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ace-jug · 5 years ago

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Richie and The Rabbit Hole (4)

Summary: When everyone goes back to their lives after Pennywise, Richie doesn't. He stays in Derry and finds a portal that leads back to 1989, only a few months after the loser club "defeated" Pennywise the first time.Using the help of the younger losers, adult Richie goes back in time to fix all the wrong that Pennywise caused when he came back the second time.

Rated: M

Relationship: Eddie/Richie

Current Word Count: 23,000+

Read on Archive: (x)

Tumblr Chapters: (1) (2) (3)

Chapter 4: What happened those next few years

Homecoming 1989:

Beverly held Ben’s hand tightly in hers as they danced, Ben spun Beverly around as they smiled at each other, and Beverly pecked Ben’s lips. He smiled brightly at her, it felt like a dream, like it wasn’t real, and Ben really wished this wasn’t Beverly’s last dance in Derry.

He didn’t think about that though, he lived in the moment, and continued to smile at his girlfriend.

Richie watched the couple in envy, as him and Eddie stayed on the sidelines drinking punch. Well, Richie was drinking the punch and Eddie refused, worried that someone had spiked it.

No one had, but even so, Richie couldn’t care less either way.

He really wished he could dance, but it made him nervous, and they did for a little while, but after a slow song came on, they hadn’t gone back out. Which was fine. Eddie didn’t really like dancing too close to the front, because it made him anxious, and all of his friends had dates except them, so it kind of felt like him and Eddie were constantly being the third and fourth wheel.

Eventually, they decided to sit on a bench towards the back, looking at the rest of the losers as they danced with their dates. They talked for awhile, about everything and nothing. Joking around and talking about Thundercats, but once the DJ said they had one last song and it was a slow song, both him and Eddie had gone eerily silent.

He was jealous, watching his friends look at their dates, and Richie wished he could too. He wish he had a date, mostly he wished his date was Eddie, but that could never happen. It's 1989 and any gay man or woman was a dead one. It wasn't like Eddie was anything but straight anyways.

Richie liked girls too. He thought they were pretty, wouldn't mind kissing one either, he just doesn't crush on girls much and if he does, they don't last long or are very strong.

Not since he started developing a crush for his best friend. Man, he hated his life. It would be so easy if Eddie was a girl or even just not around so that he could crush on girls freely without coming back to his main crush.

He sighed, letting the silence brew longer, as he continued to stare at his friends.

It was almost like Eddie could tell Richie was tense. To be fair, that's not hard, if Richie is silent that means something is wrong.

Because only a minute of thinking and watching his friends, Eddie had reached his hand out, brushing his fingertips on the top of Richie's hand resting on the bench, as if he was testing the waters, before fully resting his hand on top of Richie's.

Richie looked over at Eddie confusingly, but he didn't say anything. He just stared at their friends too. His cheeks were red, probably due to the cold fall air leaking in. They were close to the doors and their suits didn't do much to keep them warm.

Eddie was grinning and Richie decided it was best not to say anything. He barely moved. He couldn't really breathe. He didn't understand why Eddie would do something like this. Sure, it was comforting, but it was also just kinda.....gay and if anyone saw, oh boy would they be so fucked.

But Eddie didn't move. He didn't even seem concerned when the song ended. So, Richie didn't move either. Future Richie reminding him not to be scared and to not repress, he wasn't going to let something so small phases him.

So, he left his hand there, waiting for Eddie to move and he didn't, not even when their friends came over.

"Hey guys, ready to go back to Bill's?" Beverly asks them, holding Ben's hand, and Richie can see Ben stare at their hands. Notices Bev look for a second, before looking at them, not saying a word. None of them say anything, but they all notice, and it makes Richie feel like he's about to hyperventilate.

He still doesn't move his hand.

"I um kinda have to get home. My mom will kill me if I stay too late. I practically had to beg her to let me go without her picking me up at 8," Eddie says, sighing, disappointed.

"The dance started at 7," Mike said and Eddie nodded.

"You know how my mom is. Sorry guys, I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"See ya," Bill says with a wave and the rest of the losers follow.

"You coming Richie?" Mike asks and oh, right . They were all supposed to hang out post-dance and Eddie wasn't going.

Eddie wasn't going and he likely was going to walk home, so Richie won't go. He couldn't leave Eddie hanging.

"Nah, I'm a little tired. I think I'll go home."

Mike raises an eyebrow at him. Richie never says no to hanging out, especially to a reason of being "tired", but Mike lets it be, waving and catching up with his date.

Neither of the boys say anything to each other, even when the other losers are gone. It's almost as if they're scared that if they say anything to each other that they'll have to acknowledge what they're doing.

It's stupid. They are barely touching and both their hands are sweaty, but it means the world to both of them, even if neither of them will admit it.

Once the gym is practically empty and people start cleaning up, Eddie gets up and instead of letting his hand leave Richie's, he's pulling Richie up and intertwines their fingers together.

Richie can't breathe and he can't talk. He's lost for words and Eddie's face is red all over.

Richie had no idea that the cold was affecting him so badly. I mean, it’s fall, but Eddie looks like it’s below zero. He’s shaking and Richie is sure it’s because it’s cold, but Eddie’s hand is warm and sweaty, probably due to Richie’s own hand. That may even be the reason why Eddie’s still clutching on to his hand.

He wants to ask Eddie if he's okay, but he's still afraid that Eddie might drop his hand if he does anything.

He just stared, watching Eddie look at the ground for a few moments, before looking up at Richie, barely able to look at him.

"Let's go, yeah?" Eddie asks and he sounds nervous for whatever reason. Richie isn't sure why.

"Uh... yeah," he says, hesitation in his voice.

Eddie squeezes his hand and they walk out into the cold fall air, standing close, as their arms sway back and forth.

They eventually get to talking and they don't talk about their hands. It takes awhile, but soon, they talk like both of them had forgotten. Eddie spitfire talks and jumps a bit when he does, making Richie giggle, because of how cute it is. Richie even brings his left hand to poke Eddie in the rib, making him yelp. Somehow the hands get tighter and they get closer, but then, they reach Eddie's house.

Eddie frowns and sighs, but he let's their hands go and Richie is disappointed for a half second. That is, until half a second later, Eddie is hugging him, face nuzzling Richie's neck and Richie is sure he's never had a hug as intimate as this one. It makes his stomach grow with butterflies and his heart flips.

For once Richie is silent and Eddie expects him to say something. To laugh it off, but he doesn't, he just hugs back, and it's weird. Really weird, but it's nice, and when Richie let's go, he regrets not kissing him.

Eddie waits a moment, as if he's expecting it, doe like brown eyes looking at Richie's like he wants something, but nothing comes, and Eddie finds himself letting go of him, waving to Richie, walking into his front door.

He smiles and even though Richie didn't get everything he wanted, it was enough. It was more than enough, for now at least.

It was a start into something that neither boy got to experience the first go through.

....

FALL 1989:

Beverly still moves that fall, but she remembers, and that's the most important part. She promises to write and call. She does. She calls Richie and Ben the most. It becomes almost a daily occurrence. Whenever Richie or her can't call the other, they'll let the other know beforehand. It becomes routine and Richie misses her. Maybe not as much as Ben, but Beverly is one of his best friends. She means everything to him and even though he never sees her, most of the time it's like she never left at all.

....

Richie stops going to the arcade after that summer. Even though he knows that Henry is gone, the thought of seeing that boy or even anyone who witnessed what happened last time, shakes him to the core.

They still call him a faggot at school, but it could be worse, and the arcade was his time to have fun, not be humiliated and paranoid, so he doesn’t go.

Eddie notices.

"Why don't you go to the arcade anymore?" Eddie asks one fall afternoon.

It's Saturday and it's only the two. Currently they're sitting in Eddie's room with the door propped open. Eddie is working on homework, while Richie lazily lays on his bed, throwing a ball into the air and sighing every 30 seconds due to boredom.

"I don't know. I think the real question here is why are you doing homework on a Saturday when we could literally be doing anything else?”

“Unlike you, I’m not a brainyach. I have to try in school to do good and don’t change the subject,” Eddie says, writing on his paper, continuing his homework.

“I told you, I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been busy," Richie says, very unconvincingly.

“Pfft, yeah okay. You don’t go from going to the arcade everyday to never going at all. Besides, what about Wednesday, when we were all busy. What’d you do then?” Eddie asked, continuing to look at his paper, almost finished with his assignment.

Richie knows exactly what he did on Wednesday, he sat at home bored, barely doing anything at all. He actually can’t remember a day he was ever that bored, but he couldn’t let Eddie know that.

“I fucked your mom, duh.”

“That’s not funny, I’m being serious Rich,” Eddie says, turning around in his chair to look at Richie.

“Why don’t you go anymore? It was your favorite place. Did something happen?” Eddie continues, worried about his friend.

“Why would you think that? Like I told you. I DON’T KNOW. I just haven’t went.”

“That’s bullshit and you know that. You can tell me, ya know. You’re my best friend.”

“Holy shit!” Richie exclaims and Eddie looks back at him confusingly. “What?”

“I’m your best friend,” Richie says, smiling wide, and Eddie rolls his eyes, then scoots his chair a little closer to Richie to hit him in the shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Just, I guess you don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to, but like, I’m here for you,” Eddie says and Richie sighed.

He's scared to tell Eddie. He’s scared that if he says exactly what happened that Eddie will know his sexuality. That Eddie will question Richie until he realizes his embarrassing crush, ruining their friendship forever.

But that’s the thing. None of the losers reacted to Pennywise telling them he wasn’t straight. They didn’t care or they didn’t seem to care and Eddie already knew what Pennywise said. Didn’t even question it and that’s the only thing that gave him enough courage to tell him.

“Okay, fine, I was playing street fighter with this dude and when I suggested we play another game, he told me that I wasn’t his “fucking boyfriend” in front of everyone. Henry Bowers yelled at me, called me a faggot, and I don’t know, I guess I’m afraid of being bullied if I went back. It’s not like I have anyone to go with. I don’t have any friends there.”

Eddie stays silent for a second, not knowing what to say for a moment.

“I uh, I’m sorry. What if I went with you?”

Richie chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought you said video games were a waste of time.”

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know, I haven’t got to play much. My mom always said they rot your brains, but I mean, I’m sure they're fun. You’ll just have to teach me.”

“Really? You’ll go to the arcade with me?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, but only if you stop with the your mom jokes.”

“But they aren’t jokes, Eddie, my love! They’re true facts.”

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie rolls his eyes again, pretending to be upset, and giggling in failure.

“Just let me finish my paper and we can go. I have about 5 minutes tops.”

“That works out pretty well for me. I’ll just go bang your mom, considering your mom usually only lasts about 5 minutes anyways.”

“Shut up!”

......

"This is going to be so much fun!" Richie yells, fist full of popcorn in his hands, he's chewing loudly, jumping with every step. "Halloween 5. The Revenge of Michael Myers. I wonder who the victim will be this time. Not your mom I hope, because otherwise I'll need to find a new fuck buddy and-" "Beep beep Richie," Bill says, taking some of Richie's popcorn and making his way to some seats in the back.

"I can't believe that all Bill had to do was wink at the ticket lady and we got in," Mike said. "To be fair, she didn't really seem to care about her job."

"I mean, I wouldn't either. For minimum wage, they'd be lucky if I stayed at my post. I don't understand why they don't just become a hooker like me and get paid to-"

"For being a virgin Richie, you really do talk a big game," Mike says and Richie gasps, putting a hand on his chest.

"Me!? A virgin!? How dare you!"

Stan rolls his eyes. "We're all virgins asshole."

“Yeah, I’ve never even had my first kiss,” Mike says. “There is nothing wrong with it. We’re only 13.”

“Whatever,” Richie says, taking another drink from his oversized and overpriced soda.

“I haven’t had my first kiss either,” Eddie says. “I think kissing is something special. Not something you do with everyone. That’s how you get mouth herpes. My mom told me about it.”

“Your mom told you about mouth herpes?” Richie asked and Eddie shrugged.

“Not really. She told me about it vaguely, but I knew what she was talking about. You guys talk way too much about STDs by the way.”

“I do not,” Richie says and in unison all the losers say “yes, you do.”

“Fine, maybe i do, but saying your mom has crabs is the best insult.”

“Yeah, saying my mom has an STD is so original Rich!” Eddie says and Richie laughs. “I only say it because it’s true!~” he teases and Eddie shoves him in the arm.

“Stop being an asshole Rich!”

“Fine, if I’m such an asshole, I’m not sharing my popcorn!” Richie exclaims and Eddie pouts. “Okay, that’s not fair!”

“Yes it is, you-” before Richie can finish his sentence, the lights dim and Stan hushes them. Richie sulks in his seat, whispering in his ear.

“You can have some popcorn, but only because I feel bad that I gave your mom herpes.”

Eddie shoves him again, but takes popcorn nonetheless and before he knows it, he’s entranced with the movie, or as much as he can be, with Eddie constantly grasping at him at any given “scary” moment. Bill is on Eddie’s right, but he doesn’t touch him, he only touches Richie, and it makes Richie’s chest warm.

Eddie grasps his arm, then his hand, and before he knows it, Richie feels Eddie’s hand in his hand and Eddie is putting his face in his shoulder, half looking at the movie, and half hiding. It’s funny, but it’s also incredibly cute.

Once the movie is over though, Eddie releases him and sighs. “You okay?” Richie asks and Eddie stares off in space for a few moments before nodding “yeah, I think ever since the clown, these movies just feel more real.”

Richie never thought about it that way, but he can understand. “It’s fine Eds. Just a movie, if anything, I’ll protect you from all the baddies,” he says, kneeling into Eddie and again, Eddie shoves him.

“If anything I’m the one protecting you.”

“Oh, I forgot, my darling prince Edward, he has come to save me from all the baddies~ I will never have to worry again!”

“You’re so mean,” Eddie says, smiling at him, and if Eddie holds his hand the next scary movie, Richie doesn’t complain, It becomes routine and maybe Eddie isn’t really all that scared, but Richie doesn’t need to know that.

Richie and Eddie don’t kiss that fall, but something is different about their relationship. The other loser’s notice, but don’t say anything, mainly because they aren’t exactly sure what it is. Eddie goes with him to the arcade a lot and turns out... Eddie's actually pretty good at street fighter. The guys still call him a faggot and they call Eddie his boyfriend sometimes. Eddie doesn't say anything about it, he doesn't even seem all that bothered by it, and neither does Richie. For the most part though, the arcade is fun and sometimes it makes Richie forget why he ever stopped.

......

SUMMER 1991

"I'm moving," is the first thing that Richie says when he walks into the club house. All the other losers are already there and Richie's eyes are red and puffy. Everyone knows he's been crying. It's not like he did a good job of hiding it and that would also explain why his parents had to talk with him after school.

The rest of the losers stay silent for a moment, none of them know what to say, it felt like their world was falling apart. First Beverly, now Richie, then next, who knows? They didn't want Richie to leave, but they had to show Richie they cared, that everything was going to be okay. So after a few moments, Stanley gets up across the room to give Richie a hug, the rest following suit, except Eddie.

Eddie doesn't look at Richie or anyone, he stares at the ground, and he's unsure of what to do. He couldn't comprehend his emotions and he felt like he had gone empty, because his best friend, the person he confided in everything with, was going to be gone in less than a week.

Ben is the one who looks at Richie in sorrow, then back at Eddie, giving him his hand to pull him in the hug as well.

"When are you leaving?" Ben asks and Richie, voice shaking, and tears rolling down his face, says "5 days, we're moving to Texas."

"We're going to hang out with you everyday until then," Bill says. "We're going to get drunk and we-we we're gonna play your favorite games. It's gonna be the best week ever!"

"Thanks guys," Richie says, smiling through his tears and hugging his best friends. He was really going to miss them and he couldn’t ask the world for better friends.

.......

They do hang out every day after that, all the losers. They get drunk (or at least most of them do), they watch Richie’s favorite movies, they go to the arcade twice, and they swim. It’s the best 5 days Richie could ever ask for, but then, just like that, it’s all over and Richie has to leave Derry.

It sucks and they group hug again. It’s almost midnight and they’re in Bill’s basement. All the losers are spending the night besides Richie, who had to get up at 8am the next day to pack up a truck full of stuff, and endure a very long car ride.

“Call, okay?” Stan says and Richie nods. “Don’t worry Stan the man, you couldn’t get rid of my annoying ass if you tried.”

“Figured much,” Stan said, rolling his eyes, but smiling and Bill’s mom is yelling down the stairs. “Richie, your mom is here.”

“That’s my cue,” Richie says, doing his best to keep his composure and walking up the stairs, towards the door, but as soon as he gets to the top, Eddie is pulling him into the bathroom and locking the door.

“What are you-?”

“I just, I needed to say goodbye,” Eddie said, jumping at Richie to hug him, and Richie lets himself hug Eddie back.

“You already did that, stupid,” he says and Eddie pulls his head back, but continues to hug him. Richie boops on the nose, leading Eddie to crinkle it.

Richie really wants to kiss him and Eddie is so close, he can feel his breath on his face. He wants it so badly and Eddie is looking at him with his big brown eyes, it’s intoxicating, but he looks away, hugs Eddie again and says “I’ll call you okay?”

“Yeah, me too,” Eddie says, finally letting Richie go, and for one last time, Richie looks at 15 year old Eddie, then walks out.

.....

Richie leaves his house 7am the next morning and surprisingly his over stressed mother doesn't notice him slip through the door. He hadn't slept at all and the worst part, he couldn't stop thinking of the way Eddie hugged him, how close their lips had gotten. How much he wanted to just move his face an inch closer and now, he'd never have that chance again or at least that's what he believed. So, he rides his bike to the kissing bridge and once he gets there, he does anything a stupid kid in love would do, he carves their initials there and hopes, that maybe, one day, they'll kiss for real, even though he know that won't happen for so many reasons, but somehow carving into the wood makes him feel better, then he rides his bike back home, helps load as much as he can, and then he's being driven away.

Richie never kissed Eddie in his room, at the movie theater, at the club house, the arcade, at the quarry, or Bill's bathroom, because he's still afraid of it all.

The losers never pried or asked him about his sexuality and Richie can’t thank them enough for that, because even with everything future Richie said, it doesn’t stop him from being afraid.

When Richie leaves that summer, Eddie holds him like it’ll be the last, but like Beverly, the most important part is that Richie doesn’t forget and neither does Eddie.

.....

Actually, Richie and Eddie start talking on the phone everyday, just like they promised. More than Richie does with Beverly, which Richie didn't know could be topped.

Eddie talks to him after school everyday for hours and usually he only stops when Sonia yells at him to stop. It's nice and when Richie starts at his new school with no friends, everything fades when he gets home to talk to Eddie and afterwards to Stan or Beverly. The other losers call him too. They all do, but Eddie is the only one that makes plans to do it everyday.

.....

FALL 1992-1993

Richie gets his first girlfriend when he's 16. She's part of the drama club and asks him out only two weeks into the semester. It's sweet and she's his first kiss.

He tells Beverly first and Stan second. He's bubbling with excitement and any chance he gets, he talks about her.

He doesn't even realize that he hasn't told Eddie until Eddie points it out.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?" was the first thing that Eddie asked when he called Richie and Richie almost said well, hello to you too, but he doesn't, he just shrugs before realizing that Eddie can't see him.

"I don't know, I guess I just forgot," Richie said, because it was true in a way. Anytime he talked with Eddie he forgot he had a girlfriend.

"Yeah, okay," Eddie said, hanging up and when Eddie didn't call him the next few days afterwards, he gets worried.

Just like anytime though, Eddie calls, forgives him, and they move on.

He does it again the next time he gets a girlfriend and the time after that. He's honestly surprised that Eddie forgives him the third time, he knows he shouldn't be forgiven, but at the same time he's not sure why he doesn't tell Eddie. He forgets, he really does, and he wonders if that's weird.

He doesn't give it much time and before he knows it, it's the beginning of senior year, and the future is all anyone can talk about, including Eddie.

"I'm going to apply to NYU," Eddie says. "Do you know what you're doing for college?"

"Ummm, I don't know. Maybe not go to school? I'm going to be famous Eds, remember?"

"Yeah, but not without working your ass off. Remember?"

"Yeah, I know, but like, what would I go to school for? Drama?"

"I mean, you could? There are a lot of good schools in New York for that, I heard."

"Wow, is Edward trying to kidnap me and go to New York with him? I knew you were in love with me baby," Richie says making kissing noises in the phone and laughing at the teasing.

"Shut up. I was just making a suggestion," Eddie says, chewing at the bottom of his lips, blushing

"Okay, sure, I'll go with you."

"Wait, what?" Eddie says, because there was no way Richie said that or if he did, he didn't mean it.

"I'll go with you," Richie repeats, no indication of mocking or teasing and Eddie starts sweating, his voice shaking.

"You're not even going to think about it? I mean, what if I don't get accepted or you don't get accepted?"

"I mean, New York seems fun. Great place for me to start my career in being famous. Originally my plan was L.A, but New York should work too. Plus, you'll get in and if I don't, I don't really need college that badly."

"Oh. I didn't know. You can go to L.A Richie. Don't let me hold you back."

"You won't. That's the thing about me, I can become famous anywhere Dr.Edward."

"Never call me that again."

"But you're going to med school Eds! Everyone is going to call you that. Why not me?"

"I'm not going to med school. Honestly, I'd rather not be around sick or dying people. I've been doing research and I kind of want to go to school to be a risk analyst. Also, I told you not to call me Eds, you know I don't like it when you call me that."

"So, I should go back to Dr.Edward or maybe just classic Eddie spaghetti? I could go with son too considering i'm fucking your mom. Yeah, son, what does that job entail?" Richie says the last part in a very prominent English Man accent and Eddie rolls his eyes. Even if Richie can't see it, he still knows that what Eddie does.

"Shut up dickwad," Eddie says harshly, but jokingly, and licks his lips a second, before talking again, the aggression leaving his voice. "If you wanna know what risk analytics are about. Well, you see-" Eddie starts and Richie stops him by snoring loudly on the phone.

"Hey!"

"Was that job invented before fun?"

"Well, it's safe and makes a decent living. Cut me some slack. I'd rather do that than go on a stage and embarrass myself."

"I'm the king of embarrassing myself as long as that means money and free blow jobs."

"You're fucking gross."

"Yeah, well the apple doesn't fall far free from the tree my boy," Richie says, this time in a stereotypical American dad accent.

"Will you ever stop?"

"Nope."

"Should have seen that coming. Well, I got to go. I'm going to apply to NYU today. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Okay, love you sweetie pie, have a good day, don't forget to kiss Mrs.K for me!"

Richie hangs up and Eddie fills out the application, rides his bike to the post office, and sends it.

#Reddie #Reddie fanfic #Fanfic

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lysung · 6 years ago

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Wabi-sabi (part 1)

Genre: angst, fluff (in the upcoming chapters :))

Pairing: Minsung (Jisung + Minho)

Words: 2,750

Summary: Wabi-sabi means imperfect or incomplete beauty. This is a central concept in Japanese aesthetics, which comes from Buddhist teachings on the transient nature of life. A pot with uneven edges is more beautiful than a perfectly smooth one, because it reminds us that life is not perfect.

Han Jisung and Lee Minho are two average high schoolers who have differences in common; two of them are being from the other high schoolers are being a part from the LGBT community and too thoughtful in an unhealthy way, besides many other things society would see as "flaws". After accidentally knowing each other through Twitter, they eventually became best friends but both of them still had colorless and monotone lives outside internet, until that, someday, one of them is about to get beaten up for being LGBT and the other one defends a random guy from getting beaten up by one of his best friends.

Warnings: bullying, homophobia, depressive thoughts

A/N: hello! i'm alexis and this is my first au :) i know this blog is supposed to be a fluff imagines blog, but i've been feeling like writing some ansgt lately. i hope y'all don't mind it ^^ i've worked hard on this since it's my arts homework as well, so i didn't have all the time to write this, but i did write it on my pace and, honestly, im still a bit unconfident about this one. if this gets a great reaction, i will definitely continue this asap ❤️ i hope you enjoy and please leave a heart and/or reblog, it would help me a lot and make my day 💕

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Legend says that, as soon as you’re born, you get a red string tied to your finger, connecting you to someone you’re destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The string may stretch or tangle but it will never break.

Han Jisung always found the Universe majestic but crazy at the same time. Isn’t it weird how everything happen as it wills? Or, maybe, would it be They? Who is in control of the universe, if there’s someone with such power? Would they be God? But who is God, actually? Is there someone above God? — This kind of thought dominated the teenager’s mind every once in a while and, when it did, it would always keep him up at night. The thought of living his own life but, actually, being controlled by a divine existence, would scare him sometimes.

But, the thing is: the Universe, be it "it" or "they", never did anything out of the blue. Everything happens for a reason; whether if we trip or fall, cry out of pain or laughter, fake or genuinely smile, nothing happens “just because”. And we live to grow up as individuals and learn each and every lesson “it” has to teach us, even the small and silly ones.

Laid down on his bed, Jisung, who strongly believed in such legends, turned off his phone and stared at his dark-ish room’s ceiling, slightly bright thanks to the street lights outside.

These thoughts were, once again, haunting him. All he could do was wonder 3 things: What is he supposed to learn? Why? And, specially, who is going to help him?

These thoughts were soon replaced by self depreciative ones as soon as he looked through the window and noticed the sun rising. He would soon have to be up to get ready for another monotone day of school. He turned around, his back facing the windows, closed his eyes and, one more time, tried to fall asleep. But, as time passed, his thoughts wouldn’t go away; neither his usual philosophical thoughts or the self depreciative ones. There were hundreds of voices screaming in his head – some were calling him, some sounded mad, you would be afraid if you could hear them too. And when he least expected, his alarm ranged, meaning not only it was time for him to get ready for school, but also that he lost another fight to his strong mind.

Later that morning, during class change, he noticed 3 of his seniors in the other side of the corridor. Changbin, Hyunjin and Felix were staring at him and laughing out loud; he tried to ignore them and got his material for Math class. Walking to his classroom carefully, trying his best to avoid them, but they eventually came to him and Changbin pinned him to the nearest locker.

"Where are you trying to go, you shameless fag?" Changbin, their "leader", said to his face in provocation.

"Leave me alone, Changbin. Mind your own busin-" The younger tried to say and break free from his strong grip, but failed and was cutted out by Changbin.

"What are you gonna do? Are you gonna run away? Huh?" The oldest said, the provocation never leaving his tone.

Jisung was speechless. The small anxious boy didn't know what to do — should he fight back? Say something mean to them? Run away? He was totally alone and lost; there was nothing he could do.

"What is going on in here?" A high-pitched voice echoed through the, now, empty corridor, and, right next to them was the school's principal, looking pissed off as usual.

"Oh, nothing, Mrs. Kang! I was just... just... asking him how he'll go back home after school, so that I would know if I should take him home or not, hehe! I love this guy, Mrs. Kang. You have no idea how much I lo-"

"Detention. The 4 of you. And, Mr Seo, I'll let you go this time but, if you ever try to lie to me again, it's detention for a whole week. No buts." Mrs. Kang said and left, cutting Changbin's excuse off and getting a sigh from each of them in response.

"Listen up." To turn back to Jisung was the first thing Changbin did as soon as Mrs. Kang left. "I will get you and teach you how to behave like a real man, annoying faggot. Wait for it." Changbin threatened again, looking deep in Jisung's eyes and left. He watched their figures get smaller as they walked through the long corridor, fear and regret as evident in his eyes than never. Changbin had something in his eyes that made Jisung even more confused and lost.

As soon as the group had finally disappeared, Jisung bursted to the school's restroom without looking back, not being able to hold back the tears. Poor boy wouldn't make it to Math today and he was very aware of it.

This was just a tiny bit of Jisung's daily life, but it always shattered his heart in a billion pieces. He wondered, how can people be this heartless? Why are people like this to people like him, who were just born "different"? What's so wrong in being different? In being yourself? In loving someone, not minding their gender identity? What did Jisung do to deserve to live in such a inhumane society?

What did people like him did for the universe to punish them like this? What did they do to deserve such pain?

Jisung eventually lost his hope on society and hated his mind even more for being so cruel to him. All these voices calling him out, calling him names and saying stupid things would never shut up. How great would it be if he had somewhere to scream freely, without fearing to be heard...

As he walked through a dark path in life, it only seemed to get darker. He tried his best to run away, but something was stronger than him, pulling him further into the endless darkness, regardless of how much he fighted back, until he couldn't fight anymore. That's when he gave up.

After two hours spent locked in the bathroom, including some time to calm down a little bit and reduce the swelling in his eyes at least a little bit, he finally left the restroom and safely got his stuff and went to his classroom, lowering his head to hide his swollen eyes.

And this is how Jisung spent the rest of his time at school: hiding himself from everyone, specially his eyes. No one should see his eyes, or else he would be bombarded with questions and feel even worse with people pretenting to be concerned.

When he was finally back home, his safe place, the first things he's done was locking himself in his room and throwing himself on his bed. It was a way too long day for Jisung and all he wanted was to sleep forever.

Hence he couldn't sleep, he unlocked his phone and tried to look for a calm and soothing song to sleep when he received a message from one of his favorite people ever: Lee Minho, a friend he knew through Twitter. They were like best friends; sending memes, using matching icons, tagging each other in random "love yourself" tweets and even writing sweet things to the other, just to remind them that they are loved and appreciated. It was the kind of friendship people either envy or ship. They would never stop talking to each other and Jisung would never find the exact words that can express all his gratitute for having such an amazing person in his life.

"hey, how was school today? did those dumbasses disturb you again?" Minho asked him in the most "Minho" way as always. Jisung's heart always skipped a beat whenever he would receive a message from him - he's one of the few people who actually worry about him and he loved this feeling.

"it actually sucked as always, but there's not much I can do about it anyways. and yeah, they did, that's why :(" Jisung replied, trying hard not to remind of what happened earlier.

"wait right there bub, i'll brb i will get some tickets to go to your city and kick some asses to mars" Jisung smiled at his reply. Ever since they talked for the first time, Minho's personality amazed Jisung. They were completely opposites, and that was the fun part - their differences made everything perfect.

Minho was, unfortunately, the only person Jisung told about Changbin and his "crew". He just couldn't gather the courage to tell anyone but him, blind by scenarios of his family's possible reactions.

"you're so weird" "i love you so much" Jisung replied and smiled as wide as he could. This kind of reply between them would be pretty common. Now, the question is: is it really a joke or not? Did they mean it, or not? They never even thought about saying this, but it obviously made both of their hearts best crazily fast.

"now that's a lie because i love you more" and tons of heart emojis and memes were shared.

They were each other's happiness, home, a safe place. It was incredible how each message would melt both their hearts. Happiness was endless whenever they would talk. "If only universe could make us live near...", Jisung said to himself. He just wanted to hold tight this bright light that had been brightening up the path Jisung was going through.

"hey, I didn't go to school today so i kept on reading about random facts and found out about a japanese legend that says that two people who are destined to meet are connected by a string tied to their hands and i thought of you" "you said you really like legends like this, so i was wondering if you knew about this one..." Jisung's cheeks began to hurt for smiling for so long. Minho makes him feel so loved, which is a feeling he's still not used to, but he wish he could feel all this in person.

"you're so adorable :( and yes i do know this one, it's one of my favorites!" "i wonder who's on the other side of my string..."

"if you're not gonna be on the other side of my red string then what's the point."

"i love you. i wish i could say this in person."

"i love you too bub and that's fine. some day this will happen, okay? we can and will make it happen. promise?"

"promise."

(...)

It was time for another monotone day at school. He would always know what was going to happen because it's been like this for a while now: he goes to school, sleeps in class, is bullyied, sometimes sleeps a bit longer and then, go back home. It's like he's stuck in a viscious loop - in the end of the day, he would always come back home with a sad expression in his face but he couldn't change this.

At school, waiting for biology class to begin, Jisung decides to try talking to someone. If he wants to stop avoiding people, he should be able to have short conversations with anyone. While talking to this girl who sits beside him about a test they would have later that day, a group of boys sat next to him and started to talk in a much higher tone. Jisung couldn't see their faces before they sat, but it was, surely, Changbin as his crew. Soon they started "talking" about gays and how they are ridiculous. Nice. What a beautiful place with sympathetic people, yay. Poor boy could barely focus in class because of all the noise they were making.

As his class ended and he was about to get his materials for his upcoming biology class, the same group of boys pinned Jisung just like the day before. He was shaking; it was happening one more time and he still didn't know what to do. Shaking under his breath, he didn't say or do anything. He wouldn't dare.

"Hello fairy, we're back." This was enough for Jisung to want to disappear. No, not these feelings again...

"H-hey... b-b-back for w-what?" Jisung asked, stuttering, in deep hopes it wasn't about what he thought.

"I told you we we would teach you how to be a real man, didn't I? And we'll do it now. You'll thank us later when you finally understand what being normal is." Changbin said, clearly trying to scare Jisung even more but, unfortunately, he couldn't get anymore scared. He could barely move or speak. He definitely gave up when he saw Changbin's fist in the air, getting ready to punch him, but another yell from the other side was calling for Changbin this time. His attention was divided between Jisung and the mysterious guy.

"What are you even trying to do?" The guy asked, trying to separate Jisung from them.

"N-no, it's not like that, I swear-"

"What is this supposed to be, then? I saw what I saw, and heard what I heard. So, you're gonna teach him how to 'act like a real man'? Because of what, he's gay?"

"Minho, what are you doing?" Changbin tried to reach him and grab his arms, just like how they would do when they were children, but, this time, Minho wasn't feeling like it. He completely understood what was going on and something must be done about it. He wasn't going to keep anything to himself in such moment, even if the one he's confronting is one of his best friends.

"First of all, he is a man. He's not 'less manly' than you, just because he like boys. Love is normal. Don't you even dare try to say it is not normal, or a sin, or whatever excuse you want to give." Minho kept on yelling and pushing Changbin and his other friends. It did hurt him inside, but he wouldn't stop. "You believe in God, right? Well, God wants you to respect His children as who they are. Also, stop acting as if 'gay cure' exist. You think beating a gay up will 'cure' him, huh? Well, this is not and will never be the right option, Changbin. He's done nothing wrong and there's nothing to be cured. You are the one who should learn to be a man. I thought you had finally understood me when we had that talk, maybe you really weren't paying attention at all, apparently. I can't with all this. You have absolutely 0 respect for people who aren't like you, and I won't stand this anymore. I can't do this. You will never change." At this point, there was a crowd watching Minho, their jaw dropped. He really thouched each of them deeply. Jisung could feel the pain and suffering in his voice. All he wanted to do was to hug him, if it means it would make Minho feel better, even if just for a while. He thought he is so brave for standing up for someone like Changbin because of a stupid dude he didn't even know. This is insane.

Maybe you can still have hope on this society, after all.

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deathchrist2000 · 8 years ago

Text

The Eyes of Her Double

A Clara Oswald/Faction Paradox fan fiction.

Inevitably, Clara O’Winn found that looking at the ceiling was not a good way to mute out the muffled screams of her double. It wasn’t so much because she couldn’t come up with many inventive ideas from the ceiling to distract her; she had long since perfected this method of avoidance and had already created several inventive story ideas, as well as a few fan fiction prompts, from the patterns the Styrofoam alone (her favorite involved Captain Picard, the NCC-2260, and Gok’ū, leader of the Tribbles). Nor was it because she wasn’t able to ignore the terrible screams her double made. She was a child of the early 21st century, an era where those who can ignore a terrible situation will and those who can’t die. Or get called a “faggot Ess-Jew snowflake.”

Not even the sounds of the screams were distressing to her, as they reminded Clara of long passionate nights spent under the moonlit fields where she used to play with her girlfriend. These were her favorite nights growing up, as they were away from the stress of the daily grind of both her job and her disapproving stepparents. For the most part, they were unbothered by any of the locals, who assumed them to be a bunch of wild animals and would call them such if they were ever caught. Some nights a group of bikers would come to watch, but given that Clara was a co-founding member of the gang, they tended to only be there to say hello or participate if Clara allowed it. The games Clara and her girlfriend played ranged from horsey to cops and robbers to pegging (though that was only when their mutual frenemy, Jack, was around).

It wasn’t even the fear of the people in the motel room next door paying enough attention to call the cops. Clara had long known this motel to be the go to location for crack, smack, and other such drug dealers to make arrangements with larger entities to practice their trade. These dealings ranged from “which locations are ok for me to make deal in” to “I need you to be my representative in a drug deal that could end my life if I go” to “PLEASE IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, DON’T KILL MY DAUGHTER” among other mundane deals. If the police were to get wind of a kidnapping at that motel, they might find the skeletons hidden in the closets, both figuratively and literally if some local legends are to be believed, and motel management didn’t need that hassle. They already had to worry about whether or not the drug lords would kill them for knowing too much.

Rather, what distressed Clara was the ways in which her double was not like her, despite being nearly identical. She noticed that her double was roughly an inch taller, had green eyes, blonde hair with pink and purple highlights that was typically put into a pony tail but was now unrestrained, and a small, nearly unnoticeable, mole on her left cheek. Her ears, until fairly recently, held little circular earrings that had been passed down, generation to generation, for over a hundred years. The double’s skin was obviously paler than Clara’s, though she did have the soft tan expected of a California resident. She was left handed, though she didn’t realize it, as she had always written with her right. Her hands never worked any harder than a few hours on a keyboard typing a paper for her college professor on the implications of time travel on free will. Her body did not have any scars on it.

In the long run, these differences didn’t matter all that much, as her fate would still be the same. They would come for her and Clara would get what she deserved.

Clara O’Winn was only 10 years old when she realized she couldn’t die.

It was on a long car ride when it happened. With here was her mother, Janet, driving the car while thinking about doing activities such as being in a relationship that actually has love in it, not going to prison, or climbing a mountain that she would never do in her life time; her father, Bob, who was as oblivious to his wife’s feeling towards him much like how when one is driving late at night and a deer suddenly jumps in front of the car, killing everyone involved; her younger brother, Francis, who as at that moment on 8Chan figuring out his sexuality, a move that would lead him to spend years in therapy and inadvertently destroy the career of a prominent presidential nominee; and finally, Flapjack, the family dog who would die long before anyone else in the car.

As for the car itself, it was not moving. Clara didn’t know why it wasn’t moving, nor did the majority of drivers to preoccupied with honking their horns to solve the issue at hand. It appeared to Clara that her side of the road was completely jammed. Curious, as she is wont to be, Clara decided to leave the car. She knew that it was usually unsafe to leave a car on a busy highway, but Clara felt that it was safe to do so as nearly every other car was beginning to send an emissary to discover the source of the calamity that had befallen them. Also, Clara knew that she wouldn’t get lost like the last time she abandoned her family, since the road was just a straight line. That, and her parents were too busy playing at adulthood to notice her leave the car. The only one who did notice Clara leave was Flapjack, who silently followed her to his death.

At first, Clara felt that this was like one of the adventures she would make up in her grandmother’s garden back home, about mysterious travelers who right wrongs, defeat the baddies, and kick some serious ass. She always loved coming up with those stories, but she only felt safe telling them to her grandmother while weeding the garden on hot summer’s days. She never dreamed she would ever be one of those characters. Too self involved for those types, too ordinary, too boring to be a hero. Not even this quest to discover what caused all the cars to stop was an adventure of her liking. It was an adventure, sure, but it was just a mundane curiosity that everyone wants in on. A true adventure, Clara believed, would be a solitary experience. She would hold this belief for the remainder of the day.

While walking towards the source of the problem, Clara encountered another young girl, whose name she would never share, nor would Clara. She had dull blue eyes, red ravenous hair turned into pigtails, and slightly yellow teeth. The girl was roughly 13 years old, but she appeared to be much younger. She was barely three inches shorter than Clara, though she held herself much like a wolf cub trying to initiate themselves into a clan they weren’t born into. There was something familiar about this girl, though Clara couldn’t put her finger on it. She claimed her family sent her to solve the problem, but even at a young age Clara knew that was bullshit. Still, the girl seemed nice enough, for a kid, so Clara allowed the girl to follow her to the center of the commotion. To pass the time, the girls talked about the only thing there was to talk about.

“What do you think it is,” asked Clara.

“Deer,” replied the girl curtly.

“Deer? Surely it must be something more interesting than that.”

“Deer are interesting,” argued the companion. Clara was unsure if she hurt her companion’s feelings but assumed, as always, that she had, so she tried to save face towards this stranger, whom she would never meet again in her lifetime. Though she would still think about her, occasionally, whenever she saw deer eating her garden.

“I mean, ah… surely there must be an explanation that isn’t so… ordinary?”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“uhh… Aliens?” The girl with blue eyes raised an eyebrow. “I mean, there’s signs everywhere, y’know. Books talking about crop circles and people being abducted and probed and… and… C’mon, you have to wonder, right? What’s out there and all.”

“Not really,” the pigtailed stranger sighed, knowingly, with a smile on her face that always appeared whenever she had good dreams, “there are so many fantastic sights out in the world: tornados that can lift frogs states away; 100 ravens sitting outside, waiting for the homeowner to just… open the door so the can scatter; the depths of the ocean that house creatures we have never seen before. I just don’t have time to think about space.” This would change a month after her 24th birthday, when the Children of Nyarlethotep used her in a failed ritual to summon their dark and terrible god from a self imposed exile. In that moment, she saw that space was nature’s dark mirror. Cold and uncaring like a parent who is never there. And yet, there’s a beauty blocked off by its needlessly cruel nature, born out of necessity lest the War, and those who fight in it, kill it for not choosing a side. A beauty seen only by those who appear to die, as all the others would, but in reality transcend the body’s physical form, since physicality is a mere option to this solitary figure, and be everywhere and every when.

The only retort Clara could offer the teenager at the time was a snort and a “whatever” before continuing their journey in silence.

As the museum of cars went on and on, people began to head back to their homes, accepting this bizarre occurrence to be an unexplainable event. Perhaps some gave up because of the unending forest that surrounded the road like fingers grasping at the palm of a hand, waiting to crush the insect that flew its way in. Or perhaps it was because they realized that the universe is a much bigger and terrifying place, whose answers will consume those who dare to try to discover them and as such it is best to care for those closest to them, rather than walk to the end of this dark forest road. Or maybe they just don’t care for walking. A few, however, persisted.

Eventually, even Clara and her stranger decided to call it quits. Or rather their mothers found them, grabbed them by the ear, and dragged them back to their car. At some point in the future, the roads freed up, but by then the sun had set. One of the drivers could have sworn he heard a crunching noise as he turned off the highway to stay the night at a motel, but thought nothing of it until the last seconds before his death.

Clara and her family, meanwhile, decided not to stop driving. Her parents would alternate between who was driving and who was sleeping for the night. Normally, Janet could drive the whole way there, but the incident with the stopped cars got her in a mood that forced her to take a break. Bob, who was currently driving the car, was slowly showing his fellow drivers that he should not be driving at this hour, nearly killing several of them without noticing. Clara and Francis, meanwhile, slept in the back seat, dreaming.

While Francis’ dreams were of a symbolic and sexual nature, Clara’s were far more straightforward. In some cultures, far in the depths of space, in the halls of power and the streets of the powerless, there are tales of what one sees when they die. Some say that there is a bright light that leads you to where you will be judged, be it by a scale or Santa Claus. Others claim that there is nothing but the black void seen when one closes their eyes, waiting for REM sleep. Few even claim beings “souls” reincarnate into other beings, to keep the karmic balance and save money on developing new character models.

Few stories, however, tell of the Death Dream. The Death Dream is the kind of dream only seen when one dies in their sleep. It tells of the life that one lived as a mash up: events bleeding into each other, creating new narratives. A mother, who died in childbirth, dancing at her daughter’s wedding; a family of old men, born decade’s apart, sharing war stories and the good old days; and other tales that the living can never know. It was in this state that Clara O’Winn died in.

Though it wouldn’t be diagnosed until well after this point, Clara could very well be considered Patient 0 of a disease lovingly called “The True Plague”. So called, as victims of it lose access to the parts of the brain that allow secrets to be kept prior to death. When Clara began exhibiting these symptoms, her mother dismissed it as merely the childish bravado seen when one has their ear pulled by their mother in public. The True Plague is fast acting and the survival rates are so astronomically low that there are better odds of surviving sex on the dark side of the moon for an entire hour. Naturally, Clara O’Winn died from the disease.

And then, she woke up.

She wasn’t anywhere new. She was still in her family car, woken up by her parents bickering about the direction they’re supposed to be heading in. Her brother was drooling on her shoulder, somehow still sleeping through the most foul-mouthed conversation their parents had up to that point. Clara made a note of that for later. The sun beamed down from outside the car, the windows haven been taken down so the cool breeze of the previous midnight hour could engulf the car in its soothing nature.

Surveying the scene, two thoughts popped up in Clara’s mind. The first was that she should be dead. It wasn’t a thought she fully understood at the time. She wasn’t dead, not even in the dream. (Her dream involved watching a low budget 1960’s British science fiction show with her great aunt Harriet and a pair transsexual wereseals while eating French Fry shaped spider legs on a table made out of wood draped in the flesh of still living white nationalists, who the only people in the room not having a good time.) And yet, she should be dead. She felt perfectly healthy, no longer feeling like she had a fever while freezing to death, no need to shout secrets about how Mr. Pick hates her because she caught him kissing one of the janitors without wearing his wedding band. She was completely free of The True Plague.

Clara asked her mother to take her pulse, and, when they were at a rest stop to get some breakfast and bring back the good driver, there was indeed a pulse to be found. Regardless, Clara knew that she was supposed to be dead. She tried to make sense of it all, but could only come to one conclusion: she was God. She quickly realized her mistake when it didn’t rain ice cream and instead realized there could only be one conclusion: she was finally the protagonist in the stories she loved to make up.

It was as if the universe had given her superpowers to… do what, exactly? Solve crime? Topple empires? What? Regardless, she knew she couldn’t tell her family about this, not even her beloved grandmother. They would all tell her that she’s too young to do anything. That she shouldn’t aspire to do anything more than what they did. Be realistic. No, instead Clara decided to bide her time, plan out her escape, and, when the moment’s right, flee from her captors and save the world.

The second thought that came to her mind was the realization that Flapjack had gone missing. Which was a shame, as Clara always believed he was a good boy.

“You haven’t been on a date in how long?” Jane teased with mock horror. They had been roommates for roughly a year, and yet Clara felt as if they were already lifelong friends. And though this would not be the case, as some lives last longer than others, they were still as thick as thieves. And yet, there were secrets kept between the two of them. Jane, for example, recently joined an organization that offered to pay for her entire college tuition, as well as hire her immediately after college for further work in exchange for a small donation of blood. (What Jane was unaware of was that said donation would be used to rewrite her timeline so that she was always a fiercely loyal member of the organization, and would die in their temporal War games. But then, corporations tend to leave out little details like that.)

Clara, meanwhile, had many secrets kept from those around her. She never told anyone of her immortal status, save for when it would be written off as the ravings of someone who really shouldn’t be driving a car at the moment. She didn’t tell Jane that she used to be a blonde or that Jane suddenly didn’t need glasses or that the lifelong vegan was eating a cheeseburger. Clara didn’t mention to Jane that she was aware of the tattoo on her left butt cheek of a snake eating its own tail, nor that it suddenly changed to that of something that looked like a snake skull midway through the semester. But then, Clara had to be aware of Jane’s changes for them to be secrets. For her, she had always been like that.

As for the subject of dating, Clara had long given up on the endeavor. It wasn’t that she shared her roommate’s asexual tendencies. Rather, she felt dating to be a waste of time. Fiction had long taught her that living forever meant other people would die around her. She never liked death, not even before seeing her mother whither away in a prison cell, denied food and medical care for too long. Clara wanted to avoid that as much as possible. Besides, she wasn’t even sure if she would stop aging at some point or if she would become a shriveled husk of 20000, forever aging until the end of time, and perhaps even longer (the latter, as it turns out).

However, on occasion, she felt like having a nice old-fashioned one-night stand that meant absolutely nothing, save for some (hopefully) good sex. Usually, Clara used the Tinder app to find someone also open to such an arrangement. However, she had just recently finished The Telephone Book, and had grown extremely paranoid by its fascist implications and decided to stay away from phones until absolutely necessary like later that night, when she needed to give out a phone number. As such, she decided the next sensible move would be to ask Jane if she knew anyone willing to go out on a date and hope that whoever it was could be let down easily.

Fortunately she didn’t have to, as Jane had an old friend coming up that weekend, but needed the room to herself to perform a blood ritual as part of her initiation into the organization, though she simply told Clara she was studying for a final, a lie she thought was true.

“You’ll like her,” Jane assured, “ she’s got a wicked sense of humor, a quick mind, and a hot body, so I’m told. Hell, she even kinda looks like you.” That last part befuddled Clara, as many of people she had sex with tended to respond with the opposite reaction. Then again, they had been the kind of people who expect to have sex with a person like one has milk in your cereal, so she tended to ignore their remarks. Maybe Jane was exaggerating about their similarities.

Regardless, Jane had set their date for a local restaurant that served overpriced steaks and other fancy food, but made up for it with the large fountain in the center that shines an indoor rainbow throughout the restaurant. Jane had said her friend would be recognizable by her dark red dress, which was one of a kind. Clara opted not to wear her blue dress, solely to spite her alchemist friends and their binary views on gender. Instead, she wore a dark purple suit with a long black tie.

When Clara arrived at the restaurant, she was somewhat surprised to discover that her dining companion did have a resemblance to her. Not by much, Clara mused to herself, I mean, she has longer hair than me, she doesn’t have a scar on the back of her hand from when I failed to trick my brother into getting me a drink from the gas station, and there seems to be a tattoo on her shoulder. But perhaps the largest difference Clara found between the two of them was the eyes. It wasn’t as though they were a different color or shape. That was one of the places where they were nearly alike. Rather, it was the implications of their eyes. Though Clara didn’t fully grasp what this meant for the two of them, deep down she understood. But instead of dwelling upon the similarities between the two of them, Clara instead decided to introduce herself to the woman before her.

“Claire Orlando,” she replied.

“Bit of an odd name,” smiled Clara as she read the menu, “don’t you think?”

“Not really, no. I mean, there are loads of people named Claire.”

“That’s not what I…” but before Clara could finish that thought, the waiter arrived to ask them what they wanted to eat. They both ordered the steak, as it was honestly the only good food served at the restaurant. Clara resumed, saying, “I mean, isn’t it a bit odd that we almost have the same name?”

“Not particularly,” Claire said, hoping it would be enough, “I mean, it’s not like we’ve known each other for our whole lives. We literally just met, and you’re from, what?”

“New York.”

“Right, and I’ve pretty much lived in California for my whole life. The odds of it happening to me twice are astronomical, but they do happen.”

“Twice?”

“Uhm… I, uh, Why do you even care anyways?” Claire asked, hoping that this would lead the discussion away from what she felt was a rather embarrassing teenage phase.

Clara sighed. “Honestly, I’m just trying to make small talk. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this sort of thing.”

“And what sort of thing is that?” Claire asked, silently thanking the god she was praying to as Clara asked that question (Sadly, and perhaps fittingly, it was Glycon).

“You know, dating. Going to dinner. Talking about things we have in common. Ah geez, I don’t even know.” Clara began rubbing her eyelids with her thumb and index finger; her tone was growing slightly exasperated.

“Well… what do you usually do on a Saturday night?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” What Clara did not want to tell Claire was that her Saturday nights were predominately spent working on a series of fan fiction projects including various one off stories based off of minor non-speaking characters, brief flash fiction projects about cartoon horses, and multiple long chaptered works about certain science fiction characters practicing BDSM. But her magnum opus would be the series of fix-fics on the Animorphs book series, which took the themes of terrorism, alienation, and other child friendly themes and brought them to the forefront. She only got up to the 49th book in the series before realizing that the spark of creativity that had started her on this path had moved on to bigger and better things (though it would be awhile before it would move on to more profitable things). If she was being honest, she was just doing this series to finish it up. Fortunately, there weren’t that many books left in the series for her to work on, so she would simply take the breaks needed for her not to face complete burnout (as each book rewrite could be as short as 15,000 or as long as 100,000). By the time she reached the final book, Clara was almost glad that a group of Russian hackers deleted most of the work she had done for no other reason than a hatred for a specific ship. It meant that she could claim that she wouldn’t be able to redo all of them again and she could move on to better things. All told, the only fics that survived the Russian hacking job were #48-The Return and #50-The Ultimate, which were, ironically, the primary source for the shipping war that caused the aforementioned purge in the first place.

Instead, Clara said, “Watch TV, read a book, do some homework. Normal stuff. What about you? What do you do on a Saturday night?”

“Masturbate.” To say Claire did not want to say that word would be an understatement. Given such a statement, there was an extremely awkward pause in their conversation, long enough for their steaks to arrive. Claire finally broke the silence. “Sorry, I panicked, so I tried to make a joke. It didn’t work.”

“Clearly,” Clara remarked, more focused on her steak than this person she would only have to interact with for another hour or so. Though she wouldn’t say it aloud, if Clara saw the response in the same context in a movie, she would have most likely laughed at that “joke.” But, as this was not a movie, Clara was not pleased with the situation. A shame given that up to that point in the date, Clara believed that they were getting on rather nicely.

“Look,” Claire pleaded after having her first bite of steak, “I know I screwed up, but we still have to talk about something.”

“Like what, your taste in porn?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want to talk about,” Claire replied, grinning to hide her desperation. When in doubt, she thought, go for humor. Clara nearly spurt out her coke with lemon when she heard this offer.

“No, no. That’s uh… that’s fine… So, what do you do exactly?” At that moment, Claire was enrolled in an internship program with an organization that sent her to various inner cities throughout the country to work as a TA under several High School English teachers who would allow students enrolled with them to learn their second language. She planned to travel the world and write a novel about her experiences teaching to various cultures and what she learned from them. She would never get around to writing it. Claire was taking the week off to visit an old childhood friend, unaware she was setting Claire up with her roommate, Clara.

“Working on my teaching degree, you?” Clara, meanwhile, was concluding her training as an actress with an acting company. The director of the troupe claimed to have plans to groom her into being one of the great actresses of the modern age, but he said that of all the new girls. She played several minor roles in various plays before making her break two years back as Lady Macbeth in a well received production of Macbeth. Afterwards, she moved on to other roles including Ophelia, The Stepdaughter in Six Characters in Search of an Author, and the lead role in an original play about the shooting of Andy Warhol. Currently, she was working on a script for a satirical one-act play about the fairy queen spending a day in outside of her kingdom. Its lead would be a 10 year old girl whose mother was locked away in prison for killing her husband in self defense, so she claims. The play ends with the girl running away to fairyland after trapping the fairy queen in a fallen world.

Rather than respond to her companion, Clara proceeded to feel the urge to puke out her guts as if she was the first kill of a horror movie more interested in cheap thrills and gore than in character drama and gore. Indeed, nearly every one of the patrons at the restaurant was puking their guts out. That was, except for Clara and Claire. For unbeknownst to the patrons, the main chef had long been a member of a cult who worshiped the Greek god Glycon. They had long planned to summon the snake god onto the mortal plane, but lacked a means to do so. That was, until the chef read up on a mystical ritual in a mediocre fantasy novel that required a massive and painful sacrifice to summon the main baddies’ snake god. They didn’t concern themselves with the obvious flaws in their plan (after all, they did believe Glycon was a snake) and went with it anyways. All told, 51 people were murdered that night. It was fortunate that the police were tipped off later that night, as the cult, not seeing their god, decided to try again at a later date. The restaurant, wanting to save face, sued the meat supplier for giving them tainted flesh.

As for Clara and Claire… the sensation of discovering that someone who has a similar name to you, a mild resemblance, and also can’t die is a coincidence too large to ignore. There was a long, awkward silence between the two of them as the police put blankets around them to deal with the shock. They were both smart enough to lie to the police, claiming that they were just about to eat the steak when people started puking their guts out. Eventually, when the night got quiet and they were alone under the dancing sky, they exchanged phone numbers, as this is the kind of thing one would want to know more about. Then Clara made an all too familiar suggestion to Claire.

When Juliet returned to the room, the stench had not gone away. More peculiarly, was the snake puppet in the back pocket of her roommate’s pants, which were lying carelessly on the couch. Juliet could have sworn she heard it talking, but brushed it off as her overactive imagination trying to distract her from the naked bodies in the middle of the room.

Sooner than they expected, Clara and Claire found themselves renting an apartment together. Even more surprisingly, was that it was located in Union Square, New York City in an apartment that, under normal circumstances, would cost $10,000 per month. Neither of them had employment per say, though Claire would be working a teaching position that in no way could afford to pay $10,000 per month, and yet they had an apartment to live in. But in a rather oddly forced tone of voice, the landlord, a lean man of 50 with damage from a third degree burn on his left cheek that made it look like there was no cheek at all, said they could have the room for free for their first year. And while that did seem suspicious, their options at that time were either there or a place in New Jersey. They chose the saner option.

Clara suspected it had something to do with the dealings they had last year with a cult. They were in the midst of spring break in California. Clara wanted to surprise her girlfriend for once by showing up unannounced and to introduce herself to the family. Claire never talked about her family during their Skype chats, though Clara did occasionally hear grumblings in the background when Claire claimed to be at home. Deep down, in the part of the mind where childhood and childish dreams reside, she hoped that they were homophobic. Not so much because she wanted more people who thought of her as an abomination against God, but rather because it would mean that she could save her girlfriend and they could fly off into the sunset, living happily ever after, finally giving her a story to be the protagonist of. But those dreams never arose to the conscious mind, as the part of Clara’s brain that housed empathy remarked about the banality of such dreams.

When she arrived at the Californian airport, she bumped into a janitor by the name of Charlotte Orman. Charlotte had spent the past 20 years working at the airport, barely able to keep her house from losing it, thus making her and her three daughters homeless. What Charlotte would never know is that the only reason she was able to have a house at all was because an influential friend wanted to spite a competitor who wished to use the property to build a high rise for rich people who wanted to act like they were starving artists who didn’t have an offshore bank account they could fall back on. As such, the landlord of the trailer park Charlotte lived in would be bribed double whatever the competitor offered.

Immediately, Clara was apologetic, a ritual she grew up with less for the sake of the person she was apologizing to than for her own. She offered to buy Charlotte something to drink. Charlotte mumbled yes, but she was more transfixed by the woman before her. Clara looked exactly like Charlotte imagined she could have looked like when she was young and wanted to set the world on fire. She had the scruffy long hair Charlotte thought she could pull off if given the chance and the figure of a non-anorexic actress in her prime. Her arm was covered in tattoos Charlotte was always afraid of getting and the eyes of a revolutionary that always stared back at Charlotte asking what went wrong. She always wanted to be this woman, instead the one she grew into.

Sadly, the woman she wanted to be would never be proud of who she became, as while they were sharing drinks Charlotte put a roofie into Clara’s. The things you find in an airport bathroom. Nobody cared at the airport, save for some lewd remarks about Charlotte’s sexuality that were unfounded in the facts her coworkers had. It wasn’t that Charlotte wanted to do this to the young girl, she had no hate or jealousy towards her. She just had three kids to care for, and they always took priority to her dreams.

When Clara awoke, she found herself tied to a table made of stone. It was wet with a substance Clara typically felt on the other side of her skin. Next to her were rows upon rows of women just like her: bound, gagged, and about to die a horrible death. Clara wasn’t worried though. She knew she couldn’t die, no matter what these people did. But then she looked closer at the women around her. Closer than she ever thought she’d need to. In particular, she looked at the woman at the end of the row, who was about to be sacrificed. Clara decided her name was “Cassandra,” which coincidentally it was. She saw something familiar in her, like a childhood friend she never had. Cassandra had frizzy hair that was usually kept in no particular style. She had hands that worked primarily on a farm, but sometime would be used to write about the wonders of nature. Her nose was broken, most likely by whoever was keeping them hostage. But what caught Clara’s eyes were Cassandra’s. At first, Clara thought they looked like none she had ever seen in her life. And then, it dawned on her that she had seen them. They were the only eyes she would have to see in her life, no matter what she did. And with that realization, more realizations came to her, flooding her mind with monstrous implications of what made the tables wet. And as she stared into the eyes of her double, they appeared to turn pale with death.

There were only two women in front of Clara. She couldn’t create names for them (and they would have been wrong anyways) as she was far to busy trying to escape her predicament. She didn’t want to die, as she hadn’t discovered the horrifying and obvious implications of being an immortal that ages, and so she tried to look for a way to free herself from the table. It dawned on her that there were no chains on the table, but she felt like she was being held to it like a mother seeing her child before sitting on an electric chair. It appeared that there was no way out.

They came to her, eventually. Their knives were drenched in the blood of countless other people with lives just as valuable as anyone worth less than a billion dollars. They were smiling, apologetic beings who wanted only what they thought was best for Clara. They said that she was the child of the great god Nyarlethotep. They talked about a cosmic War between corporate fascism and freedom. The cultists proclaimed that humanity was a mere insect in the face of this uncaring War of gods, and all they wished was peace. They claimed their god was the personification of freedom. They said that if they did it right this time, their god would free them from the chain of mortality. They showed Clara a rotting corpse; still alive and shriveled to the proportions of a doll a baby could hold, pleading for the sweet release of death. They asked Clara, with mouths too much like her own, if they could sacrifice her to their god. And Clara said no. They didn’t care of course, they were going to cut her up anyway, but they still had to ask. It was a key part of the tradition. The last thing Clara saw was the blade that murdered countless others pierce her flesh.

And then, Clara woke up. She was in the passenger seat of a rental car, used mostly by people who didn’t care if a car had air conditioning. Driving the car was Claire, drenched in a sweat that covered her tears. Clara was groggy at first, but was slowly able to pick herself up from the slightly opened car window. Claire focused on the road, not even acknowledging her passenger.

“W… what happened?” Clara asked, still a bit dazed.

“You got drunk at the airport, and I picked you up,” Claire replied, hiding all emotion and praying to Glycon that this would work.

“I don’t remember calling you.”

“You were drunk.”

“I don’t feel hung over.” Clara pulled out her phone. “Claire?”

No response.

“It says that it’s Wednesday.”

No response.

“I got into the airport on Sunday.” Clara looked deep into the eyes of her girlfriend and noticed that they couldn’t do what they thought needed to be done.

Claire pulled over the car and nearly everything poured out. She told her love that she was kidnapped by a cult called the Children of Nyarlethotep. She told her that she was a member back when she was a stupid teenager who didn’t think things through. Who thought that the answers lay with people who were just like her in nearly every way. How they were Claire’s only friends growing up, or they told her as such. How she believed them. How she participated. How she felt that if she ever told Clara, that she would hate her and never want to-

Instead, Clara kissed her girlfriend.

In the end, Clara spent the night at Claire’s house. Her parents were rather nice, if a bit too fond of the 60’s for their own good. Claire didn’t want to talk about them because she felt there really wasn’t much to talk about. She was wrong, as all people are when they say that about a family member. Clara and Claire swore to never join the Children of Nyarlethotep, a promise that would never be kept.

Claire, who was more familiar with the Children of Nyarlethotep, dismissed the claim that the cult is funding their apartment, as funds of the cult tend to go towards far more sensible things like human sacrifices, fixing their evil lair, or buying a coffee maker that actually works. Claire thought she noticed their landlord talking to someone shaped like a person. An alien, though he looked too human to be an alien, yet too alien to be a human. She couldn’t make out what they were talking about, just a bit of grunts and growls. They appeared to be in the middle of some kind of interpretive dance that kept them extremely close. Claire didn’t think they saw her. She didn’t say any of this to Clara, as that would require remembering the encounter.

In the meantime, they had to move their stuff into the apartment. To pass the time as men who sweat like a character on Baywatch carried their stuff into the room, they decided to come up with names for people who also held an immortal status. It was Clara’s idea, having felt brazen one afternoon during that fateful spring break. They created three base assumptions as rules for their game. First, the people all had to be women as all the people like them were women (this isn’t remotely true as Clark Oswald can attest). Second, they had to have the initials C.O. as this was also true of all the ones they had met and indeed was generally true of everyone of said status (save on alien worlds where the letters “C” and “O” do not exist). And third, no stupid names like Charity Oregon.

All told, of the people they had come up with up to that point, only three existed. The first, Carrie Oswin, was a director of a museum of art in the upper area of the state of Connecticut. She has four children, all out of the house, and is content with her life, expecting to die within the next couple of years of natural causes. Then there was Carmen O’Winn, a thief primarily working in Europe. She was inspired by a television show she watched as a kid whose title character was also a thief working her own agenda and setting her own rules. She stole many artifacts over the years, primarily from the rich and powerful. At the time, she was being contracted by a group of men who had never gone outside their own mother’s basement, let alone talk to a girl their age, who wanted her to search the house of an archivist of old 60’s television to see if he had any tapes that the BBC Archives could use. No such tapes were found, and she barely made it out of there alive. Finally, Cassandra Owsley did not exist in that exact moment. Nor would she ever, despite existing in later moments as well as earlier ones.

They spent the hours making up names, all of them fake, as well as taking breaks to argue how to position the tables in the living room, which bathroom got which curtains, and other banal conversations. In the end, they were able to make the apartment their own. Innocuously, Clara asked Claire for a cup of milk, only to discover that they forgot to go shopping. They decided that it could wait until the morning and decided to take an early rest. One of them would get it in the morning.

Clara wouldn’t see Claire again for a long time.

After a month of grieving, she was brought into the arms of the Children of Nyarlethotep by despair. It wasn’t that she was unaware of groups that could help her in her time of need, or even ones that were primarily run by people like her. It was that the cult got to her first.

The cult didn’t want her depressed, as that only gets people so far. They wanted her indoctrinated and fiercely loyal. They had had this exact situation happen countless times over the years where vulnerable people of their kind would be found and needed to be taught the right way of existing. They lived for their god and one day they would die for him as well. Until that day, they needed more sacrifices and those willing to sacrifice. The cult felt she had the tenacity to be one of them and not a mere sacrifice. But first, they had to break her down.

The depression did most of the work for them. She already felt like she was falling into the abyss. It was her fault they took Claire. If she had gone to the market, they would’ve taken her instead and Claire would be safe. Then she thought of how Claire would feel without her, and fell deeper into the pit. It didn’t help that the cult never referred to her by name, simply saying “you” or “girl” or something along those lines. Or, for that matter, their inexplicable decision to refer to Claire solely as “the deceased” or “it.”

They had to remove the influence of Claire from her heart. If she had even the slightest inkling love for anyone other than Nyarlethotep, she would desire freedom. They didn’t touch her, not physically. They just talked, as people who offer shoulders often tend to do. At first, they just listened to her about how much she loved Claire. How Claire was the only thing anchoring her to life. Then, the cult twisted the stories, gas lighting her claims of abuse. That Claire never loved her, only wanted someone who she could have power over.

It took time for her to accept the truth her friends were telling her. Years, months, hours, they all bled together in the sanctum the Children of Nyarlethotep reside in. She thought that it was love, real love. She didn’t realize how often they argued, how easily the scars faded, like the one she got last spring break when the deceased stabbed her in the stomach. It hurt to come to terms with this, but her sisters said that healing hurts.

Time passed. Eventually she had to show the cult that she was truly theirs. She had to perform a sacrifice. They provided her a book, telling of the War, of their god, of all the factions and sides and important members. And then, something happened to her. Something the cult wasn’t expecting. They thought of everything, save for one small thing they weren’t even aware could ruin everything. It began when she was reading the final pages of the ritual. She was practicing the various sigils on a dead homeless man, as all trainees do, looking back and forth between her work and the design. Suddenly, a wind from nowhere blew the pages away. It whispered like an old, long dead, imaginary friend.

She looked at the book, frustrated that she’d have to flip through the tome again to find where she was. She’d probably forget where she was and have to perform a new ritual. Homeless corpses, while not limited, are a tedious item to find. The page the wind turned the book to seemed familiar to her, especially the symbol. It was almost like skull of a snake but the fangs were too long. And there were other teeth around it. The eyes weren’t shaped like snake eyes, but almost human ones. And the snout, which was much too large to be a snake’s, had teeth in it as well. She had seen it before, somewhere though she couldn’t remember. When she was young and wanted to set the world on fire perhaps. She thought of where she saw it. It was on a butt. A friend’s butt. And it wasn’t always a mask; it used to be an Ouroboros (she didn’t know how she knew that). And the butt belonged to Jane, best friend of-

She didn’t want to say the name of the deceased.

It hurt when she even thought of the deceased.

She remembered what her sisters reminded her of what the deceased did.

The knife to the abdomen, deep enough to threaten but not kill.

She thought of the knife used by the deceased, how she was so afraid.

It was a familiar knife, like the one in her hand.

Exactly like the one in her hand.

It didn’t come together all at once. Maybe she knew the truth all along, but denied it to let herself do what they call healing. Maybe there were other moments where she almost came to a realization of what they were. Maybe she would have broken free even if the wind hadn’t coincidentally turned the pages, as if destiny wanted her to see it. But other lives would have been lost, tortured for a futile purpose that she saw all too clearly. Would Claire love her if she did those things? Would she ever love herself? Yes, she responded to herself. She read through that section, eager to learn and understand what she was fighting. Eventually, she would know what to do with this book. But in that moment, holding the knife, she knew what she had to do.

“Are you ready?” asked Charity Oregon.

Clara O’Winn smiled.

Clara sat on the cheap motel bed while Charity continued to futilely scream for help through the duck tape. Clara was looking at her watch, which told her they had less than a minute to arrive. She was aware from the stolen book that they were known for their punctuality, but arriving at the exact minute seemed a bit excessive.

But she would soon realize that excessiveness was baked in their nature as a shape began to form. Not of an individual, but of an object. Something that would not be conspicuous in a motel room, but still distinct enough for the owner to not have to spend five hours debating which TV he used to go home and ending up picking the wrong television. The device was championed by a sound akin to a child squeezing a squirrel to death while playing with the blinds. Eventually, the shape revealed itself, and the being stepped out of the toilet.

The being was not human. Sure, if one were looking at the being through the lens of a photograph or moving picture, the being would appear to look like a human, but there was something off about the way he looked. He certainly looked like a he, but there was an air of ambiguity to the significance of that detail. He looked less like a person and more like the culmination of generations of film studios and focus groups to create a character archetype (the archetype in question being the stuffy dean seen in every single college comedy ever made, but with the smile of an authoritarian dictator and the teeth of the infinite). But perhaps what made him look the lease human was in the eyes. They were dilated in such a way as have a star field shine through his infinite darkness.

Clara had heard of the parties involved in the War, and called first the side that would be least likely to simply take both of herself and Charity and do what she expected them to do to her kidnapped victim. Sadly, no such side existed, but the side of order, lordship, and sterility was far more likely to humor her than the other factions would. The only fortune she had was that he didn’t simply rewrite her timeline so that she’d give herself to be experimented, dissected, and used to create relatively good cannon fodder for when the War inevitably got boring. His side wanted time to flow exactly as it always had, never changing, forever.

“Well,” he said in the voice of an ornery deposed king while stroking his beard impatiently, “is this the real deal?” Clara said nothing, for she knew his side, like all the sides in the War, thought of her (and the rest of humanity for that matter) as a Lesser Species not worthy of listening to bluster. Instead, she simply pulled out the knife she had in her left pocket, and stabbed her captive a few inches away from her heart. It was surprisingly easy to cut around the organ (though she had many years of practice) but it still took a bit of time. The knife cut through Charitiy’s breastplate like it would butter or wood or the skull of an Elder God.

There, in front of both of them, was Chartiy’s beating heart. The sight and feeling of this happening to her made the young woman pass out. Clara, who was used to the sight of cruelty in the name of uncaring powers, proceeded to rip out the still beating heart and present it to the orderly gentleman. The blood that belonged to Charity still flowed through the body, only slightly leaving the hole. It didn’t so much create a new organ to replace the removed one as simply acting as if the heart wasn’t removed in the first place.

“Interesting,” said the man with an air of self-congratulation, “tell me, what do you want for this… intriguing specimen?”

Clara felt no need to lie. “I want your time machine so I can travel the universe.” The man shaped being laughed. One doesn’t typically hear members of his side laugh, but it is always unsettling when they do so. It’s not clear why the laugh is unsettling to an average being as, for all intensive purposes, it sounds like a normal laugh, albeit an evil laugh heard in old science fiction movies with lines like “NOTHING IN THE WORLD CAN STOP ME NOW!” But the cadence of the laugh was… off. Emphasis was put on the wrong syllable, focusing on the letter in between the “H” and “A” in “HA.”

When the laughter stopped, he calmly, as if he had never laughed at all, said, “I must say, you are an amusing little thing. The hubris of your species is well documented, and indeed fascinating compared to other Lesser Races, but this really takes the cake, as your species is fond of saying Clara.” Clara was stunned. In her conversation with his side, she never once mentioned her name to them. “You know, it was quite easy to come across your name. We have several agents in your time zone who were eager to tell us information about you and your cult. Once certain pressures were used, of course.”

“It’s not my cult,” Clara demanded.

Ignoring her, the being continued, “Frankly the only reason we didn’t simply take you earlier was because you were able to contact us.” He paused for effect. “At first, we assumed you simply got the information from that book you stole,” pointing directly at the book, which was hidden poorly inside a nightstand draw too small for it to fit into, “but then we noticed that it was years out of date.” This mildly stunned Clara, but she didn’t show it. “I mean, your book only covers, what, the first 100 years of the War. There is no contact information for our side in that edition. So how were you able to call us?”

Clara smirked, “It was written on the wind.” She then fled for the exit, but the man shaped being simply slowed down her perception of time and causally walked in front of her before resuming it to a speed faster that 1^-100,000,000 inches per hour.

“Cute,” he smugly retorted, “I suppose we’ll get the real answers out of you in the-“ But before he could finish that sentence, a familiar sound to the being filled the room. Like the wheeze and groan of an organ being played at a packed church in the instance a roof fell on it. It dawned on the being that if this Lesser Being had the contact information for his side, she might also have the information of other sides. Which is why it came at no surprise that a ship that looked like the skeletal remains of a dragon appeared in the room.

The dragon’s mouth opened revealing another bidder for the captives. Unlike her competitor, she looked distinctly human. Though Clara couldn’t make out any physical features beneath her uniform, she could tell by the feel of her that she was human. She didn’t appear to be much older than a college dropout, but there was an air of scholarship to the way she held herself before the two of them. The woman was dressed in a typical Goth attire featuring pants darker than the depths of space, a black jacket covered in pins advertising causes the woman no longer believed in, and a mask made out of the skull from a long dead alien race that still had the species blood smeared on its teeth. She seemed familiar, but Clara couldn’t put her finger on why.

“Step away from the woman, or else” snarled the woman. The woman was unarmed, though her shadow rather strangely appeared to be holding some sort of explosive device in its hands.

“Come now, Cousin Jane,” said the man shaped being, “surely we can end things civilly.”

Cousin Jane thought about this briefly. “Nah, don’t seem to be any other way. Think I’ll blow you up anyways. Always wondered if your kind bleeds gold.”

“Well, clearly there is another way. There are two of them, we can split them up evenly.” As if to piss all over his sunny day, a beam of light smashed through the celling landing softly and directly in the center of the room. Out from it, stepped an ethereal being akin to an Angel with the width of a song, the height of purple, and the shape of an experienced English actor known for playing loudmouthed kings and Viking gods.

ATTENTION LESSER SPECIES, hir whispered in a song, WE HAVE COME TO TAKE CLAIM OF THESE TWO SPECIMINS FOR OUR OWN PURPOSES.

“Bullshit you are,” shouted Cousin Jane. “’Sides, I was here first.”

“No you weren’t,” said the man shaped being. “Regardless, I’m sure we can work things out in a neat and orderly fashion.”

“Yeah, you’re just all about order, aren’t you? Not the order you want, mmm?”

“Is there any other?”

YES! OUR ORDER!

“Perhaps we can discuss this at another time, right now I have a business transaction to deal with.”

“Well, too bad, ‘cause so do we.”

AS DO WE!

“W̵̨̕e͘͞ ͟͡a͟l̵s͏o̶ ̸h̴́͝a̕͢͝v̡e̵ ̛͡an̨ ͢a̷̕͡rra̷̛̕n͡ge͞m̸̧͠e̸̛ņ̛t w҉͟ith̛͢͢ ̴̛M͏̵̕s͞.̧̕ ̷̛Ơ͢’͞W̴҉i̵n̸͏n,̸̕” A fourth party retorted, who didn’t so much enter the room but rather rewrote the nature of the universe so they were always in the room. Soon more and more parties showed up for a bit of, frankly, out of date technology that most sides only wanted because the other sides wanted it. The arguments got so loud, that Charity Oregon finally awoke. In the confusion, she found that someone had accidentally cut her binds, placed her heart back into her body, and plastered a bit of skin and bone over it. Wanting simply to go home, Charity fled the scene. Luckily the congregation was so distracted by their petty arguments that she was easily able to escape.

At the very least, they were distracted enough for someone to be able to steal a time machine, learn how to use said time machine, go back in time, convincingly fake a death or two, get married, find a time in the future where people have cured aging, woo a formless being who exists in any point in time she desires, steal a few phone numbers and contact information, get married again, write a few stage plays, and live happily ever after as the universe’s longest working actress married to a formless traveler and a wandering teacher. Which, in a bit of coincidence that is typical of the universe, someone in that room actually did, though she didn’t get the record for longest working actress. But then, I was never one to let a little thing like truth get in the way of a good metaphor.

#clara oswald #faction paradox #doctor who #fan fiction

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oliverwithoutthetwist · 5 years ago

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Physical and Mental - agony - (warning: suicidal thoughts)

Hello again, my for all eternity deserted friend

This post will be long as hell and (WARNING) it includes various depression filled and suicidal thoughts

Topics: Current appearance . Others’ perception . Romance. Agony . Physical pain . Suicidal Ideation . Loneliness . Family

1- Mirror Selfie above

Torso- This was the first time I found a mirror that allowed me to capture more than just the face (in a way that everything is sort of visible and I’m not just a faraway being). The legs are not present but I’ll find a way to reveal them along side the rest of my prison-like body somehow. I want to have everything clear on record.

Face- My features here reveal the facial expression I tend to make when anxious and paranoid. Note: Currently, I’m always anxious and paranoid when I leave my flat, afraid of being “discovered” as a “fraud”. Continuing, after analyzing the image, I now understand why strangers see me as a lost child. Imagine the person in the pic above being 5ft (my embarrassing height) and standing uncomfortably on the underground station platform. Yes...

2- Agonizing reality

12 year old look- Yes, I do look like a 12(hope not less)-14 (at max) boy when walking alone down the street. And, let me tell you, this thing of looking like a child was sort of fun at first but, now, it has proven to be a struggle.

The stares- I can’t drink or smoke in public comfortably like i used to. People glare now, whisper between themselves, laugh and sometimes comment (rather loudly) when seeing me engage in adult behaviors, behaviors that merely consist in me hanging out with my young adult friends. “Adult” like me.

Romance- The universe, currently, does not allow me to be with anyone romantically. A bloke my age, or even 5 years younger, would automatically pass as a pedophile if he did has much as hold my hand with other people around. No 20 something year old wants to be seen as a pervert, someone who wishes to #!% little children. This is indeed understandable, I wouldn’t want to be perceived as that as well.

Pedophiles- 50plus year old repulsive men are the only ones who seem to want to (or actually do so) approach me with the intent of having “sexual relations”. With me, the lost and innocent looking young boy. I never knew this to be so common. It’s terrifying.

Nighttime stroll- I used to sometimes enjoy walking back towards my flat instead of taking the tube, especially when the moon is high. I don’t do that anymore though. It has become dangerous. The reasons: 1- Looking as young as I do, and being in the street alone after the sun sets, I am now the perfect and rather easy to capture prey for the so called “pedo” to attack. 2- I’ve been called a “faggot” two times now (note: my gay friends have never been insulted like that). “I guess” no “straight” young teen dresses like I do so I am, automatically to the ignorant human, a miniature “roostersucker” and this can actually lead to a group of neanderthals beating the shit out of me. When having that appearance, a person is indeed an easy target. Note: I actually live in, what’s considered to be, a safe country. These things still happen though and not that rarely. 3 (worse scenario)- Ok. Imagine this: there I go, down the street, no sunlight, looking like a young boy when suddenly a breeze opens my loose fitting jacket to reveal a previously hidden female body. Just a quick look and I’m suddenly discovered by a transphobe as a “fake” male, a “freak”, a trans person. This is horrifying. I’ve read/know of testimonies by trans blokes (mostly pre-t) who were beat up rather violently or/and raped with the excuse of it being an attempt to help them, to cure their “disease”.

I’m in hell

3- Suicidal Ideation has returned

Lately, I keep thinking about the various boxes of prescription pills that are hidden in my wardrobe.

Swallowing, about 5 by 5, of my rather strong anti-depressants until there’s nothing left. And then, adding to the mix, my mood stabilizers.

This is sure to provoke an effect on the body.

Short story- Before coming out, and after I started meds, I went on a google quest to know how many boxes of pills (the specific ones I take) would kill me. I still have, in my macbook, a document that holds that information.

The ultimate swallowing of all my anti-depressant and mood stabilizers has yet to happen though. I like to plan things, to make sure I’ll be successful while doing them, so I did my research and found cases of people who tried suicide by prescription drugs and ended up not being able to perform the simplest of tasks and requiring the assistance of others to go through life, their body and movement ability destroyed. When reading this, I became terrified of surviving the attempt and not even being physically able to repeat it. The body that has brought me so much misery over the years would become not only the prison that has always been but also a bloody straight jacket. And this would be my life, until fate decided its end.

Short fact- Before coming out (early October), after years of research, I had finally found a flawless way of suicide (an “exotic” and not well known way). The Holy Grail. I will not reveal what it is. I don’t wish for anyone to find it and swallow "the thing” because of me and the information I have provided here. That being said, this “thing” was being sold on a website (for other purposes, so completely legal) but it was temporarily unavailable. You had the option of sending them your email in order to receive a notice when “the thing” was back in stock. I did that and I did receive a message. It was at the end of November that they announced its availability. I deleted this announcement. Curiously enough, I had just come out and, for the first time, I was excited to be alive and to see what the future would bring.

The excitement has now vanished. Reality has hit. I used to be fully accepted when I was hidden inside the character I had created as means of survival, a fake individual who caused me excruciating pain. Years of self harm accompanied me through out. Quick note: I will, later on, share my experience on the subject. Continuing, hiding misery did in fact provide me with being accepted by others. I’m not saying my friends (for example) are transphobic. What I’m saying is that real life, in its total, is a lot harder now. But I will not go back to how it was before. I can’t do it. No way. Even, going out of the flat without a binder makes me feel so anxious that my breathing stops working properly. Yes, going back is not an option at this point.

4- Physical pain

Binder- I’ve recently shared here the physical pain I’ve been experiencing due to overwearing my binder. The chest area does not hurt but my back does, a lot. The pain is so bad that I’m only able to sleep due to extreme exhaustion. I might be tired but my back will keep me awake until, hours later, I simply pass out. I’ve been experiencing this for over a week now. Sometimes it goes away and I think it’s over but it comes back and is horrible.

Heavy head and lost of balance- I have a lot of important and unavoidable things to take care of at the moment. I’m bloody anxious as hell. I have ADHD, which makes this all outstandingly overwhelming and confusing. I’m trying to keep myself focused and I don’t take any meds for it. After my diagnose, I chose not to (I was taking 4 pills a day at the time and didn’t want to add more to my daily breakfast routine). . . . All this to say that, today, my head suddenly turned heavy. It’s difficult to describe actually. Let me try. Imagine your head being somehow pulled by a strong rubber band. That’s it, that’s how I can describe it. I apologize, I can’t find better words for it. But yes, the “heavy sensation” made me believe my head was tilted to the left without my control when, in fact, it was straight. This belief made me experience difficulty with walking. All day, I had to concentrate really hard in order to not appear drunk or high. I’ve heard of this before, this happening due to anxiety, but I had never experienced it first hand.

Panic attack- Adding to all this, I had a day filled with sudden issues! 1-I opened a new bank account with my new ID but, due to an error, the guy found out my name used to be *insert birth name here* and stopped referring to me as “son” and started treating me as “miss”, even though my ID says MALE. 2-Again, stares and laughs at the little boy who thinks he’s all grown up. 3-Pain and lost of balance 4-Panic attack (a strong as shit one). 5-My friends are suddenly not open to let me share my troubles (these are the people who have always criticized me for not talking to them about my personal issues). Ex: friend: “Are you ok?”, me “uh... not really. I just had a panic attack and basically spent the last hour attempting to breathe, screaming and sobbing”, friend: “...”, friend 2: “This is the best chicken ever. Oh! I have a new crush.” 6- I left my ID inside a taxi. The taxi driver was horrible to me the whole trip. When I went to pay, I gave him money and told him he didn’t have to give me the change. Due to the head heaviness thingy, I was desperate to go to my room and lie down. The thing is: I was so confused with my surroundings, that I let my wallet fall when I got up to leave. I was quick to notice I had left it there though. I shouted in despair towards the guy, telling him “wait!”. He actually noticed me but still drove off. I tried to run and place myself in front of the car to force him to stop but failed to do so. The driver left with my wallet. I thought I had been saved when my landlord and neighbor called me. I looked to see him looking through his window and, after noticing my attempt to reach the taxi, he memorized the license plate. I was saved! Not. I called all my city’s taxi companies and the guy’s car didn’t belong to any of them. They said he must be an independent taxi driver. He’s registered though, his car had everything to be official. There’s a company that controls all of it but they did not pick up my phone call. I had to send an email. So, my ID is basically gone (the ID I spent extra money so I could have it as quickly as possible, the ID I went to pick up yesterday, the ID that made me almost cry from joy and relief). If they do reply and contact the driver, he will probably deny having the wallet. It’s not because of money, I didn’t have any, only enough for the taxi drive. He didn’t have anything to steal. The bank card inside was old and had already been canceled. I only need my ID! My precious baby! The driver treated me like shit, he’s not going to be kind enough to report the missing item. He probably just threw it away. Where I live, that’s actually a crime. You have 7 days to report a lost ID. He can always say another passenger took it. . . Right! My baby is gone and I can’t do things grown ups do anymore. 7- Oh yes, my macbook charger suddenly broke and it’s expensive as hell. FMbloodyL

Anyway...

Status: I’m uncomfortable as hell! I’m a mess, mentally and physically. This day was... so many things... It’s surreal!

5- Loneliness

I started this blog as a way to make a record of my transition. I was hoping (and still sort of am) for, one day, to look at it again and see all the steps it took in order to achieve my life changing transformation and personal accomplishments.

Not only that, it was also something for my friends to check from time to time so they could understand my situation a bit better and accompany me when I leave this city (not long now). They were actually the ones who asked excitedly if they could follow me. Yet, they did not. I don’t think they ever even visited the link I gave them.

Another thing I thought would be nice was chatting with other fellow transgenders and share deep thoughts or just have a nice chat. This didn’t happen though. I sent some messages to tumblr bloggers I found to be interesting. They answered me, very nicely. But they ended up ignoring the message I sent afterwards. I swear to the bloody stars that I wasn’t offensive in any way.

6- Parents

My parents (and brother) still don’t know

They’re blind as hell

They care

They just don’t see

They’ve always pushed aside the emotional aspects of life

They’re good people

But they simply prefer to ignore deeper issues

It’s not their fault

It’s how they were raised

And, consequently, it’s how I was raised too

It’s how I learned to also ignore those issues and live in bloody agony all this time

Conclusion:

I’m alone

#suicide #ftm #transgender #suicidal thoughts #trans guy #depression #thoughts #binder #back pain #pain after binding #mental issues #loneliness #coming out #family

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