#tw:substance abuse

[queenhollyberry90]

I really hope that Tyler gets the help he needs for his addiction. Like seeing parts of that video from OnlyFans you can tell something is off compared to the ones he'd made when he first joined. I just really hope his family and friends are reaching out after that podcast.

[your-dose-of-mercury]

Closed Starter

@mintyghoulette

(Taking place after the Aether/Mercury fight)

Mercury had been gone for the past couple of days. No one had seen or heard from him. It was as if he had vanished. Good riddance some of the clergy said, but others were worried. The dramatic, flamboyant, man in the mask had seemingly...disappeared. It didn’t take an idiot to realize that life in the church had lost a little bit of its color.

Mercury had shut down after the fight between him and Aether. It had ended with no clear winner or loser, but Mercury had felt that he had sorely lost. The memories that the Ghoul had forced back to the forefront of Mercury’s mind, caused him nothing but pain and sorrow. His prideful nature had forced him to lock himself away into his apartment. Not wanting a soul to see his broken, shredded spirit.

Although the substances of this planet had no real effect on him. Mercury is currently huddled into the corner of his bedroom, bottles of all sorts surrounding him, and even the occasional pill. His eyes are red and emotionless, as he stares off and the opposite wall. The only sound that can be heard is the honking of cars below.

[elisenylandti]

quinten-sawyer​:

Bump on the Head | Quinten & Elise

Quinten tilted his head when her brow furrowed at his statement before shaking her head. That was a new one. She didn’t want him to use magic. He understood as soon as she admitted to having a substance abuse past why she had made the choice that she did. “I am proud of you for admitting that. Certainly not an easy place to be sober.” He answered, searching through the drawers in the table behind him and pulling out a suture kit. “Yes, though, I don’t have to use my angelic healing-ness you, I can suture it.” He added, pulling up a tray table before standing. “I am going to go grab some lidocaine. Just for local numbing like they do when filling a cavity- and there is no potential for addiction at all.”

.

Elise didn’t understand why she felt comfortable telling Quinten about her past but she assumed that, as the doctor her, he was likely not going to invalidate her privacy and tell the whole island. She gulped and nodded, “This place has been a bit of a wake up call but I have made some friends and I’m real close to someone who keeps me on track”. She gave a softer smile when he agreed to the stitches and explained that the lidocaine wouldn’t cause any issues with her recovery, “Thank you. You won’t believe the amount of doctor’s back home who won’t give even pain relief to people like me. Not that I take pain relief, I would rather suffer then risk it”.

Bump on the Head | Quinten & Elise

@elisenylandti

Elise sat on her bed in the infirmary and checked the door. She knew Quinten would come, he was the doctor here after all. Her head was pounding and she had small amounts of blood still seeping from the cut but she was sure a bandage and a couple of stitches would do the trick. 

When she saw the man walk in, she gave a weak smile, “Apparently I’m a clutz”.

Quinten saved his note as a draft and then headed out to the nurses station, he let them know that he would be popping over to the infirmary and then turned on his heel and did just that.

Within a blink, he was entering the doorway of the infirmary, waving at the nurses there. He asked them to point them toward Elise and then headed over. He gave her a warm smile in return to hers and laughed softly as he headed to the bedside. "It happens to the best of us." He replied, pulling out some gloves before he could brush some hair out of the way. "How did this happen?"

[miraculouskatsukii]

fic title meme: your heartbeat (feel free to angst it up if you want i am HERE FOR IT ALL)

tw; substance abuse

“I’m not taking you to Bear, no way,” Yurio snapped, flicking Victor’s hand off his shoulder. “God knows what stupid plan you have to save katsudon, anyway, and I’m not dragging him into this.”

“Yurio-” Victor said, ignoring Yurio’s mumble of ‘it’s not yurio’. “I promise I won’t-won’t do anything stupid. I just need to talk to someone who knows people. Who have better options than the ones the legal doctors are handing me.” 

Yurio spinned around on his heel, eyes narrowing as he stared into Victor’s pleading ones. They had a silent match, the tension in the room rising quickly as they both fought a battle that couldn’t be spoken. 

Yurio looked away. He knew how much this meant to Victor. “I’ll… I’ll take you to Bear. But there’s no way I can tell you for sure that he’ll have other contacts. He’s a weed dealer. You need some black market doctor, you understand this right?”

Victor nodded, closing his eyes and thinking back to Yuuri, who was probably still fast asleep in a chemically-induced coma, in his room at the hospital. Doctors were expecting him to tell them whether to cut his life support or to pay up, and Victor had been paying so many bills, so many bills. He couldn’t do it like this anymore. 

“He’s the last hope I have,” Victor decided. Yurio nodded, reaching for his phone to type out a text to his dealer. Victor turned his face downwards, gripping the edges of his coat where Yurio couldn’t see. He knew what he had to do, knew he would save Yuuri, no matter the cost, but he still hated lying to his little brother. Yurio didn’t need to know what he was planning, or else he’d stop ever seeing Bear. 

Victor was determined to not even let the police stop him from saving Yuuri - and he damn well wasn’t going to let Yurio do it. 

Beep, beep, beep, Yuri’s heartbeat mocked him, ringing in his mind. Yuuri’s heart monitor was a constant reminder of the machinery that kept him alive, of the precarious situation of everything he was giving up to save his everything.

This is for you, he thought. For Yuuri. No matter the cost.

~~

a big serving of angst, coming your way. or, the fic where yuuri has a life threatening disease and is only barely surviving so victor tries to reach out to a blackmarket doctor who can perform the life saving procedure using advice from the only doctor he trusts. the catch? he’s embarked on this quest with yuuri to save him, and now he’s 100% certain he won’t be the one coming back alive - and doesn’t care, either.

[princedanielofironhaven-blog]

Quick Bio

Hey guys, I’m Mica and this is my baby Daniel

Here’s the basics

-He has always struggled dealing with his father and step-mother and trying to meet their expectations. He’s always been too feminine, not aggressive enough, never as good as his brother. Both his father and step mother tend to be abusive towards him (mostly verbally and emotionally). He had an incredibly strong bond with his mother who passed away when he was 6. Many say he is the spitting image of his mother, who was also seen as too delicate for Ironhaven standards. 

-Since his brother has always been the favorite, he’s often felt ignored by his father.

-He’s very charismatic and incredibly manipulative. He always knows what to say to get his way, his parents and his brother are the only people immune to his charm.

-He’s always been a bit on the flamboyant side, far too feminine to fit in with his family or his kingdom.

-He’s rebellious by nature. As a child he rebelled as a scream for his father’s attention, but as he grew older, his rebellious tendencies were cemented into his personality. He often sneaks out of the castle at night disguised as a commoner to go drink or visit a brothel.

-He’s an incredibly skilled archer. While his lack of discipline always interfere with the development of his military training, archery and military strategy were two fields he excelled in. His hand to hand combat skills have been shaped both by military training and the bar fights he’ll often get into when he sneaks out of the castle to drink.

-He has a bit of a substance abuse problem, he loves to drink and be the life of the party. He is a hedonist through and through, he believes life is all about engaging in pleasure. 

-He was previously in love with a servant who was assassinated by pirates early on during the journey to the new world. She was 6 months pregnant with his child when she was killed. 

-Neurotic ball of emotions. 

-Great dancer, fantastic taste in clothing

-Biggest whore you’ll ever meet omg this boy will sleep with literally everyoneeee, like literally also sooooo queer

-Biggest inspiration for this character: Paris Hilton circa 2003

[peterparkers7evilexes]

Winterspider - cult of Synanon au [pt1]

THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM AM I RIGHT 

This is another idea I had for another ship that got stalled, and anon you actually kickstarted my brain because it works so much better for Winterspider thank you 💕 I know it’s not quite fluffy at the end just yet, but there will be a pt 2!

2.3k words - this is based off of the real life cult of Synanon, look ‘em up if you’re into weird cult shit, it’s horrifying ---------

He got caught trying to steal canned soup. With his baseball cap down low and a faded gray hoodie on, Bucky had thought it was safe. He smuggled two cans of Campbell’s vegetable soup into his hoodie pockets and strolled out the door. The cops were waiting for him beyond the corner, and he never made it back to the foster home where Rebecca was waiting for him.

Juvie was hell. It was an improvement in some ways - he got three hot meals a day, had a lumpy but warm bed, and the detention center even had a little library with some mangled books. But being separated from Rebecca, that was the worst feeling he’d ever experienced in his entire life. Even worse than finding out their parents were dead was the guilt of knowing that he’d failed them, failed Rebecca, left her to fend for herself in a negligent foster home. He tossed and turned in his cot for the first few nights, plagued by thoughts of his little sister hating him, or worse, of her quiet resignation as yet another person failed to protect her like they’d promised.

He didn’t sleep until the third night, when his bunkmate Sam told him, “You ain’t helping her by killing yourself like this.” That and the complete exhaustion lulled Bucky into a dead slumber.

This, Bucky thought, was the worst feeling in the world.

Then a month into his incarceration, the detention center was audited and to no one’s surprise, it was deemed dangerously overcrowded. A lovely farm upstate had volunteered to take on a few juveniles, they said, and Bucky and Sam were ordered onto a school bus that shuttled 50 of them five hours north.

The detention center dropped them off in the middle of a farm, isolated for miles around, wiped their hands of those pesky delinquents, and drove back to the city. “This is a cult,” Sam realized as they were herded through the compound, and Bucky nodded in quiet agreement.

That night, the ‘community leader’, a lean man in his 40s with deceptively warm, brown eyes who introduced himself as Emrys, spread his arms and beamed at his sullen audience. “Your paths are laden with sin. I sense a great deal of violence in your pasts. But you’re home now. You’ll be expected to do your part for your new family, but in return, you’ll find meaning and purpose - a calling that you used to fill with drugs, violence and sex.” He smiled genially at them. “Things are already better for you, I promise.”

Things didn’t get better. The cult, in between preachings of cleansing and forgiveness, emphasized breaking down the ego to rebuild anew. This mostly consisted of ‘group therapy’ where community members were gathered into a room and berated for each of their flaws and ugly histories. Bucky watched as the cult members screamed and called each other drug addicts, whores, junkies, shitty mothers and useless sons. At the end of each session, Emrys swooped in, touching a gentle palm to their foreheads and ‘built them back up’, murmuring about how his beloved children had an opportunity to repent, a second chance at life here. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” he said each time, and those inoculated would weep, clutching at Emrys’ jacket sleeves and thank him for believing in them.

As they worked in the gardens, Bucky and Sam exchanged what they saw. “We gotta get out of here,” Sam hissed, his eyes flicking from side to side for the supervisors. “This is straight up Jonestown in the making, you know how that ends, don’t you?”

Bucky bent over, pretending to pull out weeds. “There’s nothing for miles around, where would we even go?”

Sam shrugged, the line of his shoulders tensing as the supervisor strolled closer to their section of the garden. “There’s some talk in my bunk,” he continued in a low voice. “Remember Winston, the ginger from juvie?” Bucky nodded slowly. “He’s talking to others, saying they’re gonna try and make a break for it later this week, while everyone’s at community prayer.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Bucky said immediately, glaring up at Sam from where he was hunched on the ground. “Doing it while everyone’s gathered in one place? Everyone’s gonna know right away. Plus Winston’s a fucking moron, you really think he’s got a good plan going?”

Huffing out a sigh, Sam kicked at Bucky’s boot. “You got a better plan?”

Bucky pursed his lips and shook his head. “Don’t do it, Sam,” he said quietly. “I’m serious.”

Stretching his arms over his head, Sam looked up at the dusky sky. “I won’t,” he said slowly. “But we can’t stay here forever, Buck. This place is evil, and you know it too.”

That Friday night, things got worse.

During community prayer, Bucky kept scanning the crowd for Winston and his crew, and of course he saw no sign of them. Standing at his podium at the front of the temple, Emrys spread his arms wide, his brown eyes glittering with some smug satisfaction as he preached about young lambs who needed to lose their way before they could be saved. As Emrys gazed over his followers, his dark, omniscient eyes landed briefly on Bucky, and a horrible chill shuddered down his spine.

But it wasn’t until after everyone went to bed that all hell broke loose.

Bucky was lying awake in his bunk, staring at the ceiling and thinking of Rebecca as usual when he heard distant shouting and the barking of dogs. He sat up in his bed, looking to the door of the cabin. “What’s that?” He asked quietly.

Two of his bunkmates were asleep, but another kid was awake as well. He shook his head at Bucky in confusion.

Stepping into his boots, Bucky got up and crept to the door. The yelling came closer, and among the voices he could hear higher voices - mostly teenagers’ screams. Dread sunk cold in his chest, and he looked back at his bunkmate. “I’m gonna see what’s going on.”

Outside, a scene of chaos was unfolding. The would-be runaways were being rounded up back to the compound, their clothes disheveled and muddied and, Bucky realized with a jolt of horror, gashed with blood. A pack of dogs herded them along, snarling and barking at the stragglers. Bucky recognized the community’s sentries hemming in the runaways on all sides, striking at them with bats and flashlights.

“Hey!” called a voice, and Bucky turned, seeing a scrawny brunet boy he vaguely recognized standing outside another cabin and watching. The boy’s call went unnoticed and a sentry struck one of the runaways across the forehead, sending him crumpling to the ground. “Stop it!” cried the scrawny boy, and he ran into the fray.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, breaking into a run as he watched the sentries start on him as well. “Get off, he’s injured!” he shouted, throwing an arm up to shield his face. The scrawny boy ducked under Bucky’s arm and grabbed the unconscious kid under his armpits, starting to drag him away. “Stop, you’re killing them,” he roared as a bat landed hard on his back. Furious, he turned to his attacker and punched him in the face. He didn’t get the chance to do anything else - he heard the heavy thunk of a bat before the pain registered, splitting agony down his skull. As Bucky’s vision swam and went fuzzy, all he could hear was the howling of dogs.

This was the worst feeling in the world.

Sharp, thudding pain pulsed behind Bucky’s eyeballs, and he briefly wished someone would knock him out again so he didn’t have to be awake anymore. “Fuck,” he muttered, and he heard a startled yelp to his right side.

“Oh thank god,” came Sam’s voice, and Bucky cracked his eyes open, wincing at the low lighting. To his surprise though, it wasn’t Sam leaning over him. At first, in his addled state, Bucky felt certain that he had died, and this was an angel peering down at him.

Large brown eyes blinked owlishly at Bucky. It was the scrawny boy from earlier, his soft brown hair haloed in a golden corona from the lamplight. “You’re not Sam,” Bucky said intelligently, and the boy laughed.

“You’re alive,” the boy said with relief, smiling at him. He had a pretty smile, a nice laugh, Bucky noted dimly.

Sam came into view then, crossing his arms and looking down at Bucky quite unimpressed. “You would’ve died if Peter hadn’t saved your ass,” he informed him.

Bucky gingerly touched his skull. “I wouldn’t have had to save your ass in the first place if you hadn’t run out there,” he complained, shooting a rueful look up at Peter.

Peter flushed pink. “They were killing him,” he said meekly.

His little frown made Bucky feel like he’d just kicked a puppy. “I’m just giving you shit,” he said gruffly, sitting up and looking around Sam’s and Peter’s cabin. “It was brave. But stupid.”

“You’re both brave and stupid,” Sam said firmly. “We barely dragged your lifeless body back in here, you know.”

“What happened?” Bucky asked, groaning as pain throbbed dully over his back and shoulders. “What happened to the other kids?”

Peter and Sam exchanged a look. “They got taken to isolation,” Peter said quietly. At Bucky’s questioning look, he grimaced. “You’re newer. You wouldn’t have heard of it. They don’t like people knowing about isolation until they’re… y’know.”

“Brainwashed,” Sam supplied helpfully.

“Yeah.” Peter lowered his eyes, picking up a damp washcloth and soaking it in a little basin. He lifted the rag and held it out, gently patting it across his forehead. Bucky blinked, seeing the rag come away pink with his blood. “They put addicts in there to force them clean. It’s awful.”

“Will they be okay?” Bucky asked, dread unfurling cold in his chest again.

Peter shrugged. “They’ll get out, but they won’t be the same. If you think what happens up here is brainwashing, the stuff that they do in isolation…” He shuddered, dipping the rag back into the basin. “You don’t get out until you’re without a doubt converted.”

“Fuck. We gotta get out of here,” Bucky said, his breath coming in short now. “I gotta get back to the city.”

“Oh, now you agree with me?” Sam crossed his arms over his chest, unsympathetic.

Bucky flipped him off and to his surprise, Peter’s face broke into a wide grin. He was adorable. “I got to thinking,” he started, looking carefully at the door as if to check for eavesdroppers, “Winston’s plan was stupid.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said emphatically, flinching when another spike of pain shot through his head.

“Lie back,” Peter huffed, and he pressed his small hands down on Bucky’s chest, flattening him against the lumpy cot. Bucky let himself be tucked into bed, and he watched with some amusement and disbelief as this skinny, angelic boy bustled about the cabin, unperturbed by his delinquent company as he dumped out the dirty basin water and fetched a clean pillowcase. “Just running will never work. They’ve got hunting dogs and cars--”

“They’ve got cars?” Sam hissed in outrage. “They’ve been makin’ us haul feed two miles in the blazing sun, talking about work ethic and purity of the mind--”

“So we need to get out with their approval,” Peter continued. “They have to willingly let us off campus, either as missionaries or running errands.”

“But that will only get us so far,” Bucky said, raising himself so Peter could tuck a fresh pillow under his head.

Peter’s face lit up in another smile. God, he was pretty. “We don’t have to make it all the way back to the city. We just need to make it out of their jurisdiction.”

“You’ve thought this all through,” Bucky realized. “Why wait until now? Why didn’t you do this before, before Winston and his crew? Security’s going to be way tighter now that there’s already been one escape attempt.”

Peter met his eyes, warm brown and wide with fear. “I was waiting for the right people,” he admitted. “I only get one chance at this. If I get caught, Dad’s gonna kill me. Literally kill me.”

“Dad?” Sam repeated, squinting at him.

With a jolt, Bucky realized where he recognized those dark brown eyes - deceitful and dominating where he’d seen them before, but heartfelt and kind in Peter. “Oh shit,” he breathed.

Peter nodded, his face determined. “Any objections to breaking out with the cult leader’s kid?”

Sam and Bucky looked at one another, nodding their silent agreement. “Well Emrys Junior,” Sam said, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Looks like you’re our best bet, so we don’t got much of a choice, do we?”

Peter wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Please, his name’s Rick. I wanna get out of this festering hellhole as bad as you two. You know he doesn’t let us watch movies? I just wanna watch King Kong.”

A laugh came unbidden from Bucky’s lips, startling him for a moment with how foreign it felt. He sat back up, ignoring Peter’s concerned face and grabbed the kid’s hand in his. “Peter, you get us out of here and I’ll take you to the movies every day,” he said seriously.

Flushing pink again, Peter looked down at their joined hands, then back up at Bucky. He nodded seriously, his eyes warm and earnest. “I will. We will,” he promised softly.

Things weren’t great. Bucky was still trapped in a cult hundreds of miles from his sister and he had a headache that felt like an axe was wedged between his ears, but this was hope.

Things were better.

[clxnia]

He sat in silence after that. He didn’t want to help her- he didn’t want to help anyone. Even if he did, he could barely move. His body felt the rigor Charlie’s had. He crawled back to being that selfish person he was all those years ago and he believed he had every right. If he needed to scream again, he probably would. He was sinking deeper and deeper but wasn’t reaching out for help.

He let himself suffocate under this all. In some ways, he felt like he deserved it. So, he did what he did best when face to face with a loss. It was the same thing he did when Richard died; he would push everyone away. If they didn’t want to move then he’d make them. He’d get angry, make it so that they didn’t want him around. He hadn’t used in decades, he promised Odessa he’d stop, but right now? He would give anything to get high. Not a small weed high, high-high. Wreck his life up until he couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

But thanks to Charlie hogging up his body, he didn’t move. Even in death he’d try and protect him but his soul was just not ready to fully leave. Not yet.

clxnia​:

If he had been normal, if he hadn’t been so angry and upset, he would’ve gone to make sure she was okay. To apologize instantly. But right now? He couldn’t. His body was sore to move. He wasn’t just feeling how Charlie was feeling- his body was acting like it was Charlie’s body. He was living what his brother felt through his own body. His own was stiff, cold, it hurt to move around too much. Partially the reason why he had been laying down for the past day. He didn’t feel Charlie get scared- he was scared, himself. He embodied both of them right now and would continue that until Charlie’s soul went to rest.

But even with experiencing all of this, he felt abandoned. That was his side of this all- fighting the other side. Two people shoved into one body was ripping him apart.

“Get out,” he mumbled, head in his arms as a headache formed, “just get the hell out.”

Any other time, she would have gotten up and left the second he started yelling. But even now, even as he was telling her to leave, she could only shrink further into herself. She could only make herself smaller. Elena hadn’t been in a place this bad in years. She hadn’t had a panic attack like this since she was seventeen years old. It was so incredibly debilitating that she didn’t feel like she could move.

It was all too hard in the moment. And the worst part was how she wished that she could get up and leave. She didn’t want to be in this space with him anymore. She wanted to go home, or rather, back to Maia. Her only current comfort was with her.

“If I could walk,” she mumbled, “I would have left a long time ago. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here.” But she only said that out of hurt.

[teawiththegods]

TW:SUBSTANCE ABUSE - ADDICTION

Sorry if this is a kinda sensitive topic, I understand it could trigger some people, feel free to ignore if you think it will <3

Do you know about which deities, if any, could help with overcoming addictions, like drugs and alcohol? .....asking for a friend.....

Depending on the individual, I would suggest either Dionysus or Apollo.

However arguments could be made in favor of other deities as well such as Aphrodite, Ares, Zeus, and Athena. It really just comes down to what exactly an individual needs and which energies they are comfortable around.

[mfmoonbear]

Rant (tw:substance abuse)

Nothing in the DA fandom erks me quite like people who adamantly attack and judge people for liking a character they don't agree with.

This post is especially directed twords people who bash cullen supporters because they disagree with his past life. I dont think anyone who does support cullen can say that they agree with the horrible things hes done in the past but when people say stuff like "you only like him because hes attractive" bugs me to no end. I don't know if any of you have been close to a drug addict in real life but from personal experience i can tell you most people who have loved an addict never had the luxury of hearing their partner tell them they only have eyes for them while getting attention from others and not a lot of people can say that their partner stopped using because you asked them to.

Cullen has owned up to his past and actively did his best to change his future dispite sobriety being a possible life sentance. Cullen was undoubtedly loyal to his love intrest. If you play as a mage cullen learns to trust you and love you dispite his past. Maybe thats something only people who have never experienced that can appreciate but keep that shit in the back of your mind before you attack someone who may or may not be using his character to heal trauma.

And even if thats not the reason you support cullen, even if you do just like him because hes attractive or you just like his romance etc NO ONE has the right to shit on you for that. If his character makes you happy no one has the right to invalidate that.

This applies to all characters as well. No one has any right to attack you for liking anyone in a game. It doesn't matter how flawed the character is who you choose to romance in a game and how you choose to play it is your right. If you dont like a character thats totally valid but whats not okay is to ruin an experience for another person because YOU feel a certian way.

[elizabeth-lilly-white]

Elizabeth grinned, shoving Miah lightly on his arm. “C’mon, cheer up duck.” She said in her best fake british accent ((which was rather good but overly posh)). “You’ll be well chuffed with the gifts I got ya.” She stuck out her tongue, dropping the accent. “I had to wait for guard change.” She offered in way of explanation. 

She crossed her legs, lighting a cigarette from the pack in her pocket and resting it between her chapped lips, removing another cigarette packet (containing a joint laced with ecstasy)) from her bra and two packages. ((Her contain coedine pills, xanax and a clump of heroin(Exchange that if you can think of a better thing)). She didn’t want to think about what she’d had to do to get the recent haul, and she shuddered as she thought she could still feel Greg’s hands on her. She dumped the content on Miah’s lap. “Is that a dead snake?” She laughed a little breathlessly. 

[georgefillburn]

Thoughts on Brad Cooper, 7/7/14

Brad Cooper lost control of his car the night after the Fourth of July, 2014. I do not know how old he was. I had not thought of him since I had left the college in December of 2011, but when Geoff told me that Brad had died, his face, his hands, his hair, his voice, all came to my mind. I could picture him perfectly, this boy I had not thought of in years.

Brad was a writer in my employ, and this was how I knew him best. Before that, he and I had been passing acquaintances. He had come to an occasional open mic night that I read poetry at, had read some of his work, had sang some of his songs. We were aware of each other and that was about it.

Great writers steal, is how it goes; everyone who puts words down tends to fall into a style that we are influenced by. My poetry rings of Kerouac and Hayes, Levis and Eliot. In the time that Brad was in my employ, he was Hunter S. Thompson given new youth and a notebook and a beat to write about.

We wasted him on writing about the student government, can you believe that. This kid was full of ambition and creativity and we sent him to listen to other college kids bicker about parliamentary procedure.

Brad rolled me a cigarette, once. In those days, when we all worked for a cause and threaded smoke through our fingers as a way of being together, Brad was the only one of us who rolled his own cigarettes. He and I and Geoff walked from the newspaper offices in the Annex to someone’s car, and on the way we smoked together. It was the most intimate moment I ever shared with Brad.

He asked Rand Paul once about his policies on legalizing marijuana, in an open forum in the oldest building on the campus. I have no idea if Brad was afraid of anything, really. I wish I knew what Brad’s fears were. I wish I could tell you what moved him to make as many things as he possibly could, to write and write.

Brad Cooper lost control of his car the night after the Fourth of July, 2014. He might have been high. He might have been drunk. He might have just made one mistake and skidded off into destiny. Maybe he was scared, and in his fear made a decision.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that he managed to leave behind a legacy. He actually made something. God knows what else he wanted to make, or what he was too scared of making, or what he made and never showed to anyone.

This is what scares me the most about Brad’s death. Not that he was someone my age who died; people my age die constantly. Not that he probably was a victim of substance abuse who made a poor decision, not that he was someone moderately close to me, who I personally knew. The fact that he made something, and was working to keep making things, and he still died. I don’t know what I have made that is worth anything at all, and I’m alive. It doesn’t make sense.

[pt-williams]