#today its a year exactly since i was traumatised enough that i went into a full manic meltdown

[wwiitchcraft]

i am trying to love myself enough to recognise that im not a bad person or awful or unredeemable and despite all of that, i still am sitting here wishing i had the guts to die

[celestialholz]

Celestial Live-Reacts: STP 2.9, 'Hide and Seek'

... Oh go on, STP. Give me some more homosexuality, even though we can't possibly have Q here this week. There just hasn't been enough recently. 😂

Let's kill some fucking Borg!

This storm bodes well...

Oh dear god, SO many Borg... 😅

... The ex is here, awkward

Creepy tech vines from episode one, loooovely... great drip though 😍

... Are those future guns, Estonia? Where the bloody hell did you get those from 😆

Ah fuck, RIP you guys...

Titles! The higher the stakes get, the more this theme straight-up slaps. ❤ It's so goddamn good.

Today in Deeply Unsurprising News: no John in the credits. Valid - you assimilate Q, you destroy this franchise. Let's see how much indirect Q there is in this episode...

... There's no Q in this episode - which leaves us exactly one place to put that 'whisper' John mentioned in a pre-series interview as his favourite moment of the series. I always knew where it was going, but dear god, AGT 2.0 - I'm going to fucking die 😂😭

So many laser sights, dear christ

"I won't let you take this ship" - me @ Qcard 😆

"Do you know what it feels like to put my hands around my friend's throat and not be able to do a goddamn thing about it?" Fight on, Agnes 👏

"I had to know why - millions of planets and species, and still you needed more." "Perfection takes time, dear." "It was never enough, because you're just like me - lonely." ... Is this a bloody mirror, three minutes in? Because it sounds very Q...

"Time is on our side..." we can but HOPE that's a Qcard mirror 😆

Go on, Agnes with the stall!

Emergency Combat Hologram Elnor, dear god. Murder son: activate 😂

"They aren't people out there, they're BORG." Poor, traumatised Seven 😔 But she was the one that Picard ultimately listened to, and that ended with him dismissing Queen Agnes... let's see if she grows, too ❤

Sun flashback! Here we fucking go, sun's out folks 😂

"Can we play a game?" God, this man's always loved the thrill of a challenge, hasn't he...

"Curmudgeon." 😆

Maurice and Yvette are very sweet ❤

"Cover your eyes, count to five, and come find me." ... Is that you, season three?

Rios honey nooooo 😭

"... Now turn it off." LOOK AT HIM, SAVING HIS SPACE SON 😍

"He'll only get himself killed trying to help us" - seems familiar 😂😔

Oh fuck you Adam 😡

"The enemy of every experiment is the rogue variable - that is what you are to me." Look at that glossy, glossy dark!Q mirror - in all the wonders of the cosmos, Picard is his rogue variable, and he adores him for it ❤

Tunnels! Knew they'd be using these

Spiner-Stewart sparkle 😍

War wives 😍

Girls who shank together, stay together 😂

Past home was so very bright...

The fleur-du-lis, the 'flower of light'. Wow.

And speaking of which... "You're my light, Jean-Luc - the light that always draws me out. Guide your own way. Find me." ... Sorry, did they miss the part in editing where they stuck John de Lancie's voice over that, my god

House is bright, tunnels are dark...

So, Jean-Luc lived in a house made from war. Yeah, sounds about right 😔

Maurice really was a good man, bless him ❤

"Janeway went to bat for me"? And they said no? My god, the balls on these guys 😂

"You really would make a great captain. When we get out of this -" "We're not getting out of this." "... No, probably not." Captain Seven WHEN 👏

Murder son has a sword now

Theresa be like "uhm no"

"A miracle cure, surrounded by miracles - knowing, win or lose, we'll have to let them go." ... Oh, beautiful. ❤

Adam, get away from there or so help me

... I'm probably reaching, but these lanterns are a bit sun-esque...

"You've won... but I'm lost." Oh, how very evocative. 😔

"Did you know that space is so vast, so infinite, it takes billions of years for that tiny pinprick to make that... lonely journey from its star to our eyes? The brilliance you see in the night sky, Jean-Luc, that exquisite light... it's just an echo of a star that's long since faded. Like me."

...

...

... Well, apparently Yvette Picard was a Borg, because she's got me in her cross-sight and I have been executed. Direct hit, woman's an assassin. What the fuck is THIS

... Really, guys? After Q compared himself to a 'dying star' last week, and we know he's the fucking sun? ARE WE REALLY DOING THIS RIGHT NOW, are we really implying that Q had zero sense of purpose before Jean-Luc, jesus christ 😭😭😭

I mean, we knew he was hopeless now, but sweet heavens...

"When you remember me, Jean-Luc, promise, promise me, that you will ignore the coldness of a dying star, and remember instead her light." ... Yes okay great, I'm already dead, you can stop now...

"... And the infinite love she so very much had for you."

...

... I am ruined. What in god's name am I experiencing here 😭😭

... So, just to summarise: 'I had nothing of value, before you, for billions of years. And I'll have nothing again without you, so I'll sacrifice myself happily if you get to survive. Just make sure you remember me as more than this, this 'fading away'... and how much I loved you, always and forever.' We just HAD to put the 'infinite' in there for maximum angst didn't we...

... You know, there are many things in this world that are okay. This is comprehensively not one of those. This is stunningly awful, excuse me a moment...

*screams into the endless void for ten minutes* Goddammit. Bless his heart, give him his little FRENCHMAN. 😍😭

... There's no actual chance they're not doing canon Qcard after that. Absolutely zero. 😭 And I am going to be SO HAPPY when Q finally gets what he so richly deserves. ❤❤ He has been nothing but a wonderful and supportive and respectful entity for thirty-five bloody years, he deserves EVERYTHING.

... I'm wrecked, how am I supposed to watch the rest of this after THAT 😂

"My father took her and locked her in that room." The 'curmudgeon'. The stoic. The grumpy. He taught him not to feel, and all the feeling in the cosmos is behind that door... 😔

"Let me out, Jean-Luc. Only you can save me." Only you can save me, dear god. He's literally the only thing that can. Who allowed this episode, I didn't come here asking for death 😂

Keyhole. Opening credits. Q. Sun door. Braindead 😂

He opened it, and he's going to do it again, one last time...

Jean-Luc Picard with a gun! Finally, I'm straight for someone who isn't John de Lancie!

Samurai Elnor, my favoured son 😍

Reuniiiiited and it feels so gooooood...

Seven be like "yes this is very wholesome BUT WE'RE DYING" 😆

"I didn't keep you with me because I was afraid of you being by yourself - I kept you back because I was frightened for me, of being alone." - A key difference. Q allows Picard the freedom of choice and faces his fear alone, because he's unselfish. ❤😭

"His last thoughts of you were not of blame, but of love." Oh, I bet they will be. 😭😭

Freeing Raffi of some guilt... Picard, too?

His mother is wearing white

Phased the Borg into a wall 🤣

Oh FUCK, Seven 😭

"Set course for the Delta Quadrant." *distant sounds of maniacal coffee brewing*

... Oh dear god Agnes

"I'm no stranger to lost lab rats," you bastard you

Oh dear, dear Picard...

Good girl Agnes, beautifully done 😍

Sadness, loss, despair - basically, what happens when you hurt my friends." 😔

"Do the math - in this and any other universe, you always lose." Mmmm, the mirror. Picard always wins, whatever the timeline, and this time, they both lose. 😭

"You live with the death knell of your own across species across infinite timelines" - the Continuum????? 🤔

"You long for what we all long for - connection, longevity, discovery... only you offer it without choice." Could not be Q 🙃

Agnes, out here changing Borg philosophy. 😍 And this is why they had to join the Federation...

"To men like us, love and fear... same thing." Dark!Q again - love will stop Q being so afraid. 😔

"Not assimilation, but salvation." ... Oh, Jean-Luc. If only you'd heard this... if only you'd known. "Shall we see what else has been lost in the wake of your fear?" 😔

"Someone who used their Borg half to serve as the best of humanity" - STP out here really making the Borg vaguely wholesome, what the fuck 😂

"Let's build a universe of Sevens." ❤ I'm down.

"In another future, we might have become friends." What you did there, I see it. 😆 He really is dark!Q though, god - the killer vs. the saviour...

This whole thing about Rios 'going', and Theresa hating that and being very worried, after 2.8's Spanish madness...

"What if your future was here, and it was always supposed to be?" ❤

Rios Q kissing her him? *cue Celestial's mind boggling in the middle distance*

"Theresa, I -" Wow. Just wow.

Nice save, Rios... who mirrors Q... error 404, brainwaves not found on this reviewer 😂

Key... wouldn't be TO A WHITE DOOR, would it, Jean-Luc?

Is she assimilating Seven, or nanoprobing her?

Rios is fucking amazing, what a hero 😍

... And then he outsmarts Soong. Mirror, thy name is Cristobal 😆

"She'll live, but there's a cost in saving her" - Borg 2: Electric Boogaloo? 🤔

Seven is emotionally wrecked, bless her 😔

"I have to get to the ship. You're welcome, by the way." 😆

She hung herself. In white. God...

"Those moments, tragic endings, might rewind into joyful beginnings" - oh look, it's the plot of series three 😆

"Moments of loss, into those of gains" - white door's your destiny, petal. It'll be better, this time. So much better. ❤

"For all I've seen and done, this is the moment I've kept myself from remembering." Bless him. 😭

"This moment I'm so powerless to reverse... I'm told my mother was ill, but I only ever thought she was inspired." 😭

"... For her own safety, for mine as well - but she begged me to help her, told me how much she needed me, how much she needed my help... and this is the part I've spent my whole life trying not to remember. I thought I was saving her, so after he fell asleep... I let her out, you see. If only I had left that door closed, she might have become an old woman..." Good sweet gods above. 😔😔

... And this is why he's not paying attention to Q. This is why Q won't just tell him the solution, traumatise him further. Dear hell.

"I used to imagine seeing her older, offering me a cup of tea, and asking for a chat. This skeleton key migrates its way all over the house... I wish that day that it hadn't ended up in my hand."

... Oh fucking hell. And it will. You're going to be the one that kills him, because you didn't learn. You didn't listen, again. This is what's being lost in the wake of your fear, dear... 😭😭 Bless these hopeless idiots both, it's going to be wondrous when they find each other next year...

Also, 'I used to imagine seeing her older...' Silver Fox Q with the cup of earl grey in 2.5, I'm just saying 😍

"I loved her. Desperately." Mmm, did you now...

"No reason to run from ourselves, or away from each other. Love can be a curse, but always and completely, a gift." Thank you, Estonia. That's absolutely gorgeous, and has a lovely half-hug of trauma recovery to top it off. ❤ He'll remember that. He shatters the glass, he lets the sunlight in...

... And nothing remotely romantic about that. One good friend, supporting another good friend, where they could have shoved a desperately awkward kiss in there. Really appreciate you for not doing that, writers. You've learned from series one. ❤

He's slowly letting go, bless him ❤

"Well, that's impossible, because no matter how you come, Borg or human, you are the most extraordinary person I know." 😍 Most supportive wife ever.

That's GROWTH, Seven. 👏

Agnes @ Picard: "Save me this time, space dad"

"There must be two Renees," excuse me?

... Ship's gone. That's Q getting them home, then...

"She took my ship" 😆

Bless him and his concern for Seven ❤

"Well, we've lost a friend" - oh, you're going to lose a lot more than that shortly, darling...

"I refuse to accept an outcome that has not yet occurred." Fair enough, could not be me - Q is so gone. Oh my god, entity is toast. 😭

... So when I said I hoped Q was symbolically here, THIS IS NOT WHAT I FUCKING MEANT CBS 😂 Oh my god...

Celestial Rating: 10/10.

Doesn't miss a single emotional beat, tells an excellent and awful tale, and has comprehensively destroyed me in the process. God, there is not going to be enough wine in all of the damn Chateau for next week, is there... *advanced sobbing* 😭

[forestfanders]

Birds of a feather

A long list of injuries on the page, and a longer list of potential responses to their trauma. Working out how to treat the pair of tiny humanoid avians was going to be a challenge, but it is one Logan is determined to meet.

whump, hurt/comfort and dehumanisation <3 wingfic

tw: animal abuse, mention of burns and neglect

----

Virgil had been scared when they had put him on a metal table. 

The room outside the carrier box was so different from the clutter of the house where he had lived, where there were always piles of clothes to hide in and crisp packets to steal from. Here was sterile white, the smell of cleaning chemicals and other animals strong in his nose, and there were people, people above him with nowhere to hide. 

They had picked him up carefully, muttering reassurances as hands almost as big as his entire body enveloped him, pinning his wings and arms to his body in a secure grip. At least they didn’t touch his chest, still unbearably painful from the collection of burns blistering there.

There was a sharp pain in his leg and the world went fuzzy round the edges. He closed his eyes briefly to lessen the weight of sleep that was bearing down upon him, and next thing he knew he had woken up alone and in a cage.

He was clean.

He smelled like chemicals, which he hated, but for the first time in a long time, he was actually clean. Not only that, but someone had wrapped his burns in clean white bandages.

It was warm, and he was surprisingly comfortable, lying on his side, his wings carefully tucked behind him, a woven blanket soft against his cheek. He almost considered letting the fuzz in his head drag him back down into sleep.

No. He shook it off. He had to check out his surroundings, had to find… oh shit where was Roman? He hadn't seen his compatriot since they had both been bundled into their respective boxes in the house. He wanted him, wanted the plucky sod to watch his back, so they could creep and survive together as they had for so long. 

It took a couple of tries to roll to his feet, and his head pounded in protest. He stumbled sideways, only to fall over again against some cool ceramic. A bowl of water. He stuck his face in, the cool liquid helping to wash the cotton wool out of his head. He noted with some small alarm that his wings had been bound to his back, preventing any attempts at flight. It didn’t change much, as he hadn't had the energy to fly, but it concerned him why anyone would want to take his flight from him.

They want to punish you. Your owners got sick of you being bad and have sent you here. You will never see Roman again. They took Roman away.

Somewhere in the room, a cat started its whining mewls in response to the clack of footsteps in the hall outside. Then of the door swinging open and the sounds of two humans moving into the room. Virgil looked around wildly.

There was nowhere to hide.

Still, he scrambled into the corner furthest away from the cage door, and scrunched himself down. Maybe if they could see he was sorry they might leave him alone.

The humans approached the cage.

“Hey baby, you're awake quickly!” a human smiled gently at him, “ I betcha feeling pretty out of it though?”  

Virgil stared at him blankly.

“Try not to overload him Remy.” The other human had a little ball of reddish feathers and bandages tucked into his arms. Roman. Virgil felt sick.

Remy fiddled with the lock on the door, and the bars swung open. Virgil started to shake.

“I am just going to put your little friend in here with you. No need to be afraid.” the bespeckled human gently laid the other avian down on the blanket, before retreating and closing the door. The lock clicked, and Virgil felt some of the tightness in his chest lighten. Concern won over caution, and, watching the humans carefully, he tottered forwards to his companion, and clumsily patted his face. Roman did not even stir.

“We gave him some…” “sleepy juice,” Remy supplied, “...some sleepy juice to take away the pain for a while,” the human explained, “he won’t wake up for some time, but you are both safe here. You should get some rest too.” He watched Virgil, seemingly watching for a response. But Virgil couldn’t speak: his throat closed up at even the notion of making a single sound near humans. 

He folded his legs beneath himself, and started to smooth some of his sleeping friend’s feathers.

“He seems well enough, and shows no aggression towards the other avian,” the bespeckled human spoke softly to his colleague, before turning back to Virgil, “We will be back to check on you in a couple of hours. Rest. You are safe here.” 

And with that they left.

He was tired. Maybe he should rest. He had got permission to sleep here, so perhaps no one had to keep watch for now? His head pounded still. It was safe to rest his eyes right?

He was asleep again within minutes.

---

Name: PRINCEY AND ANXIETY

Species: HUMANOID AVIAN

Colour: RED/BROWN (Princey), BLACK/GREY (Anxiety)

Circumstance: CONFISCATED FROM OWNERS, OWNERS INCARCERATED

Notes: brought in by law enforcement after a property search lead to their owners arrest for possession of class A drugs. Both have been clearly neglected for some time (underweight and signs of physical abuse) and both display a high degree of fear towards humans, but are not aggressive.

According to their previous owners, they were illegally purchased approximately 5 years ago as pets for children, but their ‘bad behaviour’ made them undesirable as ‘toys.’ This is a common fate for their species. 

Princey is capable of speech, but ‘has not spoken in some time’ and Anxiety has not been heard to speak.

Injuries: CIGARETTE BURNS TO CHEST AND WINGS varying degrees of healing suggest injuries gained over time, MALNUTRITION, CUT REQUIRING STITCHES (Princey only) gained evading capture immediately prior to admittance at clinic. OBSERVE FURTHER FOR VITAMIN DEFICIENCY AND BEHAVIOURAL PROBLEMS.

Treatment plan:

Logan blinked in surprise as emotion choked in his throat. Upon identifying the feeling, he found it to be rage. 

Of course animals do not act like toys. Of course something as intelligent as avian humanoids would need substantial enrichment to maintain a healthy mental state.

Treatment plan. 

He could treat the physical wounds just fine. It was the psychological that would be the problem: those wounds could only heal with a substantial amount of love and patience. The rescue center, with its bustle of people and animals coming and going was certainly no place for sensitive and traumatised individuals to be making a recovery. But finding owners with enough experience to properly care for avian humanoids would be hard, and with the added issues of trauma… No. The future of this pair would be a cage in a quiet corner, slipping further away from the chance to socialise with anyone other than each other. 

There was a knock at the vet’s office door.

“Lunchtime Logan!...what’s up? You look upset.”

Logan cursed Patton's ability to read his emotions in a way that no one else was able to, even though it was exactly that that made him the perfect in his role as public outreach and animal therapy liaison.

“Patton. It is uncommon to see you on the vet’s side of the center. Do you not have a community care group in today?”

Patton smiled,

“They left at 12. Anyway you are avoiding my question!” he put his hands on his hips, “You do realise it is nearly 1?! "

"Right. I was just finishing up this report.” Logan kept his voice smooth. Patton looked over his shoulder.

“Princey and Anxiety? Who the hell calls their pet Anxiety?”

“I think it is less of a name and more of a… common moniker.” Logan covered the rest of the page with an arm, “You don’t want to read this Pat.”

“That bad huh?" 

Logan ran a hand through his hair. Patton had a big heart, one that sought to fill everyone who left their doors with a little bit more joy than they came in with, be they animal or human.

“I can sit with them till you're done if you want someone to socialise them.”

“I don’t think they would appreciate that.” Logan's voice was soft, and Patton cast his eyes downwards, “and besides, they are injured and need to rest.”

“Alright. You finish your report, then we'll go get lunch.” Patton gave him a little smile, and sat in the spare chair, fishing his phone out of his pocket. Logan wrote up the basics of a physical care plan, stalling on the long term therapeutic suggestions. After a few minutes Patton spoke up again.

“It says here that avian humanoids are generally as intelligent as a 5-7 year old child.”

“Depends what skill you are measuring. But yes, they have complex verbal language abilities, social dynamics, and reasonably good problem solving skills. And as a result, they need quite substantial enrichment.”

Patton looked at him incredulously.

“Why are they even sold as pets if their needs are so complex?”

Logan pursed his lips in disapproval.

“They are status symbols, and can be well trained. Advocates of their continued sale believe that the licensing laws around them prevent their abuse. Whether or not that is the case, these individuals were illegally imported, and have no prior papertrail.” Logan fiddled with his watch strap. “As with most neglected social animals, these two are likely to have significant behavioural problems that will deter potential adopters, preventing them from ever truly meeting their social needs…I am...truly unsure as to what the best way forward is for their long term emotional care.”

Patton laid a gentle hand on the desk, not quite touching Logan.

“That sounds really difficult to deal with. Maybe you can tell me more about them over lunch, and we can work something out. I do work in therapy after all.”  he gave a smile, “Between the two of us, I am sure we can give them a future.” 

---

please leave comments!  I crave validation XD I am planning a couple more chapters of this

masterlist  next chapter

[wanderlustspider]

I’ve always loved to draw. There was a point in my life that I would draw 3-5 pictures in a day, each one a little different and holding their own story in my head. I’d given myself series projects - trying to draw the alchemy ingredients of Skyrim in my own realism, turning Pokemon into anime girls, things like that - and they’ve all flopped after I completed the first one. Actually, I don’t think I ever completed the first one in my Skyrim series. I did a re-attempt on the Pokemon as anime girls, and once again got halted after the first one. I did that too myself though, because I felt that I had ruined it in the final stretch with inking it and was afraid that I would do it again somehow.

I see them in my head, go to put them on paper, and my brain just... ceases its communication with my hand, and I can’t get it down on paper. If I just draw something because I want to in the moment, it works out. Except for recently, when I tried to draw a water/coral dragon for merMay. Even now, I have so many things that I want to draw - but I can’t seem to start any of them, because my brain has started faltering on me and telling me that I’ll just ruin it again. I have the passion for it, but the motivation has gotten stuck somewhere. I’m trying really hard to not let my discouragement get the better of me, but I also have another passion conflicting with my life-long one.

I fell in love with writing stories in high school. Short stories, novellas, I even started writing a book of my own back then. Granted it was about angels and demons, and the house I grew up in just didn’t approve of demons in any light. I still remember the day my step-mother made me collect all of my journals both art and writing alike and tear each one in half before throwing it away in a random college campus’ trash bin. It traumatised me very deeply, and I stopped writing completely for a very long time. I stopped drawing for a while too, but not for as long - though the amount of drawings I completed was a much lesser amount than it had ever been. It’s actually never been as numerous as it was, or as consistent.

I wanted to get back into writing, though, and I was able to find the outlet when I got away from home in the form of roleplaying online. Eventually I found a writing partner that I was able to bounce ideas off of, and by accident we started essentially writing a book together. We got pretty damned far, too - one book turned into almost three! Unfortunately there were circumstances that - after four years of writing together - we stopped talking to each other completely. Our story has never left my mind, though. The characters have been there whispering in the back of my brain that they want to be written down, published, and shown off as a work of pride and accomplishment. 

It’s more than I’ve ever felt from drawing. Sure, I wanted to be a tattoo artist at one point as a way to show off my skills and help other people express themselves. But that wasn’t my art talking to me. That was just me wanting to do something creative as a career. It’s died down in recent years, probably due to the fact that it’s really hard to get an apprenticeship and the passion I had wasn’t the right kind to be constantly fighting to be acknowledged for my skill. I just wanted to draw, and if people wanted my art I would give it to them.

But writing a book... It’s gotten louder over time, not quieter. So finally, after nearly five years of not writing at all I went back to my old book notes, saved them to my computer, and wrote a prologue and a chapter in a little over two days! Granted there were a few days between writing the prologue and the chapter, but I did it. I did it fast. It flowed, and the joy and accomplishment I felt at each page end gave me motivation to keep going.

I hit a block today, though. Not a writer’s block, more of a mental one. I started thinking to myself “what’s the point?” and “am I actually going to finish something for once?” I know it’s something that I’ve brought upon myself somehow, and I hate it because I don’t like starting a project and not finishing it. I tend to beat myself up about it pretty hard whenever that happens, which it has happened just about every time I started something big since that one traumatic experience when I was in high school. But I WANT to do this. I want to do this more than I want to draw, and I want to draw pretty fucking bad. 

I know that no amount of art whether drawn, painted, written, what have you, is ever a waste of time or energy. There’s just that little voice that’s just loud enough for me to hear telling me “it’s just going to get ruined again,” or “it’s just going to get taken away again.” Regardless of how illogical that voice is, it still makes me freeze up. And I hate that, too.

This is around the time that I hear Mama and the Wolf telling me “Use it.” I’m just not entirely sure of exactly how I can use a freeze-up as movement forward. *sigh* 

[officergrimes-daddydixon]

I owe you one - Daryl x Reader

Request: Daryl and the reader are out on a run/hunt and they help Daryl out of a dangerous situation. He says he owes them one and later the reader asks him to hold her for a while.

Note: I hope I wrote this how you wanted it!! ENJOY MY LOVELIES!

Warning: mentions of sibling death, angst, fluffy hug at the end -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had only been a week since you watched your brother die by Negan’s hand, or his bat. The sight made you sick, and you hadn’t been yourself ever since. You weren’t the only one who lost someone you loved. Everyone was traumatised by what happened that night, but you couldn’t let it get in the way of your survival. Your brother would have wanted you to live on, not be cooped up in your room feeling sorry for yourself. You allowed yourself two days of mourning, and after that you put your guard back up, not allowing anyone to see how hurt you still were.

But one person was able to see over your wall, and that was Daryl. He was all too familiar with keeping his guard up, so he knew what it looked like when someone else did it. He covered his emotions with anger and distance, whereas you covered it with humour and jokes. He knew that behind your laugh was actually a broken frown, and he wanted to do everything he could to help you, but when he would mention anything about that night you would brush it off and say you were over it.                                                             ****

Today was your first day out on a run for a week. Rick had told you to lay low, get some rest and come to terms with what happened before you went back out. You did exactly that and now you were ready to get out there and start finding supplies that you all desperately needed.

“(Y/n)!”

You heard your name being called as soon as you stepped out of your house.

“You’re with me today” You looked and saw Daryl calling you over from a truck.

“What are you talking about? You can’t leave Alexandria. What if Negans men find you?” You asked, worry in your voice at the thought of him dying as well.

“We aint going far, plus everyone’s already out on a run. I don’t want ya going by yourself” He replied, jumping into the driver’s seat as you climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“Does Rick know?”

“He cleared it. Said to be back in just over an hour or else he’s sendin’ out a search party”

Daryl started up the engine and drove out of Alexandria.

“We don’t have enough people for a search party” You continued the conversation.

“Good thing he won’t need one then” he replied, and at that the conversation was over.

Your thoughts quickly turned to your dead brother as you watched the passing trees. Everything you looked at seemed to remind you of him, and it was driving you crazy. You didn’t want to think about the fact that he wasn’t here anymore, but your mind kept taunting you by reminding you of him.

“We’re here”

The truck came to a sudden halt and you jolted in your seat, the sudden movement shocking you. You looked around and furrowed your eyebrows.

“The woods?” you asked, stepping out of the truck and pulling out your pistol from your pocket.

“There’s gotta be some rabbits or somethin’ that are still alive out here”

You internally sighed and braced yourself. You couldn’t track animals to save your life, so you knew you were in for a long hour. Daryl entered the tree line, his gun raised and his footsteps slow as to not frighten off any animals. You doubted there would be anything to catch, and if there was then it would be a miracle.                                                                   ****

Half an hour had passed and you were starting to trail a bit behind Daryl. He often urged you to keep behind him, but you couldn’t help but slow down your pace as you daydreamed. The whole silence and peacefulness of the forest made you forget about literally everything, and you found yourself thinking about once upon a time before the world became a mess. As quickly as the world came crashing down, so did your thoughts. A gunshot went off and you came back to reality. You realised how far behind you had been as you couldn’t see Daryl anywhere in sight. Your heart immediately sped up, thinking of the worst.

“Daryl?” You called out. You knew it was a dumb move, making yourself known while in the middle of danger, but you weren’t thinking straight.

“Over here sweetie!”

An unfamiliar voice called out to you and you felt your stomach sink. Daryl was already dead. You knew it. The saviors had caught him while you were daydreaming and now you were next. You quickly dropped behind a tree, holding your gun to your chest as you listened out for any movements. There was no way you were going to give yourself up so easily. You turned your head around the tree but immediately pulled it back when you saw a figure only a few metres away. A bullet collided with the tree you were hiding behind and you watched in almost slow motion as the bark splintered.

“Come on out” The voice spoke.

You noticed Daryl by the guys feet when you looked, a gun pointed at his head. He was still alive and you were going to get you both out of this. You slowly turned to the other side of the tree and let out an explosion of bullets. A few went off from the other man’s gun but you soon heard a gargled cry before silence.

You risked a look around the tree and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you saw Daryl getting up from the ground. The man was sprawled out on the floor, blood seeping from the bullet holes in his stomach and chest. As you approached, the man slowly looked at you and was about to say something when Daryl stabbed a knife through his head. He wiped the blood on his already dirty pants before looking at you.

“Thanks (Y/n). I owe you one” He picked up his own gun from the floor before searching the man’s pockets for anything useful.

“We should go” you said, starting to turn and head back to the truck.

Daryl caught up to you after a few minutes and you both headed back to the truck in silence.                                                               *****

You shut the truck door as you quickly walked to your house. The last thing you wanted to do was get into a conversation with anyone, so you kept your head low and avoided all eye contact. You wanted to get away from Daryl too. You didn’t want him to see you cry, which was exactly what you were going to do as soon as you were behind closed doors. What happened today triggered unwanted memories from that night, it made you think about all the deaths you had experienced over the years, especially your brothers one. You made it inside the house without seeing anyone, and just when you thought you were alone you heard a knock at the door.

You looked at it and considered not answering, but whoever was there must have seen you come in only moment ago, so you knew you wouldn’t get away with leaving it unanswered. You walked over to the door and opened it.

“(Y/n). Are you okay?”

It was Daryl. You were surprised to see him here so seen considering you just left him at the truck.

“Hey. I’m good, why?” you asked, stepping inside and allowing Daryl to follow you through to the living room.

“You just walked off without saying a word. Thought you were upset with me” he said, leaning against the wall as you sat on the sofa.

“It’s just been an eventful day. Thought I’d come back here and take a nap” you smiled, hiding your true feelings.

Daryl could see what you were doing, but he decided not to push on the matter. He didn’t want to make you sad or irritated. He nodded his head and turned to leave but something inside you stopped him.

“Wait” you blurted out, quickly standing from the sofa.

He turned and looked at you with a poker face.

“Back in the forest, you said you owed me” you started.

“Yeah?”

“Well, do you think you could just stay with me and -hold me?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as soon as the words left your mouth. You were almost certain that Daryl would say no due to his isolated and cold behaviour, but to your surprise he actually walked over to you took you into his arms. You had to admit, it was awkward at first. His body was stiff against yours, as if this was the first time he had ever hugged anyone. But as soon as you wrapped your arms around his back he loosened up. His grip got tighter and you nuzzled your head in his chest, taking in his body heat and enjoying his touch. It made you realise how long you had gone without human contact. You had subconsciously let the death of you brother take over your mind, you had pushed everyone away and punished yourself because you felt like it was your fault.

As if reading your mind, Daryl spoke up. “There was nothing you could’ve done to save him. No one could have done anything”

His hand found its way to the back of your head and he gently stroked you. What he said was true and you knew it. You couldn’t live behind the death of your brother and Daryl helped you realise that. You slowly broke away from the hug and wiped away a few tears that had fallen during the embrace.

“Thank you, Daryl. I really needed that” you said, looking up at him.

“Anytime” he replied, both of your voices just barely above a whisper. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me, okay?”

You nodded your head and gave him one last hug before he turned and headed home. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[indigogoinggone-blog]

Mennonite and Mexico

Checking my prejudice

It had been three days since I stuck out my thumb and tied my bike to the backseat of this Mexican man’s car. We are in hot pursuit of the greatest taco in the Yucatan as we hurtle ever closer to the Belizean border that will signify our parting of ways. Presently we are in the armpit of some great God. It smells pugnant, moist and like heavy immovable air - though this is not a necessarily a bad smell. The God showers regularly and eats well it would seem, which figures given its divine status and probable access to green smoothies, but smell aside it is the stifling heat that is the dominating sensation inside the vehicle. I turn to my new friend. “Mucho calor, putaaaaaa.” He wears a necklace of sweat beads as he declines to verbally answer, instead making a rapid right turn.

He tells me that he remembers seeing a beach marked here on the map, and sure enough, a parking space emerges in our line of vision, flanked by vendors of every description. Particularly pleasing to me was the peddling of mango in all its forms. Do you want it dried? Fresh and sliced? Diced? Whole? With chilli? Frozen? On a kebab? As a juice? Ohhhh sweet fruit, oh sweet, sweet package of sugar and joy, my mouth salivates and hands exchange pesos for you eagerly. There is a childish and excitable fevor gripping both my partner and I. We have mango juices dripping perversely from chin to chest, eyes alight with a sugar rush, and tyranny of the humidity forgotten. Car parked, we join the throng that is descending upon the gracious shores of the Carribean.

And here is when something happens that has been stuck in the machinery of my reflection, trying to churn out an understanding for the last two weeks. It begins with a young boy holding up a bag of apples to me. “Quiero?” He asks. In immediate essence he isn’t profoundly different from the dozens of other vendors littering the path to the beach. I decline his offer for the apples, and begin to walk ahead when something - I don’t exactly know what - forces me to stare at him a little longer. It’s his eyes that I notice first. Trauma. A hand squeezes my maternal heart and instinct, gently at first and then with a paralysing gusto. Having seen traumatised children before, and having been close to trauma and it’s side effects for many of my recent years, a strange sense for its manifestations has developed. I can’t look away. His little eyes are flickering from me to my partner to the ground, with that tragic vagueness indicative of a childhood robbed. His tiny frame flinches as I reach above his head for my hat, as if he were reacting to a pulled punch. I’m so consumed by the mother within me that I hadn’t noticed the more obvious oddities to his appearance.

His eyes are blue, skin freckled and pale and tiny frame sporting dusty look overalls. Cowboy hat and turned up shoes, he looks as though he been pulled from the set of a bad B grade movie, probably starring Reagan in his hey day. But he was speaking Spanish? My friend catches my eye in shared confusion. We watch as the little boy picks his way through the crowds, stopping to tempt others with his apples. None of the locals seem put off by his strange appearance and I conclude it must be me who is the strange one then. I watch the kid find his way back to a group of similarly dressed kin. A whole group of what looks like conservative Amish meets Mormon meets traditional farmers named McDonald. Six people in total, peddling apples and carrots and bracelets like the Mayan and a Mexican vendors around them, and all dressed in either overalls, cowboy hat and turned up shoes (male) or thick, oppressive, dirt length dresses with a bonnet and ribboned hat (female). All pale, blue eyed, freckled and tall amongst a population of dark eyed and sun tanned small peoples.

The mother in me recoils at the sight of who appears to be the patriarch. He has cruel lips and eyes almost totally enveloped by his eyebrows. I don’t understand the literal translations of his words, but his tone is terrifying. In what I can only describe as an act of self preservation, I grasp the hand of my friend and walk only a pace away from running all the way to the beach. I ask him if he knows why there would be gringos in farm clothes like that, but he’s from the Baja. He’s got no idea. I can’t help think how fucking weird they seem. These predjudiced thoughts begin to take over, fuelled by my instinct that something wasn’t right. Or is it vice versa? Did I fill their narrative with violence simply because they were different and i didn’t understand their presence?

On my ride south to the border, I see a group dressed so similarly that there’s no mistake they share some common set of beliefs. This time the group is on horseback, drawing carts of furniture. While they certainly look a little different to the other people here, I don’t have a sick and alarming feeling in my stomach when I look at them.

Again, crossing the border into Guatemala I see one more family dressed in these overalls and cowboy hats that cover their blue eyes. Who are they? Where did they come from? My sense of fear has entirely disappeared and is replaced by blatant curiosity. Some deep seeded biological part of me recognises them as people who look similar to me in base appearance, and wants to connect with them. Understand why those who look like me dress differently. What is their story?

And in some ironic symbolism of the modern age, I am walking through Flores - after deciding that I will live here for a month or two - and outside the alter of Burger King I see a tribe of Mayan vendors and a tribe of these same pale farmer-esque peoples. Finally I’m in a position to quench my curiousity. I approach them with my hands behind my back in what I hope is the most non threatening and approachable body language possible. In broken Spanish I ask where they are from and what their names are. Their accents are much thicker than other Guatemalans and I struggle to associate meaning with a lot of what they are saying. I pick up on Mennonite, El Ramate, family, God and a few other key words. Eventually I smile a little awkwardly and bid them farewell. In an act of human connection, one of the ladies emerges from behind who appears to be her husband and breaks off half of her Burger and extends it to me. I eat fast food for the first time in five years and ponder the absolute absurdity that is this situation. Traditionally dressed Mayans and who I now understand to be Mennonites eat a product of the American consumerist culture that is both intentionally and unintentionally swallowing their cultures alive. And they share this product with me, who is also somewhat a product of consumerist culture. Strange strange strange. Gringo meets Mayans in colourful skirts meets other white skinned farmers who nonetheless speak a dialect the gringo does not understand.

Still these moments mulled over in my mind. I went searching for Mennonites on the inter webs and found their long history in the Americas. They were a new sight to me and my friend from the Baja because they migrated down the Carribean coast, settling in enclaves that still loosely exist today. From my understanding - and perhaps you could enlighten me if you know anything about them - they came from Europe during the settling of the Americas like many persecuted réglions groups. They have a story similar to many minority groups with themes of isolationism, cultural celebration, technological rejections and persecution. I experienced a major twinge of guilt upon recognising my own prejudices and perceptions. My composite image of an average person right now was so far removed from their image that immediately upon seeing them in Mexico for the first time, i immediately passed judgement. I felt threatened and perceived them as hostile, when perhaps they were not. However, I didn’t perceive future groups of their people as hostile, only curiosities. I think perhaps there is an instinctual understanding of who constitutes a threat, and who appears traumatised. But I’m still unsure. I’m unsure if my construction of them as Other influenced the way I saw their dynamics. I am aware that I am human and that I have these biases and tendencies to misconstrue the Other. In the same breath, I felt the traumitised state of a child and minorities have their share of abuse and abusers as any group of people do.

I guess my point of this whole rant is my awakening to how pervasive our perceptions of Other are in shaping our understanding of people. All it took was one conversation to break down the barrier between them and I; suddenly they were not an oddity but a part of the environment and landscape as anyone else. I no longer had residual fear or suspicion when I saw a group of them, simply because I spoke to them and took an interest in their history of movement. However my initial contact was influenced by the look of trauma I am uncomfortably familiar with. People are never entirely good or bad; there is no way to paint one group with one brush stroke; there is only fluidity, life, suffering and joy all in one. I think also my expectation that farm clothes and horse and cart riding entails cult like behaviour and therefore abuse needed to be challenged. Cults certainly entail a predisposition to abuse, but farm clothes, a rejection of technology in the favour of God and a tight knit cultural community do no entail a cult. And here ends my untangling of such a small series of encounters.

You know me, I can’t let the little things go. I have to understand, have to connect the dots. So I felt like sharing that one instance of dot collecting and drift into deep thought, though I have countless, day in and day out. It’s a powerful thing to travel. To move and migrate. To live in various places across Earth. Oh yes I forgot to mention, I live in Flores Guatemala now. Work at a bar and have wonderful neighbours. I will be here about a month before I hitch hike again. In any case, having homes, friends, experiences and a sense of movement has eroded any lingering belief in the story of the nation. We are people on a planet. Diverse peoples and often strange environments, but still just people on a planet. More similar than we are different. Mmmmm I have hooked into my meditative practises more regularly recently, and the sense of clarity is much appreciated.