#tw: anxiety and paranoia

[brain-bumbler]

Parentified Dion Yes-

I have this Mental Image of Post Game Dion going up to one of Agent Nein And is Basically like "I don't trust you but I think that Frazie has Adhd and Raz has Autism and you're the only person qualified to test for that that we have access to."

And Neins just like ...He should *not* be doing this.

Nein, seeing another traumatized boy in need of help who may start to grow on him too much: I don't get paid enough for this Dion: well I'm not getting paid AT ALL so suck it up Parentified Dion is really good (probably canon) it's this level of angst many an oldest child can relate to. A lost childhood, having to grow up too fast, resenting the responsibility he feels for his siblings, but the absolute love and care that drives him to see that they get the help and support they need. I like this compared to my "Paved with Good Intentions" AU where Dion secretly helps Raz run away- well, more like he notices but doesn't snitch. Dion always going that extra step because he has a good heart and wants his little sibs to do well, but grumbling about it all the while.

I had this headcanon that with his extreme anxiety and awareness of how shitty their circumstances are, because his parents share too much (because he's like a mini grown up! He can handle it) since he has no outlet to cope with the feelings, Dion records all the family's injuries/doctor visits/sicknesses as best he can and keeps it all stored away. Some of it is written on fast food receipts and wrapping paper but it's there! Quiets the voice in his head screaming "WHAT IF SOMEONE NEEDS A DOCTOR BUT NO ONE KNOWS WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM SO THEY GET SICK AND DIE BECAUSE NOBODY KNEW THEIR MEDICAL HISTORY!!!"

Also, he's totally not also got ADHD and/or Autistic himself. And also not psychic!!! So no tests for him needed no-oh sir! No he's not scared uncomfortable ha h a ha ha! He's there talking to Agent Nein, whose spider sense is tingling, and he's like oh, well just come into my office and we'll talk about getting that all set up, would you like a biscuit? Some tea?

I want to see this conversation play out. Dion jumpy on the edge of his seat, does not trust this guy at all, but determined to advocate for his siblings because his mom may not think they have anything and dad is not in a position to do this work right now. I think Sasha would be impressed by his determination! Do his best to put Dion at ease, and maybe start a conversation. If he handled it well enough- would Dion agree to come back another time? Who knows....

[let-roman-bite-someone]

this is something i’ve been ruminating on ever since WTIT came out.

i’ve been thinking about this connection for a while. Virgil’s anxiety can lead to cognitive distortions if taken too far (a.k.a if Thomas beats himself up over something) and these cognitive distortions are Remus’s creations. this is interesting, it’s interesting to see how Virgil’s and Remus’s roles overlap and almost compliment each other, but in an unhealthy way.

but this just makes it all the more confusing as to why Virgil wasn’t present in WTIT, and why he seemed so unbothered in the endcard. i once aired this confusion on here and most people said that it was like Logan in Moving On, Virgil was still present within Thomas, he just didn’t take a physical form.

this doesn’t make sense to me because when Logan sunk out, Thomas had trouble thinking logically at first. he gets around to it eventually, but it’s clear that while Logan wasn’t completely gone, his disappearance made a significant impact on the group. Virgil was having a panic attack, Roman was urging Thomas to act on impulse, Patton was confused and lost.

it’s clear this is not the case in WTIT. in an episode that is so heavily centered around anxiety and - dare i say - paranoia, it’s baffling that Virgil was almost completely unaffected. especially since, again, he seemed fine in the end card. he was a little bitter towards Patton, but that’s all.

i’m just curious as to whether there was a canonical reason for this. for why Virgil wasn’t involved in an episode where Thomas was constantly panicking over dangers that might take place.

especially since,

1. Thomas is worried about something Virgil has mentioned before, being alone/losing his loved ones.

2. Thomas did something that Virgil has canonically been shown to care about in the past - not following up on his plans to be productive.

3. fake!Nico says WORD FOR WORD what Virgil suggested during the debate - AND both scenarios were about a potential love interest not replying to Thomas’s text.

of course, Virgil has greatly improved since the negative thinking episode, but he is still anxiety. and Thomas is still an anxious person. and Thomas was visibly freaking out throughout WTIT so it’s really really unlikely that Virgil was just in the backseat for that episode.

Logan temporarily “leaving” (but still being present) in Moving On makes sense because it was an emotional episode, and Thomas needed to sort things out with his emotional sides a.k.a Patton, Roman and Virgil (mainly Patton). there was logic involved but it wasn’t a logic-centric episode.

WTIT was 100% an anxiety-centric episode.

i doubt that this was accidental. there are so many direct parallels and callbacks, it had to be intentional. there’s no way Thomas and crew just forgot that Virgil played a crucial role in creating cognitive distortions. i think there’s something deeper here, there must be a reason why Virgil wasn’t present for this episode and how he seemed so nonchalant when he did appear. there’s absolutely no way Virgil was just “present within Thomas” and didn’t feel the need to show up in person.

[rib-rabbitmask]

"Don't look to the walls, and going to be fine."

( Click 4 better quality! )

Vent art. 2024

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[antiendovents]

breaking the queue I already set up to vent. Probably gonna put it under the cut because GOD DAMN I am angry. Dont worry, the queue will be back to normal soon ((yes I queue posts, don't question me, I will cry))

Uh, also I think I'll add a tag for my own vents, so you can block them if you wanna (#personal vent / #personal vents <- two because I'll probably forget to add or get rid of the "s")

I HATE ENDOS. I am like barely holding myself together, I am sick and tired of trying to find xenogenders, labels, ect, for me and my headmates only for them to be made by endos. Even when I see pro endos with like "oh, DNI if anti endo, but you can still use my terms so don't reclaim them" it makes me pissed off because I DONT WANT to use an pro endos term. I shouldn't have to. Am I going to reclaim it? I DONT KNOW. I want to but I have no motivation, only fear and anger. I am sick of my disorder being treated like a game. I have literally lost years of my life. Years, months that I can't remember. All of it gone. I question whats a trauma response and what's not constantly, I don't know if the trauma I remember is all that happened or if there's more I don't know about. Yet endos can just sit here with their little roleplaying accounts, pretending to have the disorder that makes my life a living hell. I can't make friends, I'm so fucking scared of people, of the outside world, so I come here to the internet and everything is so much worse. FUCK SAKE WHY CANT I JUST HAVE A SPACE TO BE ME. I am so tired of endos taking over safe spaces.

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

Written for the 'cold' prompt

Where there should be a gun, only a butcher's knife waits for Akai.

Right.

They confiscated his weapons.

Oh well. Even declawed, he still has fangs. Just means he needs to get up close to get the kill.

Akai drops from his bed into a crouch. The knife's handle digs into his hand, unyielding, providing steady support in a hazy world.

He follows the edge of the bed, to where he can see light pass through the gap under the door. The sound of glass shattering, followed by a thud is what woke him, he's sure, but there's no footsteps, no shadow passing by. His intruder might be good.

But Akai knows he's better.

He sneaks up to the door, listening, waiting. There's faint breathing outside, too fast. Whoever it is, it's possible his attacker got caught up in the adrenaline rush. That should make it easier to surprise and dispatch them.

He takes cover behind the wall, and kicks the door open.

The living room lights blind him momentarily, too bright in the night. Akai blinks through the nausea, checks the windows he can see from his position - intact.

Good. He can still hear the breathing - irregular - but the sounds of the night remain distant, removed. He dashes to the other side of the door, surveilling the familiar living room outside.

As expected, all windows are shuttered, bolted shut from the inside. The intruder is trapped with him, then.

Ah, yes.

He's missed the hunt.

Though something seems off. He can't see them, but the source of noise doesn't appear to be moving. What are they waiting for? Data to download from his laptop? Poisoned gas to distribute in the room?

He can't smell anything strange, but beneath the scent of cigarette smoke and bourbon, it would be difficult to detect. He still puts a hand over his mouth, breathes as shallowly as he can manage.

Fine, fine. He'll go greet them already.

He sneaks around the too-comfortable sofa, takes cover behind his armchair, creeps up to the kitchen isle. Beyond its corner is the source of the noise, the source of another breath in his space.

He turns the corner, ready to dispatch the intruder-

-and barely manages to stop the knife in time. Stabs the ground next to an exposed neck.

There's a crumpled form on his floor in a sea of broken glass, blond hair covering their face.

Jodie?

No, that can't be.

Cold dread seizes his heart.

Jodie is dead.

His ears ring with the echo of a gunshot, drowning out all sounds but his own, stuttering heartbeat. It throbs in his head, too fast, too loud.

No. No. No.

Vertigo takes a hold of him, would have him join the figure on the floor.

The knife drops from his hands, clutters onto the floor uselessly. He grips the cupboard's corner, trying to maintain his balance. Doesn't quite manage it, and missteps.

A sharp pain in his foot forces him back to the present.

That's a problem for later.

Breathe. Assess.

The person in his kitchen groans, a rather common sound in Akai's presence.

Furuya.

He's alive.

But for how long?

Akai rushes to kneel by Furuya's side, doesn't care about the glass shards that pierce easily through his socks, his sweatpants, as he cradles the limp body in his kitchen.

He checks the head the head the head-

It's wet.

His heart beats double-time, blood rushes in his head. But there's no exit wound, and his fingers come away clear.

Akai lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Beneath his touch Furuya is burning up, though. As if he needed any further indication that something's very, very wrong. Furuya would never let himself be seen this sweaty, flushed, exposed, if he could help it.

"Furuya. Furuya-kun."

Another groan, and finally, there's some resistance in Akai's arms. Furuya winces, furrows his brows. He blinks up at Akai, eyes unfocused, but awake, at least.

Alive.

"Stop shouting already. I'm right here."

Furuya's voice comes out too nasally, his airways must be obstructed. Akai tilts his head a little, to put less strain on it. Let Furuya breathe more easily.

"Since when is the kitchen so tall?"

Not good. He's hallucinating. Or at least struggling with spatial awareness.

Akai manages to snatch Furuya's wrist in time, draws him close. He really doesn't need shards of glass stuck in his hands, in addition to whatever knocked him out.

Akai steadies him, lets him lean against himself. Isn't ready to let go of him, anytime soon.

He should assess the damage first, but he's curious.

"Furuya. What are you doing here?"

The agent frowns at him, seemingly confused. It takes him a moment to answer.

"You gave me the key?", he sneers. Curls in on himself protectively.

Except that's not what Akai is asking. Why is Furuya here, in the middle of the night, when-

"You're sick."

Maybe stating the obvious will get through to him, seeing as he seems to have trouble grasping the severity of his situation.

"So? It is Thursday. I promised."

He says it airily, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. As if it explains everything.

Yukiko-san had given Akai an earful for not taking care of himself properly, but even he knows to hole up and rest when he's sick. Not drive halfway across town on a paper-thin promise.

Surely, Furuya would have to understand that his own safety, his own health, comes first?

Right?

"I am fine. Get me to my car. I have inconvenienced you enough as it is."

Akai blinks. Furuya can barely move, and he wants to do what, exactly, in his car? Call for help? Suffer? Try to drive?

While he would like to assume this is a bout of temporary insanity brought on by the fever, if Akai looks back on their shared history, he isn't sure Furuya ever knew when to quit. Or what was good for him.

Damnit.

Alright.

"I'm driving you home."

He got to keep his car, at least, even if the gadgets were removed, his permits revoked. They'd told him to stick to travelling on foot, too, if he can. But for Furuya, he could make an exception.

"Who do I call to check up on you?"

At that, Furuya simply laughs at him.

Akai has never heard him do so, before.

It's not pretty.

Cold and hollow, the sound rings harshly in the night. Interrupted by coughs and sputters, Furuya's laughter is an ugly, broken thing, as far removed from joy as can be. It goes on for far too long.

This isn't funny.

Akai shivers. He'll be glad if he never has to hear that dreadful sound again.

"Just leave me be. I will survive, like always."

Up until that moment, Akai was pretty sure he'd lost it. But deep inside his chest, something stirs. A fragile little thing; it aches and splinters and breaks at the sight before him.

Furuya's bright smile is polished, his eyes like shining glass. It's too much.

Akai would be more inclined to believe him if Furuya wasn't shivering. If his nose wasn't running. If his eyes weren't red.

"No."

He might not know Furuya Rei. He barely knew Bourbon, and Amuro Tooru was actively out for his blood. He has no idea what happened to this man, to make him so furious at the world, yet so resigned to his fate. But the emotion that just shone through Furuya's carefully maintained image is all too familiar.

Survival isn't the prize it's made out to be. Not when-

Don't think about them. Someone needs to keep it together, and it won't be Furuya. You can do that, right? Not for yourself, but for him.

Yes.

A hypothesis forms, unbidden. The promise was just an excuse. Furuya came here because he had no other place to go to. No one to turn to.

That's fine. Akai understands. He doesn't have one either. Not anymore.

But he can give Furuya what he still has left: himself.

"I won't leave you alone."

He's the worst person for this; Akai barely knows how to take care of himself. The last time he looked after someone with a cold... he might still have been a teenager, taking care of Shukichi.

But it beats suffering alone, surely.

"Great. That means I have a chance to die of food poisoning."

There's a shimmer of life in Furuya's eyes, before he closes them. A faint smile, as he rests his head against Akai's chest. Broken, but a little more human than the Venetian mask he showed before.

Akai squeezes him, once, then picks him up without too much trouble. Shards of glass fall from their clothes, as he rises, holding Furuya close.

Alright.

First, he needs to clean up his guest.

Then, the flat.

Lastly, himself, if he has energy to spare.

And somewhere in-between, he'll need to call Yukiko-san. Maybe she will share the secret to her chicken noodle soup with him.

[mg-sytem]

Honestly I think something really shitty about having trauma regarding people hurting you, is that it's possible to have this underlying paranoia that if you say ANYTHING about that person/those people anywhere on the Internet, they'll somehow see it or find it and come attacking you or spread lies about you or something. Legit don't know how people on Reddit give such obvious details about situations and somehow they don't get scared lol

This is something we've started to realize we definitely struggle with regardless of how anonymous we try to be or details we try to change or leave out.

It's not rational by any means, and we're aware of that. But if anyone else experienced this type of anxiety, understand that you're not alone and it's a battle for sure

[the-witness-sys]

Us on our main account: We're a system!! This is mostly Rain's account but others might pop in!

Me when I use the account: I must talk EXACTLY like Rain or else everyone is going to know and it's going to be horrible and the world is going to explode and everyone will hate us and-

[musical-chick-13]

I haven't seen this take a WHOLE lot, but I have seen it enough to get. Frustrated. About it.

So for anyone who doesn't get it: no, symptoms of mental illness are not, in every case, majorly or solely the result of Dealing With Capitalism. Sometimes, they can be! Sometimes the symptoms are situational, and those situations are heavily related to how much capitalism sucks! But many times they are not. I am sorry, but mental illness and trauma and neurodivergence are still going to exist even if capitalism completely goes away. We still have a responsibility to treat the people affected by and experiencing these things with compassion and understanding. We still have to. You know. Acknowledge that their life experience is going to be a lot different than many other's is.

[compassionatereminders]

Hiii paranoid delusional anon. So— some examples;

- I have had constant reoccurring obsessive issues with thinking somebody is stalking me / stalking my socials and is going to try and become my friend to air my bad opinions out and get me canceled.

- for a solid. God. I don’t even know, literally years- I was CONVINCED I had a specific Illness despite no evidence and was constantly searching for evidence. The delusion only went away when I ACTUALLY got the Illness and was treated for it

- constantly freaked out thinking I have cancer. If a limb hurts for a few days, I genuinely start seriously stressing abt the logistics of trying to get evaluated for cancer.

- this only happened once but I had a massive breakdown once and thought there was cameras in my room. I also used to be very paranoid of my webcam

- I often think people are talking about me behind my back and constantly ruminate on this but honestly this is kind of normal on par with my BPD / normal anxiety I think ??

- on some socials , I have to change so much about myself out of the fear that I’ll be recognized as me and be outed for things I said on that social, that I go through the lengths of not just using a pseudonym but using different pronouns, using a different typing style and even talking about some media I don’t like to make things seem… not like me. So I can express myself properly without it being linked to me ..

- constantly have issues where I will think about death before bed OBSESSIVELY and am CONVINCED I will die in my sleep. Leads to many sleepless nights until I pass out from exhaustion and a lot of weird notes written for my family ‘incase I’m found in the morning’

- if anyone is walking behind me in public for . A little too long… I start seriously freaking out. Even on long single direction sidewalks. It honestly makes going outside a nightmare because I constantly feel like I’m being followed

- I can’t talk in public to my friends. The fact other people can hear what I say makes me feel insane in ways I can’t even describe it makes me so so scared. For them to hear private conversations and hear my thoughts on things without me being aware, it scares me so much.

All in all. Clearly this isn’t NORMAL but is this more.. extreme anxiety / agoraphobia or ??? And ontop of that. Does it mean anything that I can be aware something is UNLIKELY rationally but am still feeling all the Emotions as if it is 100% fact and will still like. Believe it? If that makes sense? Can you believe sometning while rationalizing it’s unlikely?? I always feel so aware of how ridiculous im being but there’s always the 1% chance and aaa it makes me feel crazy. Anyways thank you for any advice Kat

Whether it's mainly caused by OCD, a psychotic disorder or a personality disorder, I'd personally say that "delusions" are the right word for at least some of the above. It definitely isn't normal experiences.

[oh-look-a-homosexual-punk-bitch]

Is anyone else's paranoia so bad because of there mom, cuz she makes mine so much more worse than it already is, cuz she knows a lot of people and if they see me in public without my mom or dad they are designated reporters for her, sometimes she'll even call them and tell them where I'm going and it always makes me feel like I'm being followed and watched, and listened to, it's horrible, I can't sleep sometimes because of it

[chaotic-toby]

I am so tired of being paranoid.

I just wish I could go to sleep without worrying about anyone doing anything to me

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

A Couple Nights Later...

(Disclaimer: three of the characters in this story belong to me. You can find more information about Penn here. For more information about Caliban, go here. For more information about Azalea, go here. Illinois belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. The same thing goes for Murdock...but if you'd like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here. Ness belongs to the creators of the FNAF movie; I've got some headcanons on him too, which can be found here.)

(Also, for more information on the mob Murdock, Caliban, and Azalea work for, go here.)

(This is yet another gift from me to @insane4fandoms. Just a little something in return for them remembering my fanmade egos in their lovely drawings. Please give them a follow and boost their art! You won't regret it!)

(One more thing: this story is an epilogue to my latest work. You can find that story here; it has some clarifying details...)

(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, implied violence, descriptions of illegal business, implied cannibalism, cravings/hunger pangs, mentions of knives/blades, mentions of poisoning, mentions of blood, eating/drinking, anxiety/paranoia, implied past trauma, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

The sun was setting again, as it tended to do. The remaining light shone between the trunks of a nearby copse of trees, casting long shadows to stretch over the road. 

That was what made Penn question if he and Illinois had left one desert only to end up in another: the trees. That is, he knew logically that this county was in one of the dryer parts of the States, and any trees growing here had more than likely been planted by the locals. Once Illinois drove to a less populated part of town, there wouldn't be much in the fields besides sagebrush. 

But right here, right now, all the trees and hills were a huge change from the cacti and rock spires. 

It was refreshing. 

It reminded him that he and his companion were closer to their respective homes than before.

It reminded him that they were at least a thousand miles away from that cavern. 

(As for the horrific thing they’d found in said cavern. . .well, the duo had stopped at two more hotels by now, and Penn thankfully hadn’t seen any maladjusted figures looming outside the windows in either of them. The combination of a threat and a promise was still fresh in his mind, yet part of him was somehow sure that it’d be a long time before that monster made good on it.)

Just one more day, Penn thought as he shifted in the passenger seat. Just one more stop at one more hotel, and then we’ll be back sometime tomorrow.

The Warden hung from the rearview mirror, silent and creepy as ever. While Illinois’ personal rituals included hanging it on the doorknob of whatever bedroom he slept in for the night, he usually moved it to his breast pocket the next day. Ever since that one terrifying night, however, he’d made sure to keep it in the open, as to let its protective juju slowly but surely cleanse the surreal dread from his and his friend’s minds. 

Penn wasn’t quite sure how, but that strategy seemed to be working. 

He reached up and gingerly poked the little totem, making it sway to and fro. Illinois glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then took one hand off the steering wheel and poked it himself. The odd game of makeshift tetherball only lasted a moment, but it still brought a smile to both the adventurer and paleontologist’s faces.

As the jeep descended a small hill, its passengers were treated to the sight of a fork in the road, the section of grass between the two pathways adorned by a large blue sign.

The top-half silently announced NEXT REST AREA—20 MILES in bold, white letters. The bottom-half, meanwhile, displayed a row of universal symbols: a gas pump, ATM, WiFi, a bed, a plate with cutlery on either side. . .and an arrow.

“Right on cue,” Illinois remarked, the wheel spinning in his grasp as he edged in the pointed direction.

___

The car’s headlights caught a pair of raccoons up ahead, waddling on their hind-legs and fidgeting with their weird little hands as they sniffed at a lumpy mound of. . .something that sat right on the seam between asphalt and grass. 

Murdock tapped at the center of the steering wheel; the horn’s blare was short and quick, but it still made Azalea flinch in the passenger seat. Just behind her, Caliban did the same, instinctually grabbing Snare and holding him to his chest. The raccoons each let out a startled squeal as they scampered off into the nearby trees, their striped tails swaying back and forth.

Azalea stared after them before raising an eyebrow at her accomplice. “What was that for?���

“Yeah, they weren’t even in the way,” Caliban chimed in, his crimson leather jacket sliding against the similar material of his seat. 

There was actually a fourth passenger here, but only in a technical sense, considering he’d been crammed into a hidden compartment in the trunk. And while that probably would’ve led to a chorus of dull thumps and muffled shouts, he wasn’t really capable of complaining. 

Or moving. 

Or breathing.

Murdock lifted his chin, glancing at the backseat as he shrugged. “Well, if we make a pit-stop, I thought I might as well scare off the competition for you, Cal.” 

Caliban tilted his head, unable to stop the confusion from creeping onto his features. It only lasted a few seconds before the hitman eased on the brake pedal, ever-so-slightly slowing down as the car drew closer to the rancid pile that the raccoons had been examining. 

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, ‘Doc,” Caliban replied, now understanding as he rolled his eyes, lips quirking into a sarcastic smile. “But I think I’ll pass.” 

“I thought you were hungry?” Murdock hummed as he picked up speed yet again. 

Caliban nodded. "That’s right. Hungry, not desperate.”

Murdock huffed a laugh, black-tinted glasses shuddering on his face. “Said the cannibal.”

“Exactly! I eat people, not roadkill or garbage.”

“Eh, not so sure about that last part. You’ve helped me get rid of some real scumbags before. Besides, you follow your feeding schedule like some kind of religion.”

Caliban paused. “. . .Okay, that’s fair. But the point still stands! If I’m gonna eat anything, it at least has to be somewhat fresh.”

He then leaned forward, resting one hand on the back of the driver-seat, still focusing on the rearview mirror; if he looked closely enough, he could make out his companion’s dark brown eyes behind his shades. He could make out the way they glinted with morbid humor and a challenging air. 

Caliban made sure to return the unconventional vibes tenfold. Joking with Murdock could be a gamble sometimes, but that was what made the dynamic between the two of them fun.

“I mean, that stuff might’ve been part of a person at one point,” Murdock mentioned. “It’s not like we got a good look at it, but I could turn around—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Azalea interjected, reaching over to flick him on the side of the head.

Caliban snickered, flashing a big grin his sister’s way. Azalea smiled right back, firmly ignoring the offended hitman noises.

The snickers and grin died down, however, as his stomach started churning with a hollow ache.

The presence of a fresh corpse stowed away further behind him didn’t do many favors. But then, that target was off limits. Yeah, his organs could still be harvested to make a nice little profit on the Black Market, but they’d already been tainted enough to effect the prices. (He’d been given a hefty dose of batracotoxin courtesy of Azalea. Not that Caliban was blaming her; poison was her personal signature. She’d just been doing her job, just like he and Murdock had been a little while ago.) 

That wasn’t quite what annoyed him, though. 

What annoyed him was the fact that the target had been working with a crony when the trio had tracked him down to the dilapidated lakehouse he’d apparently been using as a hideout. 

The aforementioned crony had looked very healthy (read: appetizing) and had screamed and struggled in such an exciting way when Caliban and Murdock corned him on the pier, taking turns stabbing and slicing to interrogate him.

The smell of blood had been so heavy and rich in the air.

The red splatters had looked so dark and deep.

The adrenaline-high had been awesome, as was the anticipation of eventually getting to eat a very well-earned meal. . .and then some LAZY BASTARD OF AN ALLIGATOR had decided to JUST LUNGE UP from the water, clamp its jaws around the crony’s neck, and dive back down again in LESS THAN THREE SECONDS! 

Because APPARENTLY, when you’re a creature that nature has given so many deadly gifts for HUNTING YOUR OWN DAMN FOOD that you barely even had to evolve since prehistoric times, you STILL find it easier to STEAL from hard-working contract-killers who are just trying to earn their keep and get some fresh air. 

Caliban sighed through his nose, leaning back and propping his elbow up to rest his cheek against his hand. Snare, like a good little emotionally-tuned boy, wasted no time craning his neck to nudge at his owner’s face. With a smile that was softer than before, Caliban gently scratched his pet’s ears.

Now, he did have some well-preserved, perfectly edible human remains at home, hidden in that huge chest freezer in the corner of his abandoned-subway-tunnel-office-den. But he, his sister, and their mutual companion still had a ways to go before they returned to the Cove Port Inlets. 

This certainly wasn’t the first time his cravings had acted up, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, either. This wasn’t even the worst instance; the emptiness wasn’t wracked with gnawing and pinching sensations for flavor (pun vERY MUCH INTENDED) just yet. It would get to that point if left unchecked for another hour or so, but that wasn’t going to happen. 

Things like beef, chicken, pork, or fish may not have been as savory as Caliban’s addiction, but they were good enough. So long as he got a bite to eat in general, he’d be fine. Sure, part of his mind wouldn’t know peace until he cooked up some pieces of human-person, but his stomach wouldn’t twist and growl and beg. Not for a while, at least.

Gravel ground beneath the tires. Bright, artificial light streamed in through the windows.

“‘Sparky’s,’” Azalea announced, reading off the sign that stood tall before a tidy little building that carried the exact same aesthetic of all roadside diners in the known world. “Looks nice enough. Have you been here before?”

Murdock nodded as he maneuvered into a space on the very edge of the parking lot. “A few times to test the waters, yeah. There’s no cameras anywhere outside the entrance, and even if there were, not many people stop here at hours like this.” 

Caliban made sure to crack both of the backseat windows open before the engine stopped rumbling. He then tugged his black hoodie off over his head, leaving its sleeves tucked into those of his jacket. He draped the clothing-combo over the vacant seat beside him. Snare promptly scurried over, flopping down and curling up on the makeshift nest. 

Caliban chuckled, reaching over to pet the hare’s fur one more time before heaving the car’s door open and stepping out.

Azalea stood at his side soon after, fidgeting in place, clearly still full of energy from the kill. The two of them shared another grin; it helped keep the awkwardness at bay as they waited on their accomplice. 

Varying shades of red weren’t part of The Pentas Family’s signature just because of the flower it’d been named after. Red was a very convenient color. Wear it to a kill and no-one would be any the wiser (especially not if you combined it with black). 

Murdock was aware of this, almost always wearing his currant-colored turtleneck and ebony overcoat when working on gruesome assignments. And yet he still remained in the car for another minute or two, elbows knocking against the ceiling and window as he took off both articles. 

He then leaned over the center console to pop the glove compartment open and fished out a bundle of dark fabric adorned by a pattern of gray leaves and orange petals. 

Once he finally emerged into the cool nighttime air, the hitman looked almost nothing like himself. 

His tinted glasses were gone too, replaced by a headband that was wider and stretchier than the cherry-tinted one Azalea was wearing. It mainly kept Murdock’s nearly shoulder-length raven hair back, but the white-as-snow material gave it an ambiguously medical look. Murdock pulled one side of it down in order to cover his right eye. 

Or, to cover the misalignment of his right eye. The way it was turned to the right as though he was looking as something sideways.

It wasn’t like his right eye was infected; it wasn’t even useless. It could still blink and see. . .it just couldn’t move around in its socket like the left one. Sure, it was a bit jarring to look at, but not too jarring in the grand scheme of things. 

Still, it was very understandable for Murdock to always keep it hidden. And that wasn’t even due to how needlessly judgemental other people could be.

No, his eye had been damaged in his former life (due to a near-death paragliding incident that he proudly enthralled any newcomers to the mob with), before he’d discovered his skill and passion for killing. All the pain that had apparently come with it...

It’d been a type of rebirth for him. There was no questioning the significance. 

(Although Murdock hadn’t appreciated Caliban’s thoughts on the matter. Which was just another way of saying that Murdock didn’t appreciate comedy. Not even the eloquent, well-thought-out masterpieces of wordplay.)

“. . .Damn,” Caliban had murmured, thoughtfully drumming his nails on mahogany. “I know people just throw words like ‘legendary’ around for almost anything these days, but that. . .that story really does feel like a mash-up of Neil Gaiman, Monty Python, and a sugar-bombed nine-year-old.”

“An inspiration to everyone, me.” Murdock had grinned, the definition of cocky as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “Anyone can survive Death Gulch if they WANT to. If they want to BADLY ENOUGH.”

“Words to live by,” Caliban agreed, his eyes shifting about. 

The Pentas Family’s base was a lot like the dens he and his sister now worked out of. Hidden underground, once part of the subway-tunnel-system that had died quite a while ago. It was bigger than the other dens down here, able to fit more furniture along the walls, like the table in the corner that he and his accomplice were sitting at. 

But just like all the other dens, the base came with relative darkness and a slight chill in the air. 

The darkness and that chill. . .they were part of his and Azalea’s lives now, as fundamental as oxygen. 

They now made their way with blood and blades and screams and secrets, and that was more than fulfilling enough after all the things they’d gone through together. 

And it was all thanks to Murdock. (Yes, The Boss had obviously contributed, but meeting the hitman who sat across from him had been the thing to really put the change into motion.)

Caliban had licked his lips, his smile stretching wider to reveal his teeth. To reveal the new silver one that glinted more than the rest. “I guess that really must’ve. . .shifted your view on things, huh?”

Murdock froze, which was the green light for Caliban to start giggling. His shoulders slumped. Even with his shades on, it was very obvious that he was now questioning some of the choices he’d made to get to this point. 

Murdock heaved a long-suffering sigh. “There’s something very wrong with you.”

“Pot-Kettle-Black, ‘Doc!” Caliban, whose giggles had quickly transitioned to cackles, replied. “C’mon, that was a good one! You can’t deny that!”

“I can, and I will,” Murdock retorted, getting dangerously close to tipping his chair over. . .

Azalea pulled the glass door open, eliciting that well-known whoosh. Caliban felt a rush of cool air as he followed his sister into the diner, Murdock right behind him. A little bell suspended above the threshold let out a chipper jingle. 

The walls followed a simple wood-panel design, though the powder blue paintjob on the windowpanes gave it a little more personality. Cushy leather booths were lined up here and there; a small pendant lamp hung over each table, some flickering more than others.

A coffee-bar stood across the building, separating the main dining area from an aluminum door that had to lead to the kitchen. 

True to Murdock’s word, the joint was pretty empty. A muffled chorus of clinks, footsteps, and running water that leaked through the kitchen door was the only sign that anyone else might be here. 

Along with the voice that called, “Sit wherever you like! I’ll be out in a just a sec!”

Murdock pursed his lips and shrugged. Following standard protocol, the three contract-killers claimed a spot that was closest to the entrance.

The kitchen door swung open and a man came strolling out, dressed in a white button-down with sections on the collar and sleeves that matched the dark blue apron tied around his waist. He held a bundle of laminated menus the same way a stereotypical schoolgirl would hold her textbooks, a tired-yet-genuine smile on his face.

As the waiter came to hover in front of the table, Caliban got a clear look at the little nametag pinned to his breast-pocket: NESS.

“Welcome, welcome!” Ness greeted, setting the menus down before his customers. “What can I get for you—maybe some coffee to start off?”

“Oh yes, please,” Azalea replied, her brother and Murdock murmuring in agreement. 

Ness nodded, quick to retrieve a steaming pot from the bar-counter, as well as a trio of mugs and a bowl full of sugar packets and creamer cups. 

Once the fresh brew was poured, the trio was given a few minutes of quality time with the menu. After that, Ness returned, fishing a notepad and pencil adorned by a tiny rubber chicken-head topper from a pocket in his apron. “So, what else would you guys like tonight?”

Being a hitman meant having experience some odd emotions. Such as the instinct to keep yourself and your business hidden clashing against the desire for attention or recognition. It was a matter of (very relative) sensibility and twisted pride. And Murdock was a prime example of that.

“Oh, well—y’know, I. . .I think, m-maybe. . .maybe I could. . .” Murdock stammered, fidgeting in his seat as though he was about to pass out right then and there. “Um. . .ah. . .w-what do you recommend? If you—if you don’t. . .mind me asking.”

Even after all the time he’d spent working with Murdock, it still took some effort for Caliban to not snort at the sight. Yeah, the social-anxiety-incarnate-facade had never failed yet, but Murdock always laid it on thick. He tossed a subtle knowing glance at Azalea, who was carefully biting down her own chuckle. 

Ness, meanwhile, stayed focused. His smile softened as he pointed out certain things on the menu and explained. He was patient and polite, nodding along and not seeming to mind all the verbal vomit he was being doused in before Murdock’s mask finally made a decision. He then moved on to take Azalea’s order with not a finger out of place. 

As he watched all this, Caliban realized that he liked Ness’ spirit, even if he didn’t really know him. The food service industry was infamous for how its workers were treated by customers and higher-ups alike (with Aftertaste being one of few exceptions, of course. Azalea was living proof that even a professional murderer could have a bit more compassion than the average Joe, and that was equal parts impressive and depressing). 

If you knew what to look for and how to look for it, you could see the exhaustion and stress behind Ness’ friendly demeanor. . .and yet, that demeanor wasn’t at all fake.

Ness truly seemed to be doing his best, determined to earn his keep and survive, while still maintaining some positivity. It was refreshing to see that type of energy.

Not only that: Ness was clearly the observant type. Perhaps (hopefully) not enough to cause any problems for the trio or their work right now. . .but enough to see the rising hunger Caliban specifically attempted to hide while in public.

“Did your lunch get away from you?” Ness asked, the playful tone of his voice somehow mixing very well with the slight concern in his eyes as he wrote down the order for a rare steak. 

Caliban laughed, offering a combination of nod and shrug. “Something like that. . .”

One part of him was all-too happy to make his typical jokes, the actual meanings of certain phrases slyly hidden under a veil of casual innocence. (The way Murdock’s facade got close to twitching as he side-eyed him was also amusing.)

Another part had to focus on reminding himself that this guy was a waiter, and any waiter who wasn’t used to seeing hungry people probably had a few issues to work on. He had absolutely no way of knowing about his true eating habits.

With that, Ness vanished into the kitchen once more, calling “Order In!” to whoever else was back there, his words hanging in the air as the aluminum door swung to and fro. 

The shy simper on Murdock’s face warped into a more typical sardonic grin. He put a hand to his chest and leaned forward in a tiny little bow. 

Caliban clicked his tongue, grinning back as he offered a slow applause. “Bravo.”

Azalea waited a few seconds before joining in. “Encor, encor.”

The grin fell from Murdock’s features as he corrected his posture and pouted. “Hey, say what you will about my act, but at least it’s convincing. Not quite as obvious as your pun-addiction.” He kept his voice low as he pointed an accusatory finger in Caliban’s direction. 

“Oh, c’mon. It’s not as bad as you always make it out to be; let Cal can have his fun,” Azalea argued, nudging at her brother’s arm with her elbow. 

Caliban nodded enthusiastically. “Besides, that one doesn't count. I only make things obvious when they need to be obvious.”

“. . .When?” Murdock asked, his brow furrowed as a concoction of blankness and aggravation flashed in his left eye. “When do things ever need to be obvious?”

“When it’s already too late,” Caliban chortled, deciding to be wild and add some extra sugar to his coffee.

“You of all people should know,” Azalea agreed.

Murdock was in the middle of an overexaggerated sigh. . .only to flinch and put his facade back on when the bell above the entrance interjected.

___

“It’s them,” Penn declared in a hushed tone, struggling to keep his head down and his eyes fixed on the table. 

Illinois hummed and squinted at him, a spoon in his hand softly clinking as he stirred creamer into his coffee. “What are you talking about?” 

Penn shuffled in his seat and pursed his lips, nodding past his companion. 

The adventurer turned his head, tossing a glance over his shoulder at three other patrons who sat at another booth on the opposite side of the diner. The only other people here aside from the waiter who he'd half-chatted-half-flirted with five or so minutes ago.

“Those guys?” Illinois murmured as he returned his focus to the paleontologist across from him. “Do you know any of them?”

Penn nodded. “Not the one with the white-band-thing wrapped around his head, but the other two. . .”

The other two indeed. They sat side-by-side:  a lanky man in a dark blue button-down and a truly petite women wearing white with a cherry-red headband. They both boasted fair skin and chocolate-colored eyes to match their hair. 

That was what really caught Penn’s attention.

Those two looked distinctly related. . .like siblings. . .or cousins. 

Cousins.

Cousins, cousins, cousins, a voice in Penn’s head chanted, getting a bit louder each time, competing with flashing images of that ever-shifting monster. . .of that ungodly amount of teeth, of what the monster had said about those teeth. . .

“It’s. Them,” Penn repeated, quieter yet harsher than before, willing his eyes to give off the same vibe as concrete in order to somehow beam that particular recent memory into Illinois’ head. 

Apparently his efforts were successful, as Illinois’ eyes widened from under the brim of his hat.

“Are you sure?” Illinois inquired, leaning ever-so-slightly forward. 

For a few seconds, Penn’s mouth merely opened and closed with no words coming out. Was he sure? Or could this be some weird cosmic coincidence? (Of course, Penn’s deeper instincts already knew the answer, but some of his nerves were now on fire, and the smoke obscured that just a bit.)

There was one guaranteed way to find out.

Subconsciously weaving his red neckerchief about his fingers, Penn gazed around the diner before zeroing in on the kitchen door. He watched it, listened to the muffled chorus of sizzles and hisses and pops and other trademark noises of cooking for what almost felt like an hour.

Until the wait—uh, Ness glided back out, this time deftly balancing a platter of food on one hand. 

That was where Penn finally moved. 

He shuffled out of the booth and headed over to an empty doorway near the far-side of the coffee counter with a sign proclaiming RESTROOMS hanging just above it.

He walked right past the table Ness was now delivering meals to; right past those three other customers. Penn let his eyes briefly wander over them as he traipsed by.

In a way, it was truly fascinating just how much you could see and feel in under a minute. (And it was equally embarrassing that whenever you knew that you had to be subtle or casual about something, you inevitably ended up trying too hard.)

Two pairs of eyes flicked over in Penn’s direction, one after the other. 

Memories from his childhood flashed in that millisecond of darkness as he blinked. Those images blurred in his peripheral vision as he got further away from that table, almost like they were trying to physically get out of his head and connect themselves to what he was seeing like puzzle pieces. They lingered in his reflection as he ducked into the restroom and hovered over the sink. 

He’d seen them both pause. 

He’d seen both their eyes widen. 

He’d seen that same spark of what could only be recognition etch its way across both their faces.

Both he and the sibling duo had just barely been teenagers the last time he saw them, and somehow. . .

Penn sighed, taking a long moment to splash some cold water on his face before trudging back out. He felt his cousins’ eyes on him as he passed by yet again.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he announced in a small voice as he sat back down.

Cal and Aza, his mind whispered, dredging up names from years and years ago. They’re here. They can see me, and they know I can see them. 

Illinois offered a slow nod, chewing his lip as his eyes wandered over to the window by the table. “Well. . .” Sooner or later, a bit of expectancy mixed into the contemplation in his features. “Are you gonna go talk to them?” 

Penn blinked. “‘Talk to them?’”

“I didn’t think there’d be an echo in here,” Illinois chided. 

If there was one thing to know about Illinois, it was that he had a knack for taking things in stride when they probably shouldn’t be taken in stride. It was usually his best quality, though sometimes it could also be his worst. 

Penn wasn’t quite sure which of those categories this scenario fell into. 

“I can’t just do that.” Penn argued.

“Why not?” Illinois wondered. 

“Don’t you remember what that thing said? How he worded it?” Penn couldn’t help but shudder.

All of those godforesaken eyes and fangs. . .

Illinois’ brow furrowed with a combination of empathy and exasperation. “Yeah, I do. I heard it all, and I know how awful it sounded. But like I said before: since you don’t know what he meant by all that, then you need to find out.”

Penn couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You really think I can just ‘find out’ everything I need to know about such a cryptic message right now? In a place like this?” He spread his arms to gestures at anything and everything around them.

Somehow, the diner’s atmosphere remained quiet and normal. For the most part.

“. . .The Walmart incident really did a number on you, huh?” Illinois asked, though the question seemed a bit more aimed at himself than his companion. “I didn’t say you had to learn everything right now. Hell, I know that you probably won’t be able to. I’m just saying that you might not get an opportunity like this again. So. . .why not at least try to give it a shot?”

Any words that might’ve been forming died a quick death on Penn’s tongue. He shifted in his seat, suddenly compelled to stare at tiny imperfections in the table’s surface. 

Illinois sighed. “Look, whatever’s apparently going on is your business. That means you deserve to choose however you may or may not get some information or closure. I’m just trying to help.”

Oddly perfect timing worked in mysterious ways, as the statement had barely left Illinois’ mouth when the universe saw it fit to have Ness reappear and drop off ordered meals (eggs benedict for the paleontologist, biscuits and gravy for the adventurer).

With that, the duo tucked in. It’d been a long day, and it was unbelievable just how much being trapped in a car could really take out of you.

There was much less conversation than usual, but that wasn’t too much of a problem.

Though Illinois hardly ever missed a chance to talk someone’s ears off, he still knew when to keept quiet. So, he fished one of the many old novels he’d collected in his career (specifically The Egyptian Book of the Dead) out of his satchel, reading and reminiscing while he ate.

Penn, meanwhile, couldn’t stop glancing past his friend and at his cousins. 

On one hand, he knew it probably looked weird at best and maybe a little creepy at worst. 

On the other hand, while both Caliban and Azalea’s focus was fluctuating between their entrees and their companion, whose HMS Self Confidence seemed destined to keep hitting iceberg after iceberg. . .they were both glancing at him in that same quick-but-not-quick-enough-thus-painfully-awkward way.

They both shifted in place, whispered to one another. Just a moment ago, they’d acted with a confidence that Penn had never seen before, only for said confidence to evaporate when they realized who he was. 

Caliban had filled in nicely. He looked to be at a healthy weight now, but Penn couldn’t avoid recalling just how skinny he’d been in his youth. (Now, Penn knew he had no room to talk, because he’d had quite a metabolism as a child, but. . .well, people usually didn’t stay so thin after they had their first growth spurt, like the kid he’d seen at just a couple family reunions.)

Out of all the differences between then and now, the biggest one was a small scar that dragged over the skin on the left side of his upper lip. Each time Caliban opened his mouth to take in a bite of food or speak words that just couldn’t be made out thanks to the relative distance, Penn caught a glimpse of something silvery in his mouth, right below aforementioned scar. 

Azalea had been downright tiny as a child, despite the fact that she was a year older than both her brother and her cousin. Right now, her skin was practically glowing. Quite the departure from how pale she'd been back then, which had made the rings under her eyes stick out like a pair of sore thumbs.

And that, Penn realized, was something that had stayed. 

Neither of the siblings’ eyes looked sunken perse. . .but the skin beneath each pair of sockets still boasted hollows. 

The eyes themselves were a different kettle of fish. 

For Caliban, a vague hunger was still present, going deeper and darker. 

For Azalea, vigilance remained, now much sharper and more cunning. 

But there was. . .something else in both of them. 

Penn couldn’t tell what it was exactly. But somehow, he knew that it was very, very wrong. 

He took a break from his dinner to scrub at his own eyes, not hearing the footsteps until he re-opened them and saw the latter sauntering up to his and Illinois’ table.

___

“E-everything was great, thank you!” Murdock’s mask offered what had to be the sixteenth nervous smile tonight as he paid his portion of dinner. Aforementioned smile trembled on his face as he continued, “. . .Gareic would’ve loved it! Probably as much as he loved fireworks. . . ah, w-well, I don’t know for sure. I’ll never—I’ll never really know. . .”

Murdock then hunched his shoulders, forehead suddenly an inch from the table, putting on a truly Grammy-worthy act of fighting back tears. 

A cocktail of sympathy and confusion swirled about Ness’ features. He merely nodded, giving an appreciative look to Caliban and Azalea in turn. 

The siblings nodded right back in that classic Don’t Worry, We’ve Got This fashion. 

And as the waiter retreated once more, the trio made their way back outside, a rather hefty tip left in their wake. 

The shaking and choked sobs up and disappeared from Murdock’s body as he trekked over to his car, quietly celebrating a successful evening of making someone believe that he really was just another poor sap who probably wouldn't survive a public speaking class. 

While Caliban and Azalea would’ve given more sarcastic commentary on the matter, they found themselves having to concentrate on not looking over their shoulders. 

“. . .Why did you do that?” Caliban finally asked, referring to the way his sister had eventually gone over to strike up a conversation with their cousin. The way she’d acted all surprised to see Penn, given him a quick hug, introduced herself to his friend, the works. 

The way she’d ended up giving Penn one of her business cards for Aftertaste. . .

“I should be asking why you didn’t follow along with it. I had to make excuses about you being tired from a wild day. . .well, I mean, I guess I can cut you some slack for that part,” Azalea replied. 

Though that did get a chuckle out of Caliban, it was still laced with a bit of anxiety.

Azalea winced, giving him an apologetic glance before she continued. “I was setting up a gameplan.” 

“You saw that look in his eyes.” Caliban sucked his teeth. “We both did.”

Azalea fidgeted with her sleeves. “It’s been years upon years. It’s impossible for him to actually know about our work.” 

“Right, right. It’s just—” Caliban sighed, running a hair through his hair. “Something obviously happened. I don’t know how it could relate to us, but. . .” He trailed off as something cold traced along his ribcage. 

Azalea reached up to place a comforting hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Hey, we’ve gotten through much bigger things. I know how this feels right now, but it won’t be so bad later on. I promise.” She hesitated for a few long seconds, then added, “. . . It’s not like he ever tried to make things worse back then.”

Caliban gazed down at her and nodded. She was correct; she was taking initiative like she had so many times years before. She wouldn’t have to handle things alone. 

And Penn. . .well, Penn had been a good egg as a kid. Chances were he was still smart and reasonable today. 

Azalea nodded back. “What I did bought us some time to go over our stories. To come up with something convincing enough. So, once he accepts my little invitation and stops by for a visit—” 

“—we’ll be ready to put him at ease and keep him off any scent,” Caliban finished.  

Headlights beamed to life as Murdock took his place behind the wheel. 

Azalea didn’t call shotgun, but she didn’t really need to, She already had earlier that day, and Caliban, who knew his car etiquette, slithered over to the backseat without any fuss. 

Snare stirred, letting out a tiny yawn and stretching before clambering into his owner’s lap, curiously sniffing at the to-go box in said owner’s hand. 

As Murdock eased the car out of Sparky’s parking lot and back onto the main road, something in Caliban’s brain decided now was the time for him to start staring at those glowing windows. He glimpsed his sister looking in the same direction. 

Penn and his friend were still there.

It only took a moment or two before the restaurant became a small blur in the distance, but Caliban's instincts told him that his cousin could still feel his and Azalea’s eyes. . .

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @lexusinsannus @sunny011387 @x-hotrose-x

[endlessmidnights]

My anxiety has made me paranoid, I can’t here laughter, whispering, plain talking, I can’t see texting, I can’t do anything without thinking I’m being made fun of or talked about in some way

[antiendovents]

more venting ... Eep kinda, I'm so sorry y'all put up with me , not exactly endo related tho, big TW in this one, please check tags for appropriate TWs

I don't really understand what's happening, am I crashing? Am I having some kind of melt down? I don't know. I just feel bad. Horrible. Like the entire world is so horrid and dark and that I'll never be able to be who I want to be. I don't understand this place and I don't think I ever will. I don't understand why people hate me, why they want me dead just for being me. I'm so scared. I feel like someone's going to kill me, like I will die before I even get the chance to be.. me. And everytime I tell someone they just fucking laugh at me, or try give me "logic". But I know that logically it is possible. I could get murdered and it's scary. I do not want to leave my house anymore. At all. It's literally my birthday and all I can think of is how fucked everything is and how I'm going to end up dead.

[jankwritten]

yall wanna know how fucked up my anxiety is about some shit

i scroll past a post that's about a topic i don't like. whatever, it's fine. i scroll past a video that's a topic i don't care about. that's normal.

i scroll past a video that's a topic i don't like or care about but the person presenting it is a person of color? i IMMEDIATELY feel immensely guilty and need to "compensate" by "proving" it wasn't because of race by also skipping other random posts, JUST IN CASE someone thinks I'm racist because I didn't want to watch a video on a topic I didn't like or care about, that happened to be presented by a person of color.

this just in on: the police in my brain are loud and i'm scared of them

[silversupremacy]

✨✨Dis is ur brain on cwack ✨✨