#trephining

[deadsparrows]

love etho and bdubs both yelling at each other to sleep with increasing desperation and annoyance, but neither sleep. meanwhile there are like 5 other people online they could tell to sleep, but they never do. i dont do analysis but something something codependence; something something you're the only one i trust; something something in a world of many you're the only one i see

[onlyhurtforaminute]

TREPHINING-NOCTURNAL HUNGER

[leona-florianova]

Hes so stoked about his new trephine!

YAY!

--The Far Side of the World 

[theinternetisaweboflies]

The International Museum of Surgical Science

[grugposts]

you think too hard you get evil spirit in cranium

[arcadiaberger]

The Most Disturbing Manga I've Read in Years  

#YouTube  #Video  #Tale Foundry  #Trephination  #Junji Ito  #Homunculus  #Hideo Yamamoto

https://youtu.be/yS6QDg9vm-0?si=LsrbOTkrjxM_Y06P

[madhuinstrument]

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Get a wide range of keratoplasty instruments like trephine punch, fixed depth punch, and many more. Madhu Instruments is among the renowned manufacturers of ophthalmic trephine & punch and provides a variety of ophthalmic products in India. For more details visit https://www.madhuinstruments.com/product-category/keratoplasty-cornea/ 

[astuteandkind]

Trephination for the Twenty-First Century is going on tour!

Dates across the UK have been confirmed, with ongoing talks to take the tour out to venues across Europe, and as the #TrephinationTour's ACE funding deadline approaches, your help is needed to show the Arts Council that mentally ill stories told by mentally ill people are viable investments. 

Why is Trephination going on tour?

The mission #TrephinationTour seeks to accomplish is opening conversations about mental health and phenonema freed of diagnostic labels in local communities. These conversations, sparked by the show, will be facilitated in care conversations following every staging and in workshops where Amanda will guide participants through expressing their own subjective experiences.

Why should I donate?

The projected budget for the #TrephinationTour to pay participating artists a living wage is around £20,000, and the more outside funding Arts Council England sees going into the tour, the more likely they are to invest in fully funding the show. Any amount is a show of faith in the mad liberation work of this tour, and truly makes a difference.

How will I be credited?

If you provide it, your name will be listed in the programmes handed out at performances and in the collection of "trephinations" written by audience-participants in workshops at participating venues. 

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[deadsparrows]

bdubs organised his chests on stream today and was almost done with the stones section when someone said, "what about calcite?" and he said, "i hate it!" and like. as someone who loves organising in minecraft, same. you will find the perfect place to put these grouped together blocks and it fits *perfectly* and then you realise "oh fuck i fucking forgot bricks" and suddenly you hate bricks. you'll never need bricks. you've never even used bricks (they were the main block in your previous base) who even cares about bricks

[onlyhurtforaminute]

[sweetie-peaches]

Crazy to me that qtubbo just has all these mythical gods and demons and ghosts just. Following him around. And he keeps them in his presence, the horrors™️ most specialist boy.

I have the headcanon iskall is just a ghost that follows around Tubbo and is just like “you’re my son🥰” and keeps talking about their apparent father sonship. And at this point Tubbo doesn’t even question it because he’s just there and he probably isn’t causing any problems

Then there’s Tommy, who Tubbo has looked into many many ways of freeing himself of. He’s even considered trephination

[onefellsloop]

18th century naval surgeon's trephination set, courtesy of the National Maritime Museum

[themakeupbrush]

Miss Universe Peru 2023 National Costume

The Golden Tumi The Tumi, a Quechua word meaning a knife, was one of the most used surgical ceremonial instruments to carry out the cranial trephinations used mainly by pre-Columbian coastal civilizations of the Andes. These operations often allowed the wounded to continue living. Today it is used as a symbol that representa the doctors of Perú specifically in the neurology department, it was also adopted by the peruvian government as a symbol for turism. They say that if you see a Tumi hanging on a wall it is a symbol of good luck.

For context, she recently had to undergo surgery for cerebral AVMs due to a rare disease

[madhuinstrument]

Best Ophthalmic Trephine & Punch Supplier | Madhu Instruments 

[another-chaotic-bisexual-vampire]

Trephine! I bet Bram Stoker couldn't resist opening Renfield's final scene with an event so rich in symbolism... Trephine AKA trepanning was a medieval practice thought to purge demons from sinners - but now (i.e. 1870s) a modern medical practice to save patients from cranial hemorrhages... So imagine Bram reveling in the contrasting connotations of modern vs medieval, of science vs superstition, of demons and blood and life and death, like...