a totally feminist choice also misandry is NOT okay" libfems

[the-fiction-witch]

We'll Find Her P4

Media - The Queens Gambit Character - Benny Watts Couple - Benny X Reader Reader - Y/n Watts Rating - Sad AF! Cute AF Word Count - 3098

I paused before the mirror, taking in the sight of my reflection. I carefully buttoned up my brand-new, crisp eggplant purple button-down shirt, running my fingers over the smooth fabric. The pants of my grey suit hung neatly, freshly ironed by my beautiful wife. I smoothed down my hair one last time, making sure every strand was in place, wanting to look my best for the day ahead.

"My, my someone's looking devilishly handsome," Y/n cooed as she gracefully emerged from the bathroom, I couldn't help but admire her exquisite outfit. She was wearing a snug, deep purple dress that accentuated her figure perfectly. Her vibrant Y/H/C hair was beautifully styled in vintage curls, framing her face like a work of art. To complete her look, she wore a pair of sophisticated grey heels that added an extra touch of elegance, along with a matching grey belt and a dainty grey headband, tying the whole ensemble together with effortless style. "You know about some cute stenographer you're hoping to see Benny?"

I smirked seeing her so stunning, "No, just wanted to look nice and presentable, what about you? Are you planning on flirting with the judge? Or are you just trying to rush things and give every man in there a heart attack?" I smirked wrapping my arms around her,

"No, I just wanted to make sure I matched up with my handsome husband,"

"I love you so much," I cooed,

"I love you too Benny," She smiled,

We shared a kiss and I cuddled up with her as we stood in the full-length mirror, "Usual I am very anti-shopping trips." I began,

"Ohh I know,"

"Yeah, yeah, I am usually very anti-five-hour shopping trips that cost us this much money..."

"But?" she smiled wickedly,

"But... I must admit. We look fucking Sexy."

"Not fair test, you're always sexy,"

"Ohh am I?" I smirked pulling her closer, "We'll you sure would know my sexy little wifey." I cooed kissing all over her neck as she applied a matching purple lipstick, "This colour does suit us,"

"It really does, I may be changing wardrobes,"

"Ohh? My god, it's only taken twenty-six years of knowing you and now you decided it's time to ditch the chess monochrome?"

"I never found a colour that suits me this well," I smirked checking myself out a lot, and Her of course. "yowl" I growled,

"Benny, did you legit just cat growl yourself?" She glared,

"...And you,"

"Come on, we need to get going." She laughed trying to leave but I stopped her, "Yes?"

"Thank you for picking the clothes out, everyone looks really nice and it really suits us all."

"I did my best," She chuckled grabbing my trench coat from the bed for me to slip on, "Very Watts,"

"Humm..." I nodded, "Purple for Violet, Grey for sterling, and black and white... for you and me," I cooed giving her a soft kiss, "I don't know what I'd do without you,"

"I don't either Benny," She cooed,

"And... extra plus, mostly purple for violet today. And no matter what stain you stop on purple it all looks black. Which will be very handy... for water... coffee... red liquids of any kind, you know whatever we encounter today,"

"Benny," She warns,

"You're rule was don't get arrested."

"And I stand by that, Don't get arrested, and if you get a punch or a kick in?"

"One for you too." I nodded,

"That's why I married you," She smiled kissing my cheek before she went to fetch Sterling,

I made my way downstairs and found Violet anxiously fixing her hair. She looked lovely in her sweet little purple dress, which had a flowing teenage style but was similar to Y/n's. I walked over to her and gently helped her place the flower headband in her hair, giving her a tender kiss on the cheek. "You look beautiful sweetheart,"

"Maybe too beau-"

"Anyone dare to tell my daughter she's too beautiful I will drop-kick his ass."

She laughed,

"You ready?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "You think they'll let me punch him after?"

"Ohh I do hope so, if not... I do have enough cash to bribe a correction officer." I joked,

"Look who's all dressed up for his big sister's revenge day," Y/n cooed as she brought Sterling in his little suit,

"Court date Mom," Violet smiled,

"same thing," I chuckled, "Look at you! So handsome, all the ladies will be swooning," I smiled cuddling Sterling,

"Everyone ready?"

"Yeah. Let's do this thing." Violet nodded setting the pace as she headed to the car,

"Loving the confidence Sweetheart." I chuckled following her,

The atmosphere in the large wood-lined courtroom was tense, with a significant number of people filling the hall, reflecting the widespread interest in the story of her disappearance. The impending media coverage was expected to be substantial, as evidenced by the presence of journalists from various outlets. Amidst this, the chess review reporter stood out, appearing somewhat out of place among the seasoned journalists. Additionally, her friends from school, local business owners, and other worried parents were also present, underscoring the community's deep concern. Overall, it was a respectable turnout, highlighting the widespread impact of the situation. We sat together as a family, Myself closest to the stand, of course, as there was no way in hell anyone was coming near my daughter without getting through to me first. Violet to my side, Y/n on the end with Sterling in his pram close to the wall, I had wanted to put Violet there but she wanted to be in the middle made her feel more confident than the corner which I understand.

Soon enough, it all began.

First was a jury filled the rows of people of all types which made me feel a little better. Then officers and legal people only one woman which I found interesting for a brief moment and as it happened she was on our side, in fact... they all seemed to be. Then the Judge in his professional clothes, we all stood as he arrived, he seemed a bitter old man who'd rather be playing dominoes as he took the chair.

And at last, in he came.

He was a tall man, not thin but not large either, with pinky pale skin, and uninteresting brown hair, blue eyes, wearing prison clothes and with two items, A bible and a cross necklace. He came to the box for him and smiled around the courtroom to all those who looked at him. We met eyes and he looked through me to see Violet, but I didn't let his gaze escape mine I made him meet my eyes again and as if we shared a thousand words in those brief seconds he looked away in defeat.

"Order, Case 17.14.05.85. Accused Jacob Abraham Whitemore. Stand accused of Kidnapping, Rape of a Minor, Abuse of a Minor, Sexual Abuse of a Minor, and least of all counterfeit Tabacco products. You stand trial before a jury of your peers and the public at large here inside Brooklynn East Court House this twentieth of May." The judge explained, "Where is your legal council, Mr Whitemore?"

"I- I have chosen to represent myself, I know no word more powerful than the lord and I know he will use me as a mouthpiece to speak the truth of this matter. They must be made to listen..."

Oh my god, I already wanna hit him over the head with a chair,

"Very well, Mr Whitemore how do you plead to the crimes of which you are accused?"

"Not guilty." He said,

Ohhh now I am gonna hit him,

Violet took my hand knowing this would be an ordeal for her so I squeezed it back hoping to comfort her.

"Very well, Miss Peters you have the floor."

"Thank you, Judge," She said getting up from her seat and pacing back and forth as she spoke, "I have no plan on proving you guilty Mr Whitemore, Rather I plan to bear your crimes to the jury and the public themselves so they may see the horror's you have committed. I believe truly in your mind you are innocent, but... we are not in your mind Mr Whitemore," She explained, "In simple facts, this man Kidnapped a fifteen-year-old girl and held her hostage while he committed horrific acts against her for two whole years of her life, only being stopped when police came to investigate his local store over reports of the selling and distribution of fake tobacco products,"

Shock went across the courtroom and I held Violet tight,

"The rest of my time I shall be letting you all see and understand the depravity of what happened in those two years," She nodded, "Any of those who wish to leave now, I would recommend it. I wish I could never know too."

"Proceed, prosecutor," The judge nodded,

"Mr Whitemore, can you tell me about your father? Mr James Whitemore?"

"My father was a priest for the Baptist church on Potter's Road," He nodded,

"I see, I see, and his father? Mr John Whitemore?"

"The same Madam,"

"And his father? Mr Elijah Whitemore"

"The same,"

"I see, and correct me if I am wrong but you are not a priest? In any capacity?"

"No, I am not, but I have followed God's word-"

"Yes or no Mr Whitemore,"

"No."

"And is that becuase you were rejected from every bible college to which you ever applied?"

"...yes,"

"Yes and why was it you were rejected so much?"

"... When I was a young schoolboy, I would take my bible to school and I would spend every free moment preaching the word of god to the heavens I was forced to educate with, by the end of my first terms. I knew the devil had them hard. So I would force them to hear the word of god."

"By breaking their legs so they couldn't run away Mr Whitemore," she glared, "And this of course when on your permanent record and yet you still proceeded to do so?"

"They must be made to listen..." I noticed that was the second time he had said that, and both times it made Violet's hand feel cold,

"This continued until beyond the education sector," She said, "No college would allow your entrance, But... I give you credit, You took initiative and began your own business." She said clicking the first slide a photo of the corner shop, "Tell me about it?"

"My small store is designed to cater to the everyday needs of the community. We stock essentials such as milk, bread, and paper products so that our customers can conveniently access these items without having to make the trip to the market." He nodded, "I love my store so much,"

I grimaced to think of the money we had spent in their over the years,

"And you ran this store for how many years?"

"Six Madam,"

"Six years, very impressive." She nodded, "What.. lead you to open such a store with no training, no family background, and only a rental lease?"

"I take all word from him,"

"Him Mr Whitemore?"

"God above." He nodded, "He sends me all, he has such plans for me, for all of us. They must be made to listen to the plans,"

There it was again,

"I see. Officer Ducan? you have been a patrol officer for six years correct?"

"Six years to the day. and it's been an honour." The officer nodded,

"Have you ever known of any issues from Mr Whitemore's store?"

"No, no reports, nothing, not even a brick through the window or a stolen candy bar,"

"Thank you, Now... Note Exhibit A on the front of the store sign reading 'One school child at a time' Would you like to tell us about that Mr Whitemore?"

"Well, it's only a small store..."

"Other stores your size don't hold this rule? Is there an issue with school children?"

"No no, of course not lambs of the lord unspoilt,"

"Then why the sign?"

"I like to serve one customer at a time it makes things simple,"

"Why the sign Mr Whitemore?"

"... I like to serve one customer at a time, so any messages the good lord has for them I can hear clearly, like now... so many in this room so much to say I don't know what's for whom."

"So you admit this sign is purposefully for isolating children?"

"...I... yes."

Gasps ran out,

"Thank you, I wish to turn your attention now back to the date in question, May 14th 1985. Do you have anything to say in your defence, Mr Whitemore?"

"They must be made to listen..."

"Noted." She nodded, "I'd like to call the victim, Miss Violet Watts to the stand please if she feels strong enough to tell her story?" She asked turning to Violet,

The room went quiet and I saw him stare at her,

I squeezed her hand as did Y/n but she got up adjusted her dress and walked with her head held high, Y/n came to her seat so we could hold hands and try not to panic.

I saw as she walked past his box he spoke a hushed not a soul heard but I saw and I read the words on his lips 'Be a good girl' I wanted to speak up but I didn't want to frighten Violet as she took her seat.

"Hello," She bravely smiled into the mic a little too low for her,

"Thank you for being here today Miss Watts, This can't be easy and even just being here is more than most would ever be able to do." She nodded, "Please State your name, honey,"

"Miss Violet Alekhine Watts," She said,

"A very lovely name," The Judge nodded, "Interesting Middle name?"

"My- My dad really likes chess."

Everyone suddenly looked at me, so I waved,

"... Apologise for the momentary derail of this but I must ask the name of the baby I am too curious,"

"Sterling Pirc Watts," Y/n smiled,

"Adorable," The Judge nodded, "Proceed,"

"Thank you, Judge, Let the records note the adorable baby."

"Noted!" The dictator Nodded,

"Now, Violet. Tell us a little bit about yourself."

"Well... My dad is US chess champion, my Mom was a reporter for chess review back when they first met. They got married, bought our little house, and had me. They're the best parents I could ask for really they are, Dad and I play chess by the fire, Mom and I bake together, she makes the best brownies, and whenever a chess tournament falls on a school holiday or weekend we all go as a family see the cities, and every day rain or shine one of them takes me and picks me up from school even though it's only a few minutes walk,"

Awww I got a little teary hearing her talk about us like that, I squeezed Y/n's hand tight as we both got a little emotional hearing her talking like that,

"Lovely, And you think even as a teenager you have a good relationship with your family?"

"I have the best relationship with them, they always tell me they love me, always look out for me, support me no matter what,"

"Supportive of what may I ask?"

"... I came out... as liking just girls when I was thirteen. I just always knew. And Mom and Dad didn't argue, didn't debate, didn't tell me I just needed to get older or that my mind would change without so much as a raised voice they accepted me, for who I am. No questions asked,"

I saw his face full of rage at her words, and things began to make more sense to me.

"Now Violet, On this faithful day May 14th 1985, How did your day go?"

"Well... I got out of bed, showered, had breakfast, and before we left I asked my dad if I could walk home on my own today, I was 15 and wanted to be a little more independent, plus I wanted to walk with friends maybe get some snacks... maybe see a cute girl," she explained "But we made a deal, he'd drive me to school as usual, but I could walk home. So long as I called from the phone box outside the school before I left and came straight home. And everything went fine normal school day. I was excited to walk home on my own for once, I made plans to walk home with some friends who live nearby, the last teacher was being a dick and held everyone back at the end of the day cause he was missing a pair of scissors, turns out they where on his desk, So I got my stuff from my locker and went outside the gates to the little phone box where I called mom, told her why I was late out but I was on my way. I met my friends and we started the walk home, We went to the little shop just on the corner, to sneakily get some snacks... even if dad told me not to,"

"Umm, and you never made it home that day did you, Violet?"

"No. I didn't."

"The store you stopped at. Was Whitemore Corner Store?"

"Yes."

"And you observed his one school child at a time sign seen in exhibit A?"

"We did, we went one at a time, I was last since I lived the closest so I was going to grab my stuff and head straight home. I went to the back got my snacks and went to the counter."

"Who was at the counter?"

"No one, I waited, I called out but nothing so I left the correct change on the counter and went to leave."

"But then what happened Violet?"

"The door was locked," She nodded, "And... I suddenly felt a hard crack on the back of my head,"

"Exhibit B, a bathroom key wooden block roughly 2 x 3, bloody. With DNA matching Miss Watts." She said showing the next side,

Ohh my god I am gonna kill him...

Y/n held my hand keeping me grounded frankly her hand and all these witnesses were all that was stopping me from climbing over and pummeling him into the ground.

"Mr Whitemore, Do you deny the school children obeyed your rules?"

"They obeyed them perfectly, and I gave each a message before they left,"

"And the message you gave Violet was a 2 X 3? Do you deny this?"

"I do not."

Gasps erupted,

"Was this a mistake? perhaps you assumed her stealing her gummy worms?"

"No. she paid. She couldn't be allowed to leave." He said,

"And why not Mr Whitemore?"

"They must be made to listen..."

"And who is they, Mr Whitemore? Miss Watts?"

"She's one of them."

"One of whom?"

"She's a Devil girl!" he yelled getting up from his chair,

Violet jumped back,

Immediately I got up ready to fight him if I needed to,

"Order! Order in the court!" The Judge Demanded, "Sit down Mr Whitemore. And You too Mr Watts."

I nodded and took my seat taking Y/n's hand tightly as he too took his seat again,

"You do not deny you hit Miss Watts over the head with a 2 x 3 and took her down to your basement on the 14th of May 1985?"

"... I do not deny this. And I would do it again." He gritted, 

[hello-mojo]

[Ok so the following is a story, (Rise Above This was was a working title) I was working on this completely on my own and I was quite excited about it. I actually had tried to plot out the progression and main plot points, and a few other notes for things I needed to look up and research to mesh the timelines a bit better. I hadn't gotten around to it though and now... well I don't know if I'll ever bring myself to write fanfiction anymore. I loved this story premise though and had such Hope's for it... ah well. The first chapter was completed but there was supposed to be so much more.. Frances having accidental magic and then getting sick and Healer Harry to save her... ah well. If you like the fic let me know, if you want to adopt it, comment.

Oh one other thing... not all the songs are actually nirvana songs, there's a pearl jam song used too but I was looking for songs in the right genre that seemed to work for the plot. It's all fair in fanfic right?

Anyhooty... I doubt I'll post the stories that were completed on my main profile as I orphaned them and they can still be viewedon archive just look up my old. Penname CagedNTorn.

For unfinished stuff I had oh let's see... 3 different charlie/Draco fics I was working on, one that was all but complete... I had a draco/spike crossover fic, plus there was the sailormooon/Harry Potter crossover... that was actually a Drarry fic too, there were a bunch of things that I'll likely never finish. So I'll post them by and by.

Do let me know if there's a better place to post the plot bunnies that are up for grabs.

Now I've blathered enough so here's the first chapter of Rise that can be adopted if someone is interested in finishing it.]

Rise Above This

Draco was backstage at the place he was playing that night.  He sat tuning his guitar wearing ripped jeans and a white long sleeve thermal t-shirt with thumb holes burnt in and also a mohair sweater he was particularly comfortable in.   Western Washington state was wet and cold pretty much all the time.  

This didn't really bother the English man though as England had similar weather.   He'd grown his hair out and had it cut shaggy and it hung in his eyes perpetually now but he didn't care.  It drove his mother nuts whenever she came to visit.  

Narcissa still hadn't quite gotten the hang of blending in with muggles but she was getting better.   She was sitting nearby chattering about her trip to France.   She was wearing faded bluejeans and a fitted corset top that she'd bought in paris.  She also had a posh cashmere sweater on where most of the kids were wearing flannel and converse sneakers, just like Draco. 

She had her long blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail.   Draco smiled at her as she nattered-on about wines and the latest runway fashions.  At least he still had her.  Pansy was floating around somewhere too, probably flirting with someone.   

"I just don't understand why you have to look so scruffy though darling.   You have such a lovely face!  Can't you at least comb your hair back?"  Narcissa was saying.   Draco rolled his eyes at her but gave her a shit-eating grin.  

"Because I like looking scruffy.  It pisses off the establishment.  Even if it didn't, I'd still do it.  Hiding myself away is comfortable."  Draco said, handing his guitar to a stagehand.  

"Besides, this grungy war refugee look suits him.  He's ridiculously hot."  Pansy stated with a grin as she sidled up to accompany Narcissa out front to watch the show.  Draco could already hear the crowd cheering as the lights went down.  Draco and the 2 other blokes, 1 squib and one muggleborn, all cast outs of the wizarding world lined up off stage.   They formed a circle and everyone put a hand in and they shook them, clapped and cried out their chant.    

"Music and ass, gas or grass.  We're here for a good time, not here for a long time.   Lets do this!"  Draco led the chant the guys all cheered and then took the stage.  Dave went first and started a drum beat, Krist was next and began the base-line.  Then Draco, carrying his electric guitar, went to the mic.  He never looked at the audience.   He wasn't here for them,  not really.  He was here for himself.   Because he had something to say.  Even if no one really understood him or interpreted his messages clearly.  

"Come as you are, as you were

As I want you to be

As a friend, as a friend

As an old enemy

Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

As an old memoria."   

He strummed the chords and sang the song not really looking at anyone.  He was trying quite unsuccessfully not to think about a certain messy haired brunette.   

After the war he'd had every single door slammed in his face.  Even the most menial of jobs wouldn't hire him.  Potter had kept his word and put in a good word for him and his mother but the blonde on stage really didn't know why he'd bothered.   No one in the Wizarding world wanted him or any other Slytherin around.   Dave was a muggleborn Slytherin in the year below Draco and had also been chased out.  

"Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

As an old memory."  

It was hard not to think of Potter when he sang this song because it was about him, at least mostly.  There was always a thinly veiled anti establishment opinion mixed in. The fans loved it though and he didn't really mind.  It’s not like Harry would ever show up and hear it.  He was too busy still saving the world,  having babies and whatever else it was that heros did.  Not Draco.  His long shaggy hair hung in his face as he sang the chorus, and shook his head.  Just one word.  Memory.   His best and worst thing.  His respite and the source of his nightmares.  

He finished off the song and they hit a heavy chord progression into the next song.  

"Load up on guns, bring your friends

It's fun to lose and to pretend

She's over bored and self assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word"  

The kids surged forward jumping up and down and shaking their heads as they raised their fists in the air and sang along.  

Draco had worked with Dave to put his thoughts on the war into muggle terms.  He thought they'd done pretty good honestly.  Even if they hadn't,  the teenagers in Seattle and California couldn't get enough.   He screamed the chorus and the kids screamed it with him.  

"With the lights out, it's less dangerous

Here we are now, entertain us

I feel stupid and contagious

Here we are now, entertain us

A mulatto

An albino

A mosquito

My libido

Yeah, hey, yay"  

Five years ago Draco had left the wizarding world and his mother behind.  Narcissa was more than able to take care of herself.   Draco wasn't concerned about her in that respect.   His father had been a lot of things but stupid had never been one of them.  Misguided certainly,  but not stupid.   

Luscious had moved money around in various accounts all over the world.  He'd taken Draco with him on nearly all of his business trips.  Draco had had many private tutors growing up and could speak French, English, Russian and German fluently.  He could read in several languages.  His father had insisted.  Draco learned to balance a ledger when most kids were learning to ride a bicycle.   

When the ministry had seized their accounts in Gringotts,  they hadn't even seized a tenth of the true fortune.   Draco hadn't needed to work.  He'd wanted to.  However no one would let him.  So he'd packed a duffle bag of casual clothes,  taken his muggle id and cards and left for America.  He'd covered his accent fairly well he thought, and if he came off sounding like a stoned southerner at times… no one pointed it out.  

He met Dave hanging around kings cross station panhandling.   The two 18 year olds decided to strike out together.   Draco and Dave were sitting together at some boardwalk in Seattle, Washington when Draco flipped his skateboard and saw a kid playing guitar near-by.   He'd been hooked from the first chord.  He'd bought them instruments and they taught themselves to play.  

"I think you'll all know this next one."  

Draco hit the distinctive chords and the kids in the audience squealed with delight.  This was more personal,  more singing than the growly screaming.   More about his feelings than anything else.   He hid in his hair not seeing anyone.   In his mind he tried to be back in that skatepark with scraped knees, just him and Dave.  

"What else should I be?

All apologies

What else should I say?

Everyone is gay

What else should I write?

I don't have the right

What else should I be?

All apologies."

He sang the words not looking at his mother, not caring about her reaction to that statement.   He'd forgotten she hadn’t heard this particular song before.   Well she had to find out sooner or later he supposed.   

"I wish I was like you

Easily amused

Find my nest of salt

Everything is my fault

I'll take all the blame

Aqua seafoam shame

Sunburn, freezer burn

Choking on the ashes of her enemy."  

Draco finished the song and the kids were crying out various songs they wanted to hear while cheering and clapping.  Draco loved it.  He lived for it.  They only had one more song to play.  It would end the show on a high note before the next band took the stage.  The next song he was about to play was about a lot of things.  Various parts of the war, Tom Riddles beginnings, the discrimination in the Wizarding world,  his own parents a bit.   In hindsight, Draco realized that he likely should have adjusted the set list a bit when he'd found out his mother was coming to the show.  'Too late to do anything about it now.' He thought to himself.   Maybe they'd finally have a real conversation for a change.  He set his guitar in a stand nearby and took a deep breath.  

"At home

Drawing pictures

Of mountain tops

With him on top

Lemon yellow sun

Arms raised in a V

And the dead lay in pools of maroon below."  

He shook his head, hiding in his hair and not seeing anyone.   Only Dave and Krist, only his guitar.   The kids screamed and jumped and sang along.  Draco thrashed around stage with them, just the microphone cord wrapped around his hand.  

"Daddy didn't give attention

Oh, to the fact that mommy didn't care

King Tommy the Wicked

Ruled his world

Tommy spoke in class today

Tommy spoke in class today" 

The guys backed him up intermittently on the chorus and the base thumped throughout the song, a steady heartbeat.  Draco couldn’t let himself worry about hurting his mother's feelings.   He sang what he needed to say.  He knew nothing was ever simple.  There were at least two sides to every story and a variety of contributing factors.   

"Clearly I remember

Pickin' on the boy

Seemed a harmless little fuck

But we unleashed a snake

Gnashed his teeth

And bit the recess lady's breast."

Draco knew the words painted a vivid picture.   He didn't care.   Maybe people would learn that bullying others for shit beyond their control was stupid and had far reaching consequences.   There were certainly a few chapters in his story that he'd like to rewrite.   

"How could I forget

And he hit me with a surprise left

My jaw left hurting

Dropped wide open

Just like the day

Oh, like the day I heard."  

There was no possible way he could make up for some of the shit he'd done.  He knew that.  He tried to just pass on the lessons.  Hoping that if he could even reach just one person,  it'd be worth it.  Exile in the muggle world.  They weren't so bad really.   Their fashions were quite fun, and much more functional than robes.  He missed making potions, doing magic.  It was a particular skill set that he was good at.  There was no place in the muggle world for magic.  He had to be even more careful now that they were getting really famous.   People were always watching him.  Hiding in the bushes, trying to sneak into his hotel room, everyone wanted pictures of him to sell to the press.  He couldn't risk anyone seeing him perform magic.  He did little things like casting stasis charms or heating up a hot beverage,  or casting a cooling charm on himself and the guy's.  He knew his mind was spiraling away from the uncomfortable conversation with his mother that he was anticipating after this.  

"Daddy didn't give affection, no!

And the boy was something that mommy wouldn't wear

King Tommy The Wicked

Ruled his world

Try to erase this (try to erase this)

From the blackboard." 

He knew his parents had loved him.  They had been very cold, and reserved in all things though.  His mother could be formidable when she wanted to be and his father was doting yet terrifying.   That was something about Tom Riddle's life that Draco had been able to understand.   Feeling alone, as if no one cared, no one understood you.  He knew how cruel kids could be,  because he had been the one leading the mockery in his day.  

He'd never once thought about what it might feel like on the other side of it.  Until he'd been on the receiving end of such mockery, ridicule and unfairness did he begin to re-think his actions as a snotty young man.  The crowd was going wild.  

Draco stood as the lights came up and he bowed with the guys.  They all smiled and waved to their fans.   Off stage, he saw his mother standing with Pansy.  Narcissa looked a mixture of hurt, worried and angry.  A reporter from MTV was there, shoving a microphone in his face.  Draco smiled his small smile,  just a turning up of the corners of his mouth really.   He answered all of the questions asked in a rare and rather lengthy interview,  glad for the temporary reprieve from his mother for the moment.   

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a familiar set of green eyes and messy black hair, accompanied by none other than Hermione Granger and a regular. Analese Taylor was no stranger to Draco. She had been a fan since the band's boardwalk skate park days. Now that they were famous, she was their number one fan. The way Granger was clutching her arms, the strong resemblance between the two women, Draco could slap himself for not realizing what was so familiar about the girl. She had to be related to Granger, no other explanation.

Before he could really panic about the three familiar faces another familiar set of arms was thrown around his knees and a very delighted

"Daddy!" Rang through the room as his daughter Frances threw her arms around him. Draco glanced around for his soon to be ex wife. He spotted her nearby with arms crossed, looking furious. He sighed deeply as he scooped his daughter into his arms. The child was his whole world outside of his music. Draco glanced back towards Potter and Granger as his wife stormed over as the press and other onlookers were cleared out by Pansy.

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Feast your eyes and your shelves on October’s

SPD Recommends *Backlist*,

ten still-so-relevant titles selected by our very own Matthew Hedley!

1. Cold Genius - Aaron Kunin

Have you heard Aaron Kunin get excited about Milton yet? In love with things that are funny because he loves them, like Milton’s bible fan fiction, or Chiquita banana, or language meaning a particular thing. Is it fair to say Kunin’s quote clusters are a joke, a reflexive reassurance, a kindness that doesn’t force words down your throat, a presentation, a kindness, so that his book feels deeply kind. I appreciate the Ben Lerner blurb – “it occurs to me often to be grateful for his work.” Because I am, also, deeply grateful. Reviewers seem to delight in calling him a genius – because it’s in the title, maybe – but this book is so much more interesting than that. He’s a genius, who cares, “genius” is really a silly thing, don’t you think? It’s a brand, maybe, or something a lover says and is misunderstood and misunderstood until he figures in a Kunin poem.

2. Trances of the Blast - Mary Ruefle

This book of Ruefle poems is an odd gem. Its title is given the lie by the duration of its gaze. A stanza for the thing, a stanza for the feeling about the thing, a stanza for life after living with the thing. Remember Inception? That movie all the memes come from? This book has all the immediacy of an explosion in that movie, as time dilates wider and wider, until we’ve forgotten we were running from an explosion in the first place. What was that movie about? Or – wait, what’s this book about? It’s not exactly still, since there’s so much life ahead to get to, and it has pace, some yearning to be turned on, left on, but its movement comes from turnabout, the unwieldy and furry shift of a person looming in the midst of a poem. 

And so I have had to deal with wild intractable people all my days and have been led astray in a world of shattered moonlight and beasts and trees where no one ever curtsies anymore or has an understudy. So I have gone up to the little room in my face, I am making something out of a jar of freckles and a jar of glue 

I hated childhood. I hate adulthood. And I love being alive.

3. Monk Eats an Afro - Yolanda Wisher

This book is embodied poetry, the talked about but rarely seen kind. It’s important that the book is anachronistic in its sensitivity – Cry of Jazz came out in 1959, Monk Eats an Afro in 2014 – but Wisher loves jazz, and is good at it. The Sonia Sanchez blurb should be a giveaway of how in scene this book is to Philadelphia, to Philly jazz, to clubs where Sonia still holds court at a central table, with similar tables around, Wisher at another, someone, maybe Dawn Evans holds down a third, there aren’t that many tables but they’re mostly full, with men and women who make Philly great. Sure, I’m being overly romantic, because this is a literal memory I have, being in that room, being in my hometown, sometimes it feels like it might disappear, also – this book is romantic. Its romance poems are downright sexy, and god, when Wisher swings into a rhyme at the end of a stanza it rings out. There’s a body at risk here, recounting personal experience with a heady sense of its own cultural touchpoints. There’s something conservative about a jazz fanatic in this day and age – to go through every day hearing what the radio does while still pulling back to Monk and fam takes work, a love of the way things were – which, in context with the rest of this list, makes a deep commentary on how conservative poetry as a whole really is. Because this book feels novel and standout amidst the others of the list for how separate its references are. No other book on this list is more than one degree of separation (in terms of debt owed) from John Ashbery, and this book might be two, and that makes all the difference. It’s not that it’s “anti-academic,” because that term posits the academy as the thing, and everything else as lying in opposition. But I remember a creative writing professor ask a creative writing graduate student what she could possibly talk to a slam poet about. Monk Eats an Afro is incommunicable with that sort of thinking. Not opposition – a powerful voice, sure in her self.

4. Stories in the Worst Way - Gary Lutz

This book makes me want to write better. Lutz’ style should be ponderous -- the whole text appears at a glance almost as marginalia, like liner notes on liner notes, but nothing is frantic. Somehow it feels calm, even, impossibly, focused. Which can be a little frustrating -- the game of the title STORIES IN THE WORST WAY always cycling through my mind as I am shocked by the talent.  Because they are really well written and make you jealous and more than a little productive. Lutz makes me write. Because he really can write, and his overcrowded margin of a text feels absolutely effortless and easy for him, which is also impossible, and also untrue, and it’s – god, it’s frustrating! But if I didn’t have this book around, what other book could I use to make myself write. I admit, I throw this book around a lot. It’s a really nice weight and size to be thrown, and then picked up, mumble a bit, read the same story again, somehow write four pages, go for a walk, turn around mid-walk, come home and read the same story, write some more. It’s a book I love and picked from thousands of titles here at SPD -- and if you can’t handle being jealous and productive, I just don’t even know you.

5. Videogames for Humans: Twine Authors in Conversation - edited by merritt kopas

This book of playthroughs, essays, contexts, games and game-ified writing is unique and complex. Twine as a digital platform stands alongside all my other distant dreams of choice mediums for preventing academia and the state from incorporating language and work into their narrative. But, unfortunately, the space remains uncurated in meaningful ways to further that vision, which, as Wikipedia will tell you (by omission or deletion mill), perpetuates the same power structures as the world outside. So: CRY$TAL WARRIOR KE$HA (made pre-$ removal) is on the sample page today (looking absolutely amazing), while the most recent review is some undergraduate freshboy’s takedown of its writing structure. Which is to say that the academy is always uncomfortably present in the history and training of creators, players, readers – and even in the essays in VIDEOGAMES FOR HUMANS. The tension in the book’s movement back and forth between Kesha and undergraduate with a grudge is what makes the book so incredibly worthwhile. Beyond just a book for digital language nerds like myself, this collection feels so important for asking questions of how to create positive art spaces. Teenaged entertainment proposes an answer, negated in the misogyny of Lil Yachty, reconstituted in the queer narratives of Twine, complicated in the reactionary nature of write-ups… How will any of us make art in a time where to be an instrument of the state is such a bald-faced violence? But magic and a joy in loving self-sabotage shows a glimmer of hope: 

“There’s this assumption that if you stray from The Scientific Method into actually caring about things like lying on the floor of your room in the middle of the afternoon with black canvas hung over the curtains to keep the sun out with a single candle burning, wearing lipstick—even though you pretty much don’t wear lipstick any other time in your life—sort of meditating and sort of tripping off sensory deprivation and sort of falling asleep, that you had better take that weird stuff just as seriously and humorously as scientists are supposed to take science. Like basically magic can’t be weird or fun or fucked up or stupid on purpose. Which is wrong!”

6. Event Factory - Renee Gladman

Event Factory – There’s a setpiece of science fiction where worldbuilding, forced to include some cultural background for the book, treats us to speculative songs and poetry that are, let’s be honest, always awful. The cantina songs, the God-Whispers of Han Qing-Jao, the water songs of the Fremen – let’s be real, these are painful moments. Even Delany – sorry. But then you have Gladman, a luminary poet, writing her Ravicka novels, and suddenly, writing becomes speculative in parsing and content. There’s all the textured concentration and phrasing her talent begets, combined with a character-driven, engaging and difficult science fiction novel. So that our transportation occurs on every level – not escapism, because the density of idea and descriptor doesn’t admit such an easy movement – as we are other before it. It’s a deeply disturbing book, to be sure. The disassociative trip of finding things already happening to yourself makes the book a Ketamine nightmare in its darkest, half-sexual, half-prone. That’s a warning, I suppose, or as much of a warning as I can give for a book I’d like you to read. It’s a book of recollections, and it often recalls the worst. Go read it.

7. In the Time of the Blue Ball - Manuela Draeger, translated by Brian Evenson

This is the only book on this list I didn’t know beforehand, but god DAMN. It reminds me of Kathryn Davis, but with a different set of idiosyncrasies. Or Monica Furlong’s deeply strange cousin. Or it’s not really like another person, but an outstanding talent all to itself that speaks in an unusual voice, with a style and focus all her own. Still, it’s hard not to try to put it in context, because I hadn’t heard of Draeger previously. Shelley Jackson wrote the back cover blurb, and if you’re not down with Shelley Jackson, there’s nothing I can say to convince you to read this.

“I’m warning you, Potemkine,” said the tiger. “Now, here we are together in too small of a space. It’d be better if you didn’t wiggle in front of me. In the darkness, I could imagine that you were running.”

“I don’t look like a wharf rat,” I said.

“When someone starts running in front of me, it’s too late for distinctions between species,” said Gershwin.

Half-accessible, half-mystic fantasy that flirts with various reading levels, IN THE TIME OF THE BLUE BALL is a gorgeous book of fiction. With thanks to Brian Evenson for a stellar translation.

8. This Lamentable City - Polina Barskova, translated by Ilya Kaminsky

He lies naked on something white, She laughs above She covers him With her pearl, her body her Star, her body her snow, her body On top of the word “strange,” On top of the word “fright.”

Barskova wanders the city and chronicles, and edits, and edits, and edits what she sees. This book is beautifully refined, calm, sure.

“In our village where small animals live slowly And humans jump on them.”

I’d like to do this little feature with only quotes, quotes and gasps afterward. The above a reaction to finding the scattered remains of snails in the lane. I hope it snows where you read this, in the evening.

9. The Feel Trio - Fred Moten

Fred Moten. Glory, Fred Moten. One of the most talented writers of a generation who makes the balance of phrasing and legibility feel effortless. Not that every line is beach-read-legible, but that his word clusters are drop-dead gorgeous, and always feel intentioned and deserved. Throughout his published works, Moten remains a cheat-sheet for debut writers – “how do I get away with putting this really fabulous but loud phrase in my writing” – but THE FEEL TRIO is a monstrosity of confidence, even for him.

           “this a service on the surface for frank wilderness and carl flippant.            my absolute beauty studies feelings in an open afterlife. I hold him            and I’ve lost and I feel it in my hands and the sharp distance of his            little bother, explosive flower of I’m not ready and don’t want to.”

10. That They Were at the Beach - Leslie Scalapino

My favorite book of poetry has somehow never been on a previous SPD Recommends Backlist. The narrator of the book fascinates me – defensive in language, insecure in relative positions, honest in gaze – in her movements between mechanism and pathos. The formalization of language, centered around the em dash – pretending to be a device of clarity – reminds me of coding languages, its Turing-complete, it’s a half step from language, but in this case not towards clarity but something else, something that masquerades as clarity but is poetry. Which isn’t an opposite of clarity, but it’s not the same thing either. I find it impossible not to copy this book’s phrasing for months after I reread it, so I’m trying to be good here. It’s the book that made me love poetry.

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Peninsula Village testimony

After the first time I attempted suicide, in 1998, I ended up in a long-term “treatment” facility called Peninsula Village, which is located outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. Yes, I was a troubled teenager -- like most, I suppose -- but the only difference between some others and me was that I had untreated depression and anxiety disorders. These factors made it very hard for my family to deal with me at times, and my parents eventually fell under the spell of Peninsula Village’s staff and their lies. However, my parents did not inform me about the extent to which I would be staying at the Village -- at least 11 months until I turned 18 and could sign myself out. My parents also did not inform me about the extent to which the staff will go in order to “discipline” the children, but in fairness, the Village staff lied to my parents and omitted key facts. The issues this caused me during my stay eventually led to my escape -- the second, fully successful one in 13 years at the time -- but the memories of that place haunt me to this day.

The staff at Peninsula Village view discipline as treatment, but not “time-out” discipline, I’m talking about “slamming.” Slamming is a word we used to describe what was done to us (the children) if we “acted-up.” It involved the staff pressing a siren button that hung around their necks. Then, at least 6 burly staff members would come flying into the room through every entrance, and basically, they would tackle the child, slam his (I only witnessed the males) face into the ground, and dig their elbows and knees into his back and limbs, making it hard for him to breathe. This would last a relatively long time, and would always lead to the removal of the child’s clothing in exchange for bloodstained hospital gowns. The child would also get a one-way ticket to the “quiet room” -- a slightly padded, tiny, cold room with a cement floor covered by linoleum -- for an indefinite amount of time. On occasion, the child would also receive a hefty IM (intra-muscular) dose of a sedative, like Thorazine, that would leave him drooling for hours. Even more disturbing, there were many occurrences of bloodshed during these slammings. The emotional and physical pain I heard in the cries, screams, groans, and sobs during the slammings, coupled with the sight of blood pooling around a child’s head, and 8 adults kneeling on him, is truly haunting. Most of the slammings occur in the STU (Special Treatment Unit), but the staff will not hesitate to slam someone outside in the gravel, mud, manure, or whatever else one might be standing in.

STU is where they put all the new admits, and a stay there can last anywhere from 2 months to more than a year. While in STU, the staff forced me to strip naked, bend over and expose my anus, and expose and lift my scrotum. They also put me on an anti-depressant medication called Paxil, but immediately at a very high dose that left me buzzing and tingling. I had them decrease the dose soon after. In addition, they forced me to sit, Indian-style, on a small, cubicle-like bed all day under fluorescent lights -- lights that they never fully turned off. One day, a staff member caught me slouching very slightly, and made me stand and watch the clock for ten minutes, then forced me to sit back down on the hard, wooden bed box, but without the mattress for the remainder of the day. That’s not the half of it because the entire time one is in STU, one has to remain silent and non-communicative with other peers; however, the staff will sit and chat all night long while we try to sleep under the dimmed lights, then, they wake us up at 6 A.M. by yelling, and slapping the cubicle tops. I didn’t dare speak though, aside from the occasional group “therapy” session where the staff tells everyone how much he sucks, and that he’s a worthless piece of crap. The Village’s lead psych. doctor was very good at this. They also force everyone to “admit” he has a drug and alcohol problem, join AA/NA, and become spiritual, even if he doesn’t have a problem or have spiritual beliefs. Aside from groups, bathroom breaks were the only other time we could get up from our beds. We only got 3 minutes to defecate, 1 minute to urinate, and 4 minutes to shower. If we went over our allotted time by even 1 second, we would loose minutes from our next shower time. I never lost shower time, but I frequently had to let soap dry in my hair or on my body, and it would sometimes become itchy. The other bad thing about STU was we were allowed no time with our parents, on the phone or in person. I spent 2 ½ months in STU, living as a monk, and the only communication I had with my parents was my outgoing letters that were read, and censored, by staff. I could not write anything slanderous about the goings-on there, or my letter would not be mailed. The staff does not show STU to parents on their tour of the facilities because I doubt any parent would allow their child to stay at the Village if they witnessed what went on in there.

All of the slammings I witnessed were during my stay in STU. The first time I developed a fear of the alarm buttons was after I saw one guy’s scabbed face early in my stay. The entire right side of his face was covered in scabs, and he was wearing the hospital gowns. I managed to ask him about it before the start of a group session one day, and he said it was from the staff slamming him, and then dragging his face across the carpet. The next time I saw a slamming, the boy ended up getting a large dose of Thorazine in the butt because, if I remember correctly, he was in the quiet room afterward, and couldn’t stop sobbing. I remember during his slamming he was in a lot of distress from all the force being applied to his small body. He was having difficulty breathing, and he was in a lot of pain, and he was voicing these complaints to the best of his ability, but the staff wouldn’t let up. I think they enjoy restraining children just to feel powerful or something. They could have easily restrained him with half as many staff members, and quickly put him in the quiet room, but no, they decided to prolong the enjoyment. Eventually, once he was good and high, they let him come out to join us in group therapy. I don’t see any reason, other than to scare the rest of us, for them letting him join us because he was droopy-faced and drooling on himself. Another slamming I witnessed was even worse. The boy was smaller, and the slamming was more forceful, so much in fact, that he might have had his nose broken. All he did to be slammed was shrug his shoulder when a staff member grabbed his arm to lead him back to his bed box after he wouldn’t go by command. I saw him lying in a large pool of his own blood, where they held his face for quite some time, and then they swapped his clothes for the gowns, and stuck him in the quiet room as well. I heard a number of other slammings happen on the other boys’ side of STU, although I didn’t witness them. I did see the aftermath of at least one of those though. One boy was crying, and sitting in a padded room with a straight jacket on. This boy couldn’t have been older than 12 or 13.

Once I “graduated” to the outdoor cabin program, I was able to speak again, but there were a completely new set of rules, and I was forced to do even worse things. I was also constantly condescended, laughed at by staff, and made to feel stupid and worthless. The staff all acted as if they were gods or something. As far as strange rules go, one was that I was never allowed to look at another female. One guy in my group did, and we were forced, as a group, to do a “pyramid 15.” That’s where we had to do 15 pushups, 14 pushups, 13 pushups, etc. After that same guy was caught looking at girls three times, our group had to eat our meals in our cabin for a week. That meant hiking a half-mile to pick up the food, hiking a half-mile back to eat it on a wooden cabin floor, hiking a half-mile to bring the food tub back, and then hiking a half-mile back to our side of the grounds to continue with our daily activities. Two miles of hiking for each meal, and every meal ended up being cold for a week. Then, one time, a staff member (notice I don’t call them counselors -- I don’t think they were qualified) forced us to clear a path that was overgrown with poison ivy, but he forced us to do it with our bare hands! We complained, but he said not to be babies and that if we washed our hands, we’d be fine. It took us over an hour to clear the path, and we all ended up with poison ivy. That wasn’t even the worse day I can remember though. I think the worse day I had, physically, was on a day the temperature reached the upper 90’s, and the humidity was probably in the same range. We were working in the garden, breaking up dirt clumps, and had very little water available to us, relative to the conditions. There were at least eight of us, only 5 gallons of water on site, and we were working there all day. I got so hot and red, and had so much sweat dripping from my face, that I started to have blurred vision and lose my balance. I was very near heat stroke. We worked in that garden 3 or 4 times per week during the summer. If we weren’t working in the garden, we were building a brick barbeque pit -- hardly things that were conducive to the therapy for which we were there. We only had school two days per week, and even that was a half-ass, teach-yourself kind of thing. After working, we would run around the cabin trails. They would force us to train for occasional 5k races. This training was mandatory. After working outside most of the day, I had to run in the Tennessee heat and humidity for over an hour, 3 times per week. In the beginning, it was too much for me, and I was so tired that I wouldn’t swallow to conserve energy. I was barely jogging to avoid being reprimanded, I was dizzy and had blurred sight, and I was drooling, but I could not stop. We were reprimanded for any number of things, even leaving hairs in the shower. For every hair left in the showers, we would have to do a pyramid 15 as a group. We usually had to do pushups after shower time, so I’d get clean, do some pushups, and then go to bed sweaty. We never cleaned our sleeping bags either. Once per month we would find a spot of sun peaking through the trees in the woods, and try to drape the bags over foliage to catch the sun in an attempt to “sterilize” the bags. Sometimes kids would wet their beds -- probably due to stress -- but they didn’t dare say anything to staff for fear of the consequences. They would just sleep in it. This is how much psychological stress and fear the staff impose on the children during their stay. The worst consequence I ever had while at the Village was when I had to carry a 40lb. Limestone rock in a milk crate, wherever we went as a group, for a week, while still carrying all of my other responsibilities (water gott, backpack, notebook, etc…it changed daily). During that same week, on July 4, 1998, I had to do 2,600 pushups, and 12 one-minute-leg-lifts. This punishment was a plea bargain I made, for the original punishment would have required 3 months of the rock and crate, and about 15,000 pushups. How ridiculous is that? It makes no sense. The staff also has no sense of safety, for one time we were made to dig out a large stump with shovels and an axe. The stump could easily have weighed as much as a small car, it was just as big, and we were forced to climb around it in a 4-foot deep trench to cut at the roots. If the stump had shifted on anyone, he would have been crushed to death. Not only do they have no sense of safety, they have no sense, period. They forced all of us to attend outside AA/NA meetings, and they tried hard to make us spiritual. I never believed I had a problem with drugs or alcohol, but they said I did. I have also never been spiritual, but they forced some Indian Spiritual Wheel belief system upon all of us. That was the whole basis of our level system. Just for the record, I still have no problem with drugs or alcohol 10 years later, and I stopped going to AA/NA after I left the Village.

It would have been nice to voice all my concerns to my parents, but the staff “preps” all the parents by warning them that their children are excellent manipulators, and that they will say anything to leave the Village. During therapy sessions with my parents, the therapist would try to avoid letting me say anything about the Village. If I was able to say something about the conditions, she would quickly respond by making it seem like I was just a whiner and manipulator, and that that is part of my problem, and she would change the subject. Then, for the next week, during group sessions at the cabin, I’d have to talk about how much of a whiner I am. It’s like they brainwash everyone. They brainwash the children into thinking they have issues they do not really have, they brainwash themselves into thinking they are real therapists, and they brainwash the parents into thinking they are doing the right thing by sending their child there. I think this allows them to keep kids there indefinitely in order to gain more and more money. At $500 or more per night, I think they are motivated.

I played their spiritual-level-system game for about 5 months in the outdoor program until I eventually had my high level stripped from me due to someone else’s mistake. Our group was put on shut down, which is essentially the same as STU life, complete with silence, but in a non-air-conditioned cabin, and we cannot sit on our beds, so we sit back-to-back on the hardwood floor all day. We also have to do the two miles of hiking for every meal while holding onto a small length of rope, and trying not to trip over each other’s feet. A shut down can last for months, and I had already worked so hard to gain my privileges. I was not going to be able to sit on a hardwood floor in silence for another 4 months until I turned 18. This event woke me up, and broke me of my brainwashing. I decided to escape the hell of Peninsula Village.

I decided to make my break for it during morning twilight, right after the group used the tubes (PVC tubes buried in the ground near the cabin that are used as urinals). I let my group get ahead of me a few paces, then I ran into the woods behind me, and never looked back. I had to run through the girl’s side of camp, so I was cautious, and fearful that a female staff member would come outside looking for me any moment. Eventually, I made it to the edge of the property, and with the sound of SUV’s roaring in the background, I jumped across the property line, and into more brush, just as a vehicle went by. The staff didn’t see me, but I lost my glasses in the brush, and I couldn’t find them after a few minutes of searching. Therefore, I continued my hike with limited sight, and tried to keep the only road into the peninsula within view as I kept myself hidden in the woods. I followed the winding road for hours, became dehydrated from the exertion, and soaking wet from the morning dew. Eventually, I found a shed near a house where I was able to hide, re-hydrated from a nearby spigot, rest, and change my clothes. Another few hours later, I made it to the end of the road just as one of the nurses drove by, but a couple minutes after that, someone stopped to pick me up since I had my thumb up. The staff missed me by minutes. I hitched many rides over the next 3 days to get to a friend’s house a few states away. One man gave me $20 for food, and drove me 20 miles out of his way. Another man tried to get a room with me so I could take a bubble bath, drink a beer, have a warm bed to sleep in, and sit back so he could “play with it a while.” Needless to say, I stayed in the woods on the side of an off ramp that night. I barely got any sleep, and I nearly got hypothermia, but it was better than the alternative. Remember, during this entire trip, I’m hiking and hitching without my glasses, so it was very hard to tell if a cop was coming down the road or not -- I just had to chance it. The morning after my cold night, I managed to “thumb” a Virginia State Trooper as he drove by, but he never came back, and I got a ride with an eighteen-wheeler about ten minutes later. I spent about 66 hours on the road to get away from Peninsula Village. Once I got to my friend’s house I managed to get a job in food service, but soon quit in order to move out of state again to live with a different friend -- away from bad influences -- and finish high school.

Even though I attained a relatively high-level while at the Village, I don’t think I actually achieved any kind of gains in my emotional recovery, nor was I put on the right medication or dosage. My parents were conned into spending the $50,000 college trust fund, set up by my grandfather, to have me verbally abused, indirectly physically abused, brainwashed, emotionally tortured, and to have me witness, beyond reasonable cause, the direct physical abuse of other children. In the end, my “treatment” was all a farce. I was stripped of all my privileges for something I had no control over and no part in, and I was able to put everything I “learned” behind me and see the truth. I think the events surrounding my escape prove that I was merely brainwashed the entire time, and once I was shocked awake, nothing, or very little, had changed in me. To this day, I am haunted by my memories of the sights and sounds in the STU, and I remain forever begrudged by the tasks, rules, and punishments for which I was forced to comply. I even find myself quickly looking at the ground when my eyes meet a female’s from time to time, because of how taboo the Village made it. Just to affirm how much Peninsula Village affected me, it took me 10 years before I so much as googled it, and once I did, I found numerous “survivor” stories that truly struck a nerve in me, and I began to sob. The stories of others took me right back to the time I was in the Village, and I realized it wasn’t just a dream I had -- it all really happened, it’s happened to others, and it’s happening to others right now. I hope someone else can identify with my story as well, and know that they are not alone in this sort of thing. I am amazed that these “treatment” places exist, and that people allow them to continue to exist for so long without consequence. I hope, through the shared stories of other survivors, and the diligence and courage of advocates like Ms. Stattel, that places like Peninsula Village will soon face their due consequences.